Oct 21
Kittykatruff's picture

By The Fire

(Editor's Note: This is one of the winning submissions for Winter Tales and will be performed by Vermont Stage on Dec. 12. Find out more here!)

Winter is my favorite season.
I stay warm by the fire
With a cup of cocoa, and watch
The snowflakes fall gracefully, dancing
With the flames. 

Sometimes Nature holds her breath
And all is still; when I step outside, the silence
Is only broken by the crunch of snow 
Under my feet.

Other times, the winds howls as a lonely wolf
Lamenting the forlorn expression of the moon,
Tearing at braches, scouring houses with sharp 
Icy crystals, whipping across my face, 
Stinging my eyes, slashing ears and fingertips, 
As I hurry home to safety from the storm.

The best time of all is when 
The world pauses for a moment, though not
In anticipation, simply to ponder 
Its own existence.

Oct 19

Snow Dawn

Waking up
To the silent sound 
Of snowflakes twirling 
To the ground.
It's barely dawn
With the sun rising 
from its chambers 
beneath the mountains,
The stars unwilling to dim 
their short-lived light.
Yet the snowflakes mirror them,
Drifting to fill the valleys
In a cold, crisp carpet.
Walking out
To the half-darkness of winter,
The beauty within the ice,
The sword within the stone.
Sensing the danger in the snow,
Yet unable to pull away
From trees that seem to glow.
No one has ever been able to resist Winter.
It's the right time for wonder.
If you're going to take a plunge into mystery,
Then waking up to snowflakes
Falling outside your window
Is, perhaps, the best way to do it. 
Oct 18
joseph.deffner's picture

A Quiet Winter Day

The snow crunches softly beneath my boots as I trudge up the hill. Small delicate snowflakes land on my fuzzy hat. I tilt my head back to catch them in my mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, a male cardinal dashes from tree to tree, his red feathers bright against the white snow. When I get to the top of the hill, I pause to look around at the snow covered trees, and listen to how peaceful it is. Dropping my sled on the wet snow, I climb on and slide down the hill, going down easily on top of the smooth and icy snow. The cool wind blowing in my face, smiling to myself. Winter makes me feel serene and content.
Dec 05
fiction 0 comments challenge: Trees
m.fredella's picture

Dancing Trees

Limb to limb

Arm to arm

The secret whispering of leaves between two old friends

The whistle of wind blowing through splayed branches

Branches that sway in time to inaudible music

Clawed wooden hands reaching up to the ever changing sky

Roaming roots ripping from the damp soil

A strange rhythm of the woods

Oh, what a strange sight

Dancing trees, moving to a silent beat

Oh, what a strange sound

Singing trees, chanting a silent melody

Oh, what a strange experience

A tree party

Dec 05
poem 2 comments challenge: Trees
laurenwwright's picture

The caregiver

The oak tree stands tall in the distance,
while children use it as a barrier in their nerf 
gun war. The branches lift, like the smiles
on the young boys faces. 

Between the swaying vines of leaves 
hanging from the weeping tree; her knees 
sit hugged to her chest. The vines descend
closing around her, like a shield. 

Fir trees stand tall as the snow illuminates 
the ground. Trying to attract the young couple
in search of the perfect tree to bring home for
their daughter's first Christmas. 

The maple tree stands isolated in a field.
The leaves fall like tears, and pile below. 
Blue tubes wrap around the base, drawing 
sap from inside. 

The oak, weeping, fir, and maple trees
line the towns. Looking over the little girls 
grasping their mother's hand. The dog
pulling a man behind him. The couple
walking the sidewalks with hot chocolate 
Dec 05
poem 1 comment challenge: Trees
jessie.p's picture


In a world where a tree could talk, what would she say?
Would she apologize for her cousin falling on your house in that hurricane?
Would she forgive you for chopping down her mother for firewood? 
Would she complain about the wood ants crawling all over her?
Would she bark at the woodpeckers for jabbing at her beautiful skin?

Perhaps she'd say nothing at all...
Maybe the way we treat trees, speaks louder than she ever could.
We cut her down, then throw her into a woodstove to burn.
We shoot bullets at her for target practice.
We catch the forests on fire and kill her whole family.
Then we plant more trees, and forget about the old.

Dec 03
poem 4 comments challenge: General

Overrun By Books

I cry every time I read
I want those moments
The moments that give someone meaning
When I read those words and picture their lives
All I want is to be them
Or some version of them
Not the ones that have the perfect lives
Or the ones with the happy endings
But the ones who keep going no matter what the world throws at them
The ones who go on adventures
The ones who have a friend who they can talk about anything with
The ones who learn how to love
The ones who would do anything to be with the one they adore
The ones who enjoy their lives despite hardships
The ones who have a story to tell
Not always a good one
But one that will have an impact on at least one person

I'm not asking for a different life
All I want is to have those moments
And feel some of those feelings
And live a life that means something
I know I won't get my perfect fantasy
Nov 27

Anxiety of Assignments

I felt like I couldn't beath
I was getting dizzy
No one was home
I was scared,
I was trying to grasp for something I couldn't reach
For something that was too far away
I was scared,
The future seemed dark
Like it would be impossible to move forward
and I felt scared,
As I looked down at my messed up assignment
I saw the future
I could be great
If I just did this
If I could just get an A

I took a break
I started to beath
The tears stopped falling
And I started to slowly, silently
write it again
Nov 23
poem 0 comments challenge: Snow
colly-wobbles's picture

Memories of Snow

The mass of white that cloaks the shivering, brittle trees,
in need of a blanket.
The icy slickness of ski trails, and the feeling
of a snowball trickling down the back of your neck.
Red noses and flushed faces,
the coziness of settling down in front of
a warm fire
with a creamy mug of hot chocolate.
The goosebumps and uncontrollable shivers,
numb fingers, unable to tie shoelaces,
at the last soccer game of the season
where it is already thirty degrees.
Runny noses under watery eyes,
that sting from the frigid winds
Waiting for the bus,
snowflakes catching in your eyelashes and hair,
turning into a soggy mess
Slipping down the frosty steps,
landing in a disheveled heap,
Laughing with friends, until the cold air
nips at your throat.
The clear blue skies and bright white snow,
blinding your eyes as you step out the door.
Nov 20

Love is Lily

I hear stars in her voice.
Over and under
The lilt of her lips,
Weaving between
Our fingers.

She’s cold,
I’m warm.
A perfect equilibrium,

I see gold when she moves.
A character,
Another life.

I’m in love with love.
I’m in love with her.

It’s the same thing.
Nov 17
Dylan Kotlowitz's picture


I can feel and hear the scratching of your leaking pen, scraping in its tormented recordings on the dry paper, building and building in intensity, crawling across the blank sheet writhing through my mind, twisting into convoluted shapes of mutated thought, scraping itself together in a fantastic wave of overwhelming black ink rushing over the fore of my mind, splashing into my eyes, pulling them shut, and then washing away the sandcastles of my thoughts.
Nov 16

The Lamppost

By: Amica Lansigan
As I strolled along an abandoned lane
I came upon a lamppost
That cast a shadow in the rain
An imitation, like a ghost

The fog uplifted, the moon revealed
The stars emerged a molten-gold
The lamppost stood, unconcealed
A remnant of the old

The lamppost crackled, but did not light 
An emblem of life that used to be
A deserted town, not a soul in sight
The remains of humanity

Nov 15
jessie.p's picture

Blackberry Pie

At the top of the hill, are the blackberry bushes. Momma and I use to go up there and pick them until there were none left in sight. We'd go there every other day of the very short season, and get scratches all over our legs. We'd freeze the blackberries so we could make pies all year long. When the time came to actually make pies, we both had the recipe memorized. Now, I couldn't remember it if I tried. Making pies with her were the best days of my life. When I smell a blackberry pie, I am transported. Back to when we'd make pie crust from scratch, and make it perfectly every time. To when she'd let me make the classic knife holes on the top, and always told me it looked good. To putting on the aprons my Grandma made for us, even though we never made a mess. 

This is my recipe for happiness. 
Nov 13
joseph.deffner's picture

A Recipe from the Heart

The small white sign in the distance grew bigger and bigger as I walked. When I got closer I could make out the small black letters that I knew so well. It read “Blueberry Hill.” That’s one of the things I loved about living here - all the old houses had names, including Grandma’s. When Mom and I moved here I was sad because our house didn’t have a name. Most kids’ favorite day of the year is Christmas, but not me. Every August fifteenth I go to Grandma’s house and we pick blueberries together. It used to be her, me and Grandpa, but he passed away a few year ago. When I got to the door to her house I knocked loudly. After a few seconds she opened the door. Her pepper hair was frazzled and I could see clumps of flour in her bangs. She smiled up at me and said, “Are you ready?”

“Yes!” I said, eager to begin.
Nov 13
Nora.F's picture

Picking Berries

We hike we laugh and we talk. We reach the top of the hill where the berries grow as far as the eye can see. We pick for hours and compare the pounds and pounds of juicy ripe berries. We climb down the bank and back to the vehicle. Pile in to the old beat up truck that only gets used when we come up this awfully maintained road. The truck squeals to a start and we begin to roll down the road back to the house. Each bump we hit the truck rears and groans as if it is in pain.

We pull in the drive to the dog barking and chasing chickens through the gardens. We all pile out and go into the house rinse the berries and begin to make my mom's famous wild berry jam. We wash our hands and get the pots out.

“Put the berries in the pot and then run downstairs and grab the jars and the big bag of sugar” says mom.
Nov 09
tobin's picture


It's saturday night. The wind is making a moaning sound and the rain is stedly drumming on the roof. A flash lights up the room,a couple of seconds later there is a ear splitting clap of thunder followed by a minute of two of quiet. Then it repeats itself, lightning, thunder, lightning, thunder.

Every time the room is lit up I can take a couple of steps. I Know that is not fast enough, but I can't bring myself to continue forward in the dark. What if there is another one lurking on the floor, waiting for a unsuspecting human to step there. I my way to the door
Nov 08
Kyle A Emerson's picture

Never what you expect

I can't believe this is happening. I'm marrying the woman I love.
It's funny how love works. It's never the girl you think you love, but the one that's right for you.
You don't realize it until they come into your life. You never know it until you know them, when you know their perks and their flaws, and love every part of her for what she is.
"Do you wish to take her hand in marriage?"
"I do"
Without hesitation. The priest smiles, for he knows how I feel and is grateful for having the honors of announcing our eternal love.
She says "I do"
Nov 06
poem 2 comments challenge: General

Baseball- A Love Story


It's bottom of the ninth.
We're losing by 2.
The bases were loaded.
WIth 2 outs.
In the championship game.
All or nothing.
Win or go home.
And I'm coming up to bat.
My bat resting on my shoulder is a comfort.
My batting gloves, tight to my hands.
My elbow guard strapped tightly to my elbow.
I place my right foot into the batter's box.
I look down at our coach.
My left foot follows the same path.
I swing my bat in a circle.
Feet set.
Bat ready.
The pitcher lifts his leg and fires a bullet.
It's on the outer half of the plate.
I pull my hands in front of the ball and let my hips do the work.
The ball makes solid contact, and my wrists roll.
The ball flys of the bat. 
It curves down the first base line.
The ball hits in fair territory.
Extra Bases.
I round first.
My head is already down.
I've never run faster.
Nov 04
o.fredella's picture


Family is endless love and support
Family is laughing until you're crying and cant breath
Family is the feeling of warmth and safety
Family is being able to say anything without fear of being judged.
Family is the feeling of pure joy when you see someone you love succeed
Family is the people who are always there and never give up on you
Family is the people who are your biggest supporters
Family is acceptance
Family is LOVE

Nov 02
laurenwwright's picture


Whispers words of love through the sadness at 3 a.m.
The shoulder that fits like a pillow.
The late night hushed giggles;
When you should be asleep.
The hand that grasps tightly through scary movies.
And, the voice that still sings Hannah Montana
Around your room with a hairbrush.
The matchmaking, and tissue.
The gossip beneath the covers with
The faint light of a flashlight.
Being grounded from each other,
But planning your whole week together,
For when you’re ungrounded.
The co-planned birthday parties;
And co-parented pets.
Friendship; human diary.
Home away from home.
First love.