Nov 09
fiction 3 comments challenge: Club
22donam's picture

This guy asked me to join his club

"Mate, this guy just asked me yesterday if I wanted to join his club."

"Woah, what'd ya say?"

"Well obviously I asked him what it was about, you know?"

"Don't tell me it was some kinda cult or somethin' freaky like that."

"Geez no, he said it was a book club."

"Oh yeah? Sounds chill."

"And then I asked him if you could come, cause I thought you would love to go."

"Aww that's sweet."

"But then this jerk is like "No way your friend's got issues" 





"Haha oml, thanks for that"

"No problem mate, anyone that's got beef with you has got beef with me"
Oct 19

The Jump

The Jump
My feet crunched the snow as my thick boots led me toward the hill. It was mid-winter, a warmer day than most, and the tramping was making my forehead sweat. My friend Clementine was ahead of me, my short legs and puffy snowsuit weighing me down-and slowing me down. Finally, I reached the top of the hill. I sat down, not caring if my butt got wet or not. Mindlessly, my mittens picked up a ball of snow and packed it evenly. This was the best packing snow of the winter. It was the perfect mixture of wet and fluffy, a combination rare at least to Vermont. Judson, another friend, was thinking the same thing.
Dec 05

Ten Days of Winter, 1892

Editor's note: In the 11+ years of this site, I have shared only a couple of things on the belief that this is your site, not mine. But I am sharking this because, well, becaue I thought you might like to read/listen to it and, also, to see that some stories take a long time to develop. I'd love some feedback -- this is your chance! :) 

I wrote this piece of fiction for Winter Tales 2017 and it was presented by Vermont Stage in its shows Dec. 6-10, 2017 at FlynnSpace. (It also was going to be presented at a similar winter story show in East Montpelier on Dec. 16.)

Audio download:
Feb 13

The House

NOTE: This is part of the Sprout1 Challenge. This piece was written by an anonymous writer during Vermont Writes Day, and we loved how it started us thinking. How about you? If you would like to extend this story, please click the SPROUT button below and continue it. If you find lots of sprouts, and we hope you will over time, and you like where someone else has taken this, sprout that post. Have fun. And we thank whoever posted this on on Friday, Feb. 10, 2017. (We have made a few edits, by the way.)
Feb 13

The Pendant

NOTE: This is part of the Sprout1 Challenge. This piece was written by an anonymous writer during Vermont Writes Day, and we loved how it started us thinking. How about you? If you would like to extend this story, please click the SPROUT button below and continue it. If you find lots of sprouts, and we hope you will over time, and you like where someone else has taken this, sprout that post. Have fun. And we thank whoever posted this on on Friday, Feb. 10, 2017. (We have made a few edits, by the way.)

The old iron bell jangles as I step into the familiar shop. I wave to the owner, a kindly old gentleman, who smiles at me as he always does and says hello. He seems to appreciate my visits, even though I don't often buy anything. 

I make my way through a maze of old bookshelves and chairs, paintings, vases and other miscellaneous objects. I know almost all of it by memory and can tell whenever the store has sold something. 
Jul 07

Ready or not, here I come.

I brush my fingertips through the grass, passing over an ant. I carefully go over him, and then continue to comb through the green. My eyes take in the way the light falls, the way the green looks against the ground… 

I lift my fingers from the ground, take a pencil from my stretched-out backpack, and sketch out the scene with the shade of the old oak I lean against, the little ant scuttling across the dirt, the pinecone sitting curled between the blades of grass. I skribble each little line, until I hear footsteps near me. I go still.

“Cass needs to work on her hiding, it’s way too hard to find her…” says Jess’s voice from on the opposite side of the tree. I pull in a breath and don’t breath out.

“Breath, Cass…” I say under my breath, barely audible to myself.

“Y’know, I’m going inside. Let her stay hidden the whole day, honestly…” she groans, and I hear the sliding door close to inside. I exhale finally, and keep sketching.
Jul 06

The Plane Crash

He looked around the plane and wept big crystal tears,
his sisters pink bow lay beneath his foot and his memories of her under his greif.
So many people looked back at him, or didn't. 
They were all screaming in a different way.
He looked down at his mom and whispered, "Are there any survivors?" 
She didn't respond. 
He turned to his sister and yelled at her, "don't leave me alone!" 
He dropped to his knees and looked out the plane's window and into the dark feilds, pleading for this to be a dream. 
Why did they come and go so fast he thought to himself as he was led out of the plane and away. 
I'll never stop seeing this scene in my head, ever. 
The boy was led to the emergency room, then the police station, then to his house, where his dad lay silently. He reached for the pink bow in his pocket and turned it over and over in his hands...

(Please sprout this and continue the story) 
Jul 04

Another one of those random things

Author's Note: I'm not quite sure what this is, but it's random and I like it. I want feedback though, what do you think?
An apricot peach,
Kind of a dress,
Splattered with red drops.
And a news article,
Explaining the whole thing.
The kind of girl who makes fresh coffee just right,
Paired with a good old fashioned type writer kind of girl clacking away the the heat of a New York summer,
On the other hand,
She's out of lotion,
So she had to go to the store,
And somehow got distracted by the fine customer service employee,
Who suggested a different kind of lotion.
The new kind smelled like peaches,
Which reminded the good old fashioned type writer girl,
That she had to finish the story for her editor,
The kinda girl who makes fresh coffee just right.
It was hot,
The coffee and the city.
And the smells and sounds of the city seemed to intensify with every step,
Jul 04
fiction 0 comments challenge: Open

Little Cat

Open your eyes,
Little cat,
And investigate.
Paw through the dusty treasures of a long forgotten basement.
Knock over an old vase,
Pretending at being a ghost,
Much to the annoyance of your people.
Crawl under a white table cloth,
Thrown carelessly over a chair,
And battle the evil table cloth.
Find the box of Christmas decorations,
And whack a few to the ground.
Climb on a tipsy shelf, 
And create an avanlanche in which you just barely escape.
Chase away the moths from the moth-eaten clothing rack,
And take a tumble smack into an old sofa.
Open your eyes,
Little cat,
In the morning.
But for now,
Just stay curled up in the little wooden apple crate,
That you found yesterday,
When you opened your eyes.
Jul 02
Climate Change Writers's picture

The Storm

By Cora Lea, Edmunds Middle School 
Jun 29
fiction 0 comments challenge: Dusk


       It was just at dusk when I was biking home from my friends house when I heard ruffling in the forest near by. I hopped off my bike to go look, thinking that there might be a cute squirrel or rabbit in the bushes. To my suprise that is not what I found. When I peered through the bushes a trail leading through the woods looked back at me. I locked up my bike and decided to go on the trail to see where it lead. The sun was going to set soon so I had to walk fast. It came to a clearing of a foggy little pond. I sat down on a big rock and listened for the frogs croaking and splashing in the water. I put my hand down near one of the frogs and it hopped up onto my arm and just sat there peacefully. The sunset was grorgeous all pink and orange and the view from the pond was amazing. It was getting dark and I needed to be home but I was sad to leave my new place and my new little frog friend but I told them I would be back tomorrow.
Jun 26
Gentchos's picture

The Boy With a Violin

His fingers danced along the strings. Each note louder than the last. The notes seemed to hang in the air, as if it were my choice to listen. They did not demand that I hear them, or that I even listen at all. They drew me in. Hanging in the air like fresh fruit begging to be picked. To my surprise, it was he who had been creating this music. 

I never would have guessed that he played violin. Or even began to imagine he was this good. It had only been a few months that we had shared the apartment, and even so I was rarely here. How could I know so little about my roommate? 

When I had first put the ad out, I got lots of weirdos. An odd and bouncy girl who smelled like yoga and kombucha, a girl I can only describe as ‘emo,’ a buff dude who asked me nearly eight times if he could put his weights in the living room. But then there was Charlie. He seemed normal. Quiet and stoic, but normal.
Jun 24
fiction 2 comments challenge: Elves

Following You

They say this is where the elves live, you whispered in my ear. I swallowed, because you were stepping off the path and we weren’t supposed to, but the forest had always known you like a friend, so as you led me deeper into the woods. I wasn’t afraid.

I wanted to ask you where we were going, wanted to know answers, wanted to understand, but you were too fast-paced on your slender legs for me to slow you down with questions, and I trusted you anyway, so I kept quiet.

You didn’t know where you were going, but it was as though you’d been there before, by the way you didn’t hesitate as you walked over plants and roots and dead leaves in bare feet with a look of determination on your face.
Jun 22
Justaperson's picture

The Farmer's Dialogue (DKP Edit)

The story is written as a dialogue between a farmer and a politician. In response to the politician's indignity toward the farmer, the farmer explains his philosophy regarding ethics in contemporary society and its inevitable impossibility.
Jun 21

Mea Culpas

 The man gazes out and past the extensive glass window that shows off to him an endless sliver of outer space, daydreaming about Earth while fermenting away in the multi-trillion dollar New Old-World resort -no, prison- of his own design. The vast, unimaginable plane of space prematurely greys his hair, and deepens the aging creases in his face like a much-walked path. A cigar is pinched tightly between two fingers, burning off to the point of almost reaching his hand, a faint smell of liquor circling around him when he exhales, almost as if it's his shadow's breath that reeks of alcohol. His eyes burn as he sits there, but he cannot blink, or look away from the endless lover's pupil of outer space, in fear that his world will end of he does so. Media-fed emotions expand and contort within his crackling being, attempting to create something human, but instead creating something that is both more and less then emotion.
Jun 21
fiction 0 comments challenge: Elves

A Gap in the Hedge

Thomas was awoken by the sun streaming through his curtains and a knock at the door. He rose and forced himself to answer. 

    “Oh, hey, Julia,” He said as he rubbed his eyes. 

    “Hey!” she said, bouncing on her feet. She reached up to fix his messy hair, “Let’s go, I’ve got something cool to show you!”

    “Can I brush my teeth first? You woke me up.”

    “There’s no time, I’m not sure how long it’ll be clear!”

    “What? What’s clear?”

    “I’ll explain on the way, I’ll get Beau and you get some shoes!” she said, pushing Thomas back inside his house and inviting herself in. 
Jun 21
fiction 2 comments challenge: Dusk

Chocolate Mousse Cake

It was just dusk when the glass shattered, shards of their precarious silence lying on the tiled floor. 


The young man in the chair opposite of her looked up, then back down at his spaghetti. I nearly dropped the glass I was holding! On all their Friday evenings, I had never heard either speak a word. Neither moved for a second, and then the young lady snatched her handbag, chair screeching, before strutting out of doors, into the horizon. Finally, the man looked up as she walked out the door, hands ruffling his meticulously styled hair as he crumpled in his lacquered chair.

I, being the nosy bloke you know I am, couldn't help but wonder aloud, "Why, isn't he gonna go after her?" I've never regretted saying anything more in my life.
Jun 15
zazu's picture

The ocean highway

There was a boy who lived in the little house just off the highway.
The house with the chipped red paint and the overgrown backyard that ran wild and reckless like a jungle.
It was what the boy liked to pretend it was, anyway.
He was just an explorer in the center of it all.
It didn't even matter that he was in shorts and a T-shirt most of the time. 
They were the closest thing to explorer clothes he had. They were the only clothes he had. It didn't matter.
The cars on the highway, if you listened closely, always sounded like the roaring waves of the ocean.
The boy had never been to the ocean, but he liked to imagine that's what it would have sounded like.
I think a part of him knew.
Or at least his mind was always far away.
Sometimes, when he was asleep, there would be an accident on the highway.
Then there would be a lot of voices and flashing lights.
Jun 12
notlelified's picture

Ciorba cu Perișoare

Son. Son! Take off your headphones! You must learn! You must... understand that there is art in the making of ciorba cu perisoare. Ciorba cu perisoare! Soup! Baiat prost! The way you cut the potatoes, the kind of stock you use. Stock, not broth, you hear me? Stock. And of course the bors. Gah! You cannot find good bors here in the states. Good bors comes from one place, and one place only. From, from Romania. From your---

Ciorba cu perisoare. Your Bunica taught me to make this soup on Christmas Eve. Food was scarce. Learning to cook was no small matter. It was a perfect Christmas Eve. Pass the carrots. It needs a little more.

She would say to me:

"Now put in the potatoes. Very good, Alexandru. Your first Ciorba. You must teach to our son one day, just as my mother taught me. It was so long ago."

Jun 11
Rosepathfading's picture

Crazy weird story I wrote before COVID

This is a story I wrote at school in my writer's notebook before COVID happened. The story is complete fiction and has nothing to do with real-life reality and health. Do not think I am crazy considering how weird this story is... 


I opened the finely polished bronze door... THERE THEY WERE! The chicken servants! Dressed in fine tuxedos and fancy pants they guffawed at the simplest of an untied shoe or a small wrinkle in another chicken's clothing. I like chickens. Chickens make me feel good. That's why I'm naming each and every one of my children; Chicken 1, Chicken 2, Chicken 3, and on and on up until my last child Chicken 1394. Did you know that if you feed them chickens will polish your teeth?

I'M A CHICKEN!!!" one of the servants yells sharing the VERY important fact with the others in the room.

"WE ARE TOO!!!" they yell back.