Sep 23
fiction challenge: Possession

My journal

If I could keep one thing, it would be the journal my Great Grampa kept in the war. It's an old withered book, barely hanging together at the seams.

It's pages filled with messy and rough handwriting, some of it speaks of the horrors of what he saw while in other parts, he talks about more mundane things, such as lunch. "I had spaghetti with meat sauce again today. I swear they give me that on purpose, I mean this is the fourth time this week that I've eaten that garbage. I tried to trade with one of the other guys but he wouldn't go for it so I had to make do. I miss Ma's cooking, she was no expert by any means but man, that woman could really cook a good chicken pot pie."

My Grandpa wasn't a poet by any means but when he wrote you could almost swear you were there on the battlefield with him.
Nov 09
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" 


"UM RUDE"


"I KNOW"


"WHERE IS HE I'M GONNA WHOOP HIS A**"


"DON'T EVEN WORRY MATE I SMACKED HIM ALL THE WAY TO KANSAS"


"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:
TenDaysofWinter1892.mp3
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 vermontwritesday.org 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 vermontwritesday.org 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. 
Sep 25
fiction challenge: Heavens

Light Up The Darkness

Once upon a time, there was only darkness. Forever and ever. Never-ending darkness. It was just a shady, dull night named Balthazar. He consumed everything, leaving only the oblivion of black nothingness.

    Balthazar took a wife because he was lonely. He took together the darkness to form a single being. He called her Aylin, mother moon. She was the most beautiful creature to ever roam inside of the abyss. He loved her. Truly loved her. And she could care less.

    Aylin wanted Light in her darkness. She wanted to feel the warmth on the dark outline of her skin. She wanted to see, not only herself but everything. 
Sep 24
fiction challenge: Possession
smcdonough's picture

The Written Dream


I adore my notebook and pen. I've had it ever since I was little. It was the first present I got when I could read and write.(Yes it is huge.)  One night I fell asleep while writing and my written dream had started.

    In my dream chaotic things happened. I was running from a mad man chasing me one second, the next I was having tea with the mad hatter. After a few more teleports to Egypt, Madagascar, and the Caribbean Sea I finally stayed in one place for more than 30 seconds.

I looked around to hear buzzing above me, looking up to see pixies looking at me with confusion. They started whispering like bells when I noticed everything there was tiny, I mean tiny. When they flew away I teleported away. 

I landed with a thud covered in supplies for survival and exploration. I heard a yell behind me,

“Dr. Kasy Hope!” A man yelled. How does he know my name and did he call me Dr? I thought to myself.
Sep 24

Abduction


  I wake up early at 5:00 A.M. it's still dark out. Full of excitement I say, "Today is Saturday and I can watch my cartoons!" I run downstairs and turn on the TV and make sure the volume is low so I don't wake up the rest of the house. The screen comes to life and hums. It first shows a colorful room and then Mickey Mouse walks in the scene. "Hiya kids! This Mickey MOUSE!" I grin from ear to ear and pour milk into my cereal. Life is good. The show goes as usual, Mickey has a problem but friends help him and he relearns how important friendship is. I'm enjoying my show but then suddenly the tv goes static. I'm confused but I just brush it off and try to change the channel but it didn't matter how many times I clicked the channel button it stayed all static. Then I realized I could hear something coming from the TV, not just the static. I lean my head forward and listen, it sounds like growling.

Boxes

    Once upon a stormy night, you quickly go to sleep, but when you wake up, you find yourself in some sort of a box. You examine your surroundings and find there are two doors and a light above your head. You go to open the door to your left and you find the same exact room except smaller. You do this several more times and you end up crawling. You open the last door you possibly can and see a pair of red eyes peering at you. You hear a growl and start running. You wake up and realize it was your stomach growling.

 
Sep 22
baileyrobyn_1021's picture

the girl

it was cold as the wind blew. it's bitter touch stinging her cheeks. it's breath uninvited  kissing her skin. She shiverd as she walked unaware of the direction she was going. Her small feet daintily dancing across the pavement. She was small maybe 5 feet tall. She had long thick brown hair pulled back lossly in a braid. Her soft ocean eyes sparkled as a dog walked past nuzzling his head against her caf. A soft blue dress billowed below her knees. Her soft olive skin rosy from the cold. The sound of a river near by caugh her attention. As she moved closser to the sound she noticed the air was getting warmer. To her left was a feild that looked as though it went on for miles. The grass painted with blues and purples from the little flowers. To her right was a stump that looked as though it had been sanded down for someone to sit on. As she neared the stump she noticed a basket of books. She sat down and picked up one of the books.
Sep 21
fiction challenge: Folklore

Sirens

“Hi, I am Daila Waters (but everyone calls me Dolly) and I’m seventeen years old. I have long dark hair. I also have deep blue eyes and I was told I would have the darkest purple tail. I was born in Atlantis, the city under the water. I have a pet dolphin that is one of a kind because he  doesn't ever need air.

 I had named him Leo. I taught him tough tricks like how to head back to home, to be very aware if there are shadows. I got him when I was 4 so he is very special to me. I love living in Atlantis with Leo but it can be a little boring.

 Sometimes there are these shadows in the sky and we all have to hide.  I have some friends that my mom and dad didn't know. They had gone into the water when the shadows were there and then they were never seen again. I couldn't go towards my friends or I might have gotten caught. That was when I was little though. Now I can go out too.
Sep 19
fiction challenge: First Grade
Peter Gustafson's picture

First Day of First Grade

YWP contest #week two

  First Grade

By Amina Peco age 11 Essex Junction


I  wake  up  in  the  morning,  it’s  not  summer  anymore.  It’s  the  first day  of  

first  grade! 

 I  have  two  loose  teeth and one  big  smile.

  Ready  to meet  my  new  teacher,stay  calm.

  Keep  it  happy,  keep  it  simple.

  My friends  are  happy and  so  am  I.

  My  day  is  going  great, doing  my  best, making  new  friends.

Working  my  hardest, having  fun  learning  new  things  to  be  number   one!

Playing  with  friends, rhyming  along  but   also  singing  along.

It’s  the  first  day  of  first  grade, I'm  ready  to  go!

 
                                        

 
Sep 19
fiction challenge: Dancer
Peter Gustafson's picture

Show Stopper

Norah Lomedico            Essex Jt. Vt.            Age 12       Contest number 7   
Show Stopper!  

Written by: Norah Lomedico 
Monday July 2nd 2020

Dear diary, today started off just like any normal day as a ballerina. I woke up at 6:00 am, got dressed, brushed my teeth, and did my hair, in a bun of course. 

Then I packed my ballet bag because ballet starts at 8:00 and this time I remembered to bring my extra leotard. Now it's time to eat my super quick breakfast. I only have about 15 minutes to eat. 

Next I get in the car and drive to the Studio. When I get there I say hi to my friends and stretch. When class was over I got in the car and drove home and prepared for tomorrow because tomorrow is tryouts to see who got the part of Clara for The Nutcracker.
                                                    Tuesday July 3nd 2020
Sep 14
fiction challenge: Light

A Christmas


One snowy Christmas eve, my family and I were walking in the woods just behind our log cabin. We had just finished supper and were getting our energy out just before bed. The snow-covered up our footprints like a blanket.

It was getting late, so we started back. Going back was slower because we were tired. As we got closer, the tiny lights along the edge of the cabin framed our faces in pale yellow light. I am tired out by the time we get inside the house. As soon as the lights were out, I had already drifted off to sleep.
Wednesday, December 25, 2018
I ran down the stairs in the morning through the Christmas morning light shouting, “It’s Christmas, It’s Christmas!” There is a big pile of presents underneath the tree. I started to sort them into piles, one for Mom, one for Dad, and one for me.

Then Mom and Dad came downstairs to open up presents.
Sep 11

Alone

 
Everything was dark. It felt as though it had been weeks, months, years. I'd lost all concept of time. I tried to run, to scream, but nothing happened. I was stuck in a cold realm of shadow, with no way of escape. I couldn't remember who I was or how I got there. I ran and ran, yet I stayed completely still, my very bones yearning to push past my invisible bindings, but unable to. It was just darkness. Forever. Endless black. Endless shadow. Endless nothing. And an endless sentence in a cell of murky twilight. Forever trapped in obscurity. And unforgivably alone. 
Sep 10
fiction challenge: Folklore
ccfitz's picture

The Farmer and His Children

Once upon a time, by a small cottage in a meadow, filled with summer flowers and corn, children played. Their names were “Jack and Sally”. Their father, Greg, was a farmer and built their cottage from the trees in the nearby forest long ago.

 Their mother, Jane, (Tried) to watch over them and keep them in line but the children were incorrigible.
 Once, when their father was gone, and their mother was inside, Sally and Jack decided to go on an adventure (not knowing the danger of the woods). They took some food and set off. Later, Jane looked through the window, but the youngsters were nowhere in sight.

 “Sally! Jack!” She hollered “Where are you?!” Desperation hollowed her voice. Soon she saw Greg coming closer. “Oh Greg I’ve looked all over for them!” “Whom?” Inquired Greg, “Our children!!!” She cried.
Sep 08

Italy

Italy
 
Under a heaven of a glowing apricot hue, laid a pair dressed in white and rose silks relishing the soft rustle of a summer breeze. A collection of ripe fruits decorated the lavender blanket atop a bed of green grass as butterflies danced from yarrow to yarrow. Occasionally, an aroma of burning firewood reached the couple, briefly reminding them of the party down the mountain. But as the aroma drifted away so did the thoughts of the party, isolating the couple from the rest of the world and engulfing them back into their own story. They had been out here for a while now and although the alpine sun softened, the warm breeze covered their bare arms like a blanket and the soft buzz of champagne warmed their insides.

He turns his face to hers. Feeling his gaze, she turns to him too. “What?” she says. Her voice breaks the silence. He says nothing. “What!” she says more insistently.
Sep 06
fiction challenge: Skirts
W.Slay4Honors's picture

A Sunny Winter

     It was October, but Margo was still wearing short summer skirts. Her bulky swear fell over the skirt in a perfect wave and her bangs covered most of her eyes, although the rest was only shoulder length. Over the past few months, she hadn't seemed herself and all of her friends had distanced themselves from her. 
     Sometimes when I turn around I still see her smile. Her hair blowing in the wind as she raises her hand to greet me. The sun shining down only on her as if she is the apple of its eye. A smile will form on my face, but tears will fall. If only I was there for her when she needed me before she needed me. 
Sep 05

Serenity follows the dusk

She sits down, her small, tight box in hand. The girl, clearly a young child, opens the black box, and reveals the pieces and parts of a flute.

Surprisingly quickly, she assembles the flute. Its silver metal glints in the light of the vibrant sunset the girl sits before. She swabs the interior of the instrument with a wooden rod and a small cloth scrap.

The girl brings the flute up to her mouth and begins to play. The notes of an emotional, compact symphony echo throughout the valley. She sits there for what seems like eons, playing. In reality, it is only a few minutes. Her music captivates, seeming to become an orchestra.

She nimbly dances through the grass, her body wet with dew. The girl seems to glow in the dusk. She suddenly comes to a halt with her melody.

The memory of her music echoes around the valley long after she is gone. Drawn back to earth, mystified and awed, I remember that I forgot to ask her name.