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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" 





"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. 
Aug 14

Dance of the Polar Bear

     Late at night, my igloo is cozy and warm, unlike the Artic outside. Grandmum tucks me into bed, but doesn't leave just yet. She takes a seat on the edge of my bed, and prepares her story telling voice. 
     "What story will it be tonight Grandmum?" I prod, impatient and excited. 
     "Tonight, my dear, on the eve of your tenth birthday, I have a special  story. One that has been passed down through generations, on the listener's tenth birthday." She pauses for dramatic effect. "The Dance of the Polar Bears." 
     Grandmum makes her hand into a fake claw, waves it through the air, and lets out a silly growl. I giggle at her attempted polar bear impression.
     Grandmum waits till my giggles stop, then continues with her story. "This is a dance performed by two or more polar bears, plus their cubs, if they have cubs at the time."

Aug 13

Le François de la Tranchée

With my stomach on the ground I look over the parapet and into the trench. Nobody could be seen.

Slowly I lower myself in and attempt to make as little noise as possible when my boots reach the ground. Up and down this trench eleven other soldiers did the same. 

I see three shapes in the darkness. So I raise my rifle, train it on one, and slowly walk towards them. 

The dark shapes morph into the outlines of men as I approach, a hushed French conversation floats through the air. I walk closer as I lower my rifle. 

“Everyone ready to go?” I whisper.

“Ready as ever,” Louis replies.

“All right, holster the rifles. It’s too loud,” I order,“ only use them if you must.”

Aug 10
fiction challenge: Boat
mlc123's picture

The Key Variable in the Life of a Boat

Here’s the thing about being a boat: your quality of life depends entirely upon the humans who take care of you. As for me, I suppose I’m lucky. They haven’t traded me out for another, even though I’m old and my motor doesn’t work much. They always bail me out when the rain collects. By far, the worst part about being a boat is when it rains, and the water just pools into you. Weighs you down, and gives you the feeling that if it rained hard or long enough, it could pull you down forever into the depths of the lake. You have absolutely no sense of how deep the water goes, when all you do is float on top of it, so for all I know, just tied to that red wooden dock, I could sink a hundred miles to my doom. 

Jul 12

overthinking part 2

chapter two

I scroll through my phone, deleting pictures of Axel and me on my Instagram that I never used before I dated him. Blocking him on every social media account I have. I want to do more than that, more than just deleting and blocking. But what else can I do? 

Rory comes into my room in the middle of this. I don’t want to talk to her. 
“Ella?” I don’t answer. I don’t say a word. Still scrolling. 
“I’m sorry.” Nothing.
“He was yours, not mine, and I shouldn’t have let him.”
“Talk to me, please! I feel bad enough already.”
On and on and on. I wish I could say I felt guilty for not talking, but I don’t. 

chapter three

I remember a time when I was happy. When life was kittens and rainbows and cupcakes and life was easy. Too easy.
Jul 07

overthinking part 1

“Do you think I’d drop my walls like this for–for just anyone?!” I say, voice taut. I’m almost shouting now.
Axel throws up his hands in surrender. 
“Ella, it’s not like that.” I narrow my eyes at him. 
“No. You think you can get away with anything just because I was in love with you. That’s not happening anymore. You manipulated me, and I–I–I didn’t even care. I was naive, and clearly you weren’t. Go away. Please. Don’t make me second-guess myself.” I realize I’m crying. Tears are pouring down my face, scrubbing away the dirt and lipstick. 
Axel reaches out, trying to swipe away the tears like he used to. Used to. Past tense. I smack his hand away. 
“Come on, El. It was a joke.” I nearly laugh. 
“A joke? You kissed my sister as a joke? Do you realize how dumb that sounds?” I stand up, jabbing a finger at the door. 
“Leave. And never come back.”

chapter one
Jul 06
fiction challenge: Great Artists
DotToDot's picture

Pool of Color

I work at the front desk in an art museum.

It's more exciting than you'd think.

    The museum is called Pool Of Color. It's on Thirty-first Street. The building's old, made of brick and mortar. Most of the paint is chipping, and the stone is crumbling. When the museum closes, they probably won't need to demolish it. Somebody will sneeze and the place will come crashing down.

    A customer once told me that I look like I should be at a podium, not a front desk. I guess it's true. I don't look like the artsy type, with my pointy face and white-blond hair. The only part of me that looks very creative are my earrings, little replicas of the Starry Night dangling from my ear lobes.

    I place my chin in my hands and watch the clock. It's probably not very professional. I probably should be straightening papers that don't need straightening and making little check marks in an empty notebook. 
Jun 28

The City

The city has always held me in its arms.

Softly, like a mother does to a child.

At the edge of daylight,

I gaze out over a balcony

and call each structure by name.

My eyes track its movements,

its curves and sharp points,

while my mind wanders over the wonder

that a place can be so intimate

yet alien at the same time. 

Jun 10


The church had seen horrors beyond its wildest comprehension. It had seen plague, townspeople blistering at the mouth, boils erupting over their palms. It had been the world's biggest stretcher, a place for the most pious to refuse treatment in the name of God and then die. It had seen fire, bonnets ablaze lighting brittle hair and searing crackling scalps. It had seen the worst of winter famines, the leather faces of bibles torn apart and gnawed on, holier than any communion wafer. It had felt funerals, caskets tragically light. It had seen births and deaths and all the things that go in between, but the worst thing the church had ever seen was the devil in the form of a girl.
Jun 08
MadisonN's picture

Home Away From Home

Here is what I imagine heaven to be like.

It's not too warm and it's not too cold; it's filled with memories and generations of people.

My name is Jessica and my family owns a farm up in Jericho, Vermont. Just north of the barn, there is an enormous field for our sheep. In the distance, there are mountains that are all different colors of green and blue to make the trees blend in. I sneak out of my window just to come out here and watch the sunrise. Just before the sun peeks over the mountains you can still hear the bugs chirping as they get ready to stay clear of the hot day. I can hear the breeze as it brushes against my face, leaving goosebumps to replace the cool air.

I can feel the small warmth of the grass under my feet, and as I sit down in the field, I graze my hand through the patches of flowers. Just then the sun peers over the mountains leaving a beautiful smile on my face. Just another wonderful day in paradise.
Jun 01
Dempsey McGovern's picture


May 31

A few Ideas!

Rewrite a famous story
   Choose a story written by a famous author but rewrite it in your style and... change the ending completely.

Write a poem from the perspective of a book character
Who is your favorite book character of all time? Now write a poem from their perspective!

Put two characters from different authors and different worlds into one story
Take one character from a different world than the main character and write a story in which they meet each other. 
May 30


The salty breeze whisks my hair into my face and I dive beneath the surface to escape. I cannot risk being seen by any of the sailors above. It’s a looming ship, one that could kill me if I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Exactly why I must be careful. The High Queen told me three boys would fall today, two of them slaves. The third one must be a stowaway, or else they would not toss him overboard. The young men on this boat are priceless, or at least that is what the captain thinks. 
Suddenly, I hear an arousing cheer echoing over the water. I poke my head up to see the sailors carrying two boys, younger than me by a few years, it looks. I can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt, knowing that I cannot save them. In fact, I am the reason for their death. But alas, my sisters must eat, and there is only one way for that to happen. 


Tim Hardey checked his watch, it was 11:58pm. It had been three hours since the car crash. He could still remember his parents’ voices.

“George, slow down! You’re going to kill us!”

“I’m only going 15 miles over. You do want to get there on time, right?”

Then came the screaming. And in an instant after, silence. Tim dragged his body across the roof of the flipped-over car and exited through a broken window. He stood up and looked at his parents, who were both smeared in blood with glass shards sticking out of their bodies. They were dead.
May 27

Sir Snuggles and The Dragon

The golden sun shined through the mouth of my cave as I opened my eyes. I hopped off my stuffed animal hoard and stretched my wings, spreading my claws on the rocky surface beneath me.

"Good morning Sir Snuggles," I said to my favorite teddy bear, "How did you sleep?"

"Very good, I had a most wonderful dream."

"Me too! What was yours about?"


"Mmh Delicoius. I think we should have cake for breakfast. What do you think?"

"I think that would be lovely."

I tugged off my fuzzy blue PJs and walked to the cabinet. When I looked inside, I was shocked!

"Oh no! Sir Suggles, we ate all the cake yesterday!"

"So, let's fly to the bakery to get some more!"

"You're right Sir Snuggles. Let's go!" I strapped Sir Snuggles onto my back, his purple fur warm against my scaly green skin, and we leaped out of the cave and into the air.
May 25
fiction challenge: Astronaut
Uly Junker's picture

Space? Yes Please!