Friday, September 30, 2011

Henning's Piece

The Rules are Optional:

the Rules are optional

the Turn is done
the Cards left to Draw their selfs
the Dice roll,
the crumble into Dust
the Players left inside the Board
the Turn is beggining

just ask

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Ava's Drawings.

Nasturtium Poem.

This is a poem I wrote about a Nasturtium flower in the garden of Emily Dickinson.

A sea of green.
Round boats floating still.
Bright white veins fan out like spokes.
Spokes on the circular wheel in a mill.
One leaf the lowest is held down by dew.
A sea of ships without a crew.
Bees buzz merrily over the sea.
Shaded by a majestic oak tree.
The sun shines down the light is mellow.
Next to the house whose bricks are yellow.

More Stuff!

From now on this blog will hold drawings, pictures and any type of art there is! Email me or caleb your stuff.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Josh's story

I love new places. I love strange new places.

Two years ago I was lucky enough to spend two weeks in Taiwain. For the first week of the trip I was in the capitol, Taipei, home to many, many millions of people. Armed with a decent array of broken Mandarin skills, I spent most of the week wandering the city on my own. I had the time of my life.

An important item to note was that I was there in July. This meant that the temperature was between 95 and 100 every day starting at around 10am. Paired with close to 100 percent humidity, and a crush of people everywhere, I quickly became saturated with the Taipei atmosphere. I got lost in the tech quarter. I took the elevator to the top of one of highest buildings in the world. I ate food I have never dreamed of. Soon, I was proud of my ability to navigate the city and I feel into a routine.

One of my favorite parts of the day was when each morning I took to the underground complex below the city to eat my daily sushi lunch. Not only was the cool, crisp air conditioning an amazingly welcome respite from the outdoor sauna of the city, the sushi was delicious and spectacularly cheap. On my fifth or sixth time through the ordering line, I managed to get through with out using any English. Go me.

On that lunch trip, the tables were particularly packed. I found a spot in a scrum of locals, and sat down to eat my lunch. I tore through some delectable salmon, a refreshing rice dish, and a small bag of cookie-like chips. Soon after I started eating, the man sitting across the table from me started giving me a strange look. I quietly took stock of myself and the area around me and figured, like usual, I had no idea what was going on. I was used to this feeling by then. So, I shrugged off the feeling and continued with my meal. Sushi gone, the rice soon followed. I read some news, and sipped my drink while finishing the cookie-chips. The man was still definitely giving me a weird look. Again, I took in the feeling of cluelessness and valued it as a certain badge of pride. I could take it.

I finished my lunch, packed up my containers, got up and left. Outside the seating area I disposed of the lunch containers and proudly took off through the underground maze towards the subway stop I used almost every day. I was cruising and having a great time. I knew this place. I was excited to move through my day through the electric hum of Taipei.

Then it hit me why that guy was giving me the weird looks. I hadn’t bought any cookie-chips at lunch. I had spent the entire lunch eating some other guy’s food.

I look forward to my future life as the most effective cultural ambassador in the world.

Monday, September 26, 2011

My Mom's Writing Piece

This is my mom's personal essay. Enjoy!

I borrowed this prompt from a book on personal writing by Genie Zeiger. She wrote, “think of two opposing times, experiences, people, or…. and imaginatively contrast them. This idea came to me as I was looking at all the types of yogurt now available in supermarkets and remembered when “yogurt” was a word I’d never heard.” I followed the list style that she used in her piece called Now and Then.

Now and Then

Back then I always felt lucky. It didn’t matter what was happening. Closing my eyes and repeating my favorite mantra, “things could always be worse,” I found a silver lining. Then I had no trouble believing, when I read on a place mat in a Chinese restaurant, that I was born under the luckiest of all signs of the Chinese Zodiac, that I possessed the luck of the Rabbit.

Now, I still feel lucky but know well the capricious nature of fortune, of dumb, blind luck with her Janus-faced whim pulling simultaneously toward past and future, good and bad, life and death. Now I understand that luck isn’t something that happens. Luck is a way of seeing, a way of creating meaning and hope—the way I choose to organize my world. In the words of Amy Tan, “if you can’t change your fate, change your attitude.”

Back then I spent long hot summers in Jerusalem, my aunt’s small apartment, filled to the brim with cousins, aunts and grandparents. Miraculously, the tiny dining room seemed to fit all who came for Shabbat feasts along with their predictable cacophony of discussion and argument. The table seemed to groan under the weight of steaming plates of rice, bowls of slow roasted brown eggs, stews and soups wafting the smell of dill, cumin, parsley and lemon throughout the house.

I loved the feel of the smooth stone floors, the solid, wooden trundle beds and lack of clutter that enabled six of us girls to sleep in one room. Walking down the street I couldn’t help but notice the ancient sandy stones of Jerusalem’s buildings pockmarked from bullets of wars past. Safe in the apartment’s courtyard we played, soaking up the heat of the middle-eastern sun.

Now I live in a New England farmhouse. The house was moved to Amherst in the 30’s when three towns were flooded to create the Quabbin Reservoir and provide drinking water for Boston. The wood floors in the living room dip. If you jump up and down or step too hard the whole house rattles and shakes.

Now in the summer, we are lucky if my husband and I can pack up our car and son to get away to Cape Cod for a week. The few American cousins are scattered and we meet friends for long beach walks, the smell of salt, seaweed and fish thick in the moist air as we search for rocks, shells and sea glass and as we boogey board and swim. Back then when I travelled with my parents I missed my friends and wanted to write letters. Now when I travel with my own family, the Blackberry and work emails are never far from my twitching thumbs. No matter how I try to push them back, thoughts of work like the breaking waves, surface and intrude.

Back then my piano teacher, Mr. Negri, came to my house to give me lessons. While I practiced my scales and played my pieces, my mom puttered in the house, tending to my sisters, cooking dinner and cleaning. He told stories and drew pictures. On the inside cover of one of my John Thompson books he drew a beautiful hand with fingers perfectly curved for playing.

Today, we drive our son to piano lessons, violin lessons, chorus, Hebrew School, baseball and soccer. He changes clothes quickly in the car – expertly shuffling though backpacks and notebooks to find what he needs – hurriedly brushing crumbs off his shirt while I yell at him to keep the greasy empty pizza box on the floor of the car.

Then I was a child. Every night after all the kisses and tucking in, finally alone in my bed, I opened the shade and looked to tops of three pines and the stars beyond. My reliable sentinels, always there! I thanked them for the day, and yearning for tomorrow, asked for protection for my family and me.

Now I am a member of the Jewish Community of Amherst. I admire the folks that gather on Saturday mornings to hold services in the building that was once a church. The old melodies move me, even as I’m thinking to myself how out of place the historic organ feels. I pay particular attention when we get to the prayer for healing. These days when the Rabbi pauses to give congregants a chance to speak or contemplate the names of those in need of healing, the list of names is longer than it used to be. Then I only had one friend with cancer. Now I am surprised by how many family and friends have struggled with the disease that was once taboo to name.

Back then when I thought about my future I comforted myself with images of the hearty nonagenarians in my family, of Aga, my hundred-year-old grandma, and Mickey, my husband’s hundred-year-old grandma. Now when I ponder the future I see my son and his friends, their zest and energy reflected in the worlds of meaning and hope they are building for themselves.

Donna Baron

Friday, September 23, 2011

Shannon's Book Recamendations

1) We'll Always Have Summer by Jenny Han is a realistic fiction book about Isabel Conklin that has been proposed to by her boyfriend and she says yes. She then realizes she still has feelings for Conrad, her fiance, Jeremiahs, brother, and Isabels first love. She pushes the feelings away and continues on with wedding plans. Isabel fights through hard, difficult emotions that will confuse her from one of the biggest decisions of her life. This book may sound directed to girls, and it probably is, but it is a good book for anyone who is willing to read it.
2) The Ghost of Crutchfield Hall by Mary Downing Hahn is the story of Florence, a 12 year old girl who is sent to live with her great uncle and aunt in a large, old manor on the English country side. She isn't excited, but anything has to be better than the orphanage in which she has lived in since her parents death. But Florence couldn't begin to imagine what lurks in the shadows. Her late cousin, Sophia, who looks exactly like a hateful Florence, has murderous plans to avenge her death, and Florence is a part of it.
3) The House of Dead Maids by Clare B. Dunkle. This titel pretty much explains this creepy, creepy book. Tabby Aykroid is sent to a house with, lets just say, a history. She doesn't know this though. She is to be a nursemaid to a foundling boy, which in this place, just means to be with him until...until... well, just read the book... er... something. No, really, READ THIS BOOK!
4) The Narnia series by C.S. Lewis is, yes, famous, but by far, UNDERRATED! These books are some of the best I have ever read. The imagination is so creative that I feel like I'm there, and then, when I finish, I feel like i was ripped away like all who visit, but the portal for me, unlike all else, is just on my bookshelf, and I can visit whenever i like! You should to! + (!)
5) The Sister of the Traveling Pants by Ann Brashares is an amazing book that is full of character difference and and an excellent plot that will have you feeling sad, mad, happy, and shocked! Read all of them though, there are three others, The Second Summer of the Sisterhood, Girls in Pants, and Forever in Blue.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Haiku about crayfish

Their eyes unblinking.
Always wide as if thinking.
Floats, slowly sinking.

Don't just follow post.

Put something in the comments or email me to get your piece on the blog. We want more writers

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

First part of Raven-Speaker

For those of you that don't know Raven-Speaker is my favorite thing I'm writing.
This is the prologue.

Grim, that was the only word that could describe the scene before me.

I threw the piece of parchment I had been writing on letting it drift in the cool fall gale drifting among the red, brown, and orange leaves. Floating away from the burial ground of the kings of Avon Arret toward the black shape of Lake Sanguis.

The priest was reading from the book of our ancestors the ancient kings of Xenophilia but I was not listening to him, the fool believing in an almighty force a god, Ha. My father was not destined to be killed by a assassin from Al- Habar in the far east of the land. The far-east warriors have a god but did that stop them from killing my father in cold blood? No!

Manservant came up to me offering me a piece of licorice that I took because mother was watching and then threw into the Forest of Diti where the earth goddess dwells. Finally as if after many years the Raven-Speaker priest recited the last rites and laid my father into the dark mouth of the grave… Forever,


Monday, September 19, 2011

A Poem

I am in transition.
The final gate on the fabric of time.
Stuck between threads of unkept promises and betrayed friendships.
Offspring of two that should not have met.Opposites.
Moving quickly in slow motion.
A sun in a dark sky.
Unique, capricious in my power.
An orchestra of thoughts and emotions.
Dead to the living, living in a world of misfits.
I am not held by time, I am limitless stretching across millions of stars.
Unseen, Unheard.
A nagging feeling of pain and happiness.
Sweet and sour.
I am Masomenos.
The fission between happiness and sadness.
The opposite of fate.

I am not copying Ava, we both were the creators of Masomenos the character thing.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

A Haiku

The bright blinking lights
That the cold darkness can't fight.
The city at night.

Book Recomendations

Also email me book Recomendations to post

Book Reviews

From now on this blog can also have book reviews. Email me your reviews and I will post them. Remember to tell all your friends about the blog!

New Prompt!

Write a emotional piece. Sad, broken hearted, angry etc. Minimum of six sentences.
Also I am going to try to post something everyday.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Shannon's line prompts

1) They though they had seen her walking numerous times, but no, it wasn't possible....was it?
2) Lenny was desperate to dispose of the memories, but getting rid of them was like putting a bag of banana peels at a tag sale and saying "FREE", hoping someone will take them.
3) "I had hardly recognized her, her hair was different, her eyes were different. She was different. It was as if it wasn't even her..."
4) Imagine a place. A terrifying, awful place that you wouldn't be able to force your self to step foot in. This is where you are forcibly living now. You need to find a way out, but there are no doors and there are no windows accessible to you.
5) Cari got home to her small appartment in the downtown part of Manhattan, exhausted from a long day of running to and from rehearsals. This isn't why she fell on the floor when she got home, though.
6) Lissy saw the button on the answering machine, not unusual, but the message is what scared her. The next day her appartment was missing three things; Lissy, Lissy's wallet, the gun she hid under her bed.
hi, these may not be that good, or just one line, but if they spark your interest, you can use them. notice how number one is almost a de ja vu.


Friday, September 9, 2011

Ava's Fight Scene

This is from the middle of Irontongue and Ashwin. Sorry if parts of it don't make sense because you don't know the back story. The boy who dives into the bushes is Ashwin, the main character. This part is written from Madam Sudarshini's (a really rich snobby person) point of view. Cordell is her carriage driver. ☺

An arm flashed out from behind its tree, and pointed. The signal. Seven men emerged, and ran, yelling, towards the carriage. By the time Sudarshini and Cordell turned, it was too late. The boy dove into the bushes.

A single thought flashed through Madame Sudarshini’s mind before she was thrown to the ground.


There was a horrible crashing noise, and smoke filled the air. Madame Sudarshini struggled for breath, lying curled in the dust.

Out of the corners of her eyes she could see the chaos. Cordell was defeated in an instant. Hardly fair, she thought dazedly. Seven men to one…

As she watched them run past her towards the carriage, she realized something.

They think I’m dead.

And this gave her an idea.

She lay perfectly still, her eyes shut, until the pounding of boots slowed. They seemed to begathered around her. Don’t breathe. Don’t breathe,she reminded herself. And…don’t panic. Madame Sudarshini nearly had a heart attack when she heard Odol’s voice next to her.

“What do you reckon we should do with her?”

“Hide her. Drag her into the woods so nobody finds her.”

Somebody else spoke up. “No. Leave her here, as a warning. She’s plenty recognizable even without the carriage and horses.”

Yes! she thought, keeping as still as possible. Luckily, she was lying on her stomach so her face wasn’t visible.

“Fine then. Get rid of the carriage…we’ll take the horses. I’ve already collected the money. Come on, let’s move!”

The carriage. They’re going to roll the carriage off into the woods. She breathed in sharply. Mr. Sulaiman!!!

Her fears were confirmed when she heard a yell.


Odol reached the carriage in a second. “What is it, man?!” he demanded, drawing his knife. The gun was strapped to his back, but blades were quicker and only slightly messier.

Elbowing the man out of his way, he, he slammed the hilt of the knife into the window. The thin glass shattered in seconds and he bent to peer inside.

His face set grimly as he realized what was there.

Cowering beside the black leather seat is a middle-aged man with graying hair, his glasses rimmed with gold metal and an already growing bruise on his forehead. “P-please--”

Odol bashed in the door with his shoulder, clutching his long knife in his right hand.

“No—I beg y--”

“Coward,” he spat, leaning forward. The pathetic man’s glasses had fallen and cracked, he held up a hand to shield his face.

It was too late.

Odol gave a sharp thrust of his knife.

Madame Sudarshini winced, biting her lip. Too risky to cover her ears. She lay completely still as, inside the carriage, Mr. Sulaiman struggled to breathe his last.

One of Odol’s men raced around to the other side of the carriage and wrenched the door open, letting the dying man fall to the dust. He glanced down at the Scholar-man’s chest. Blood was spreading rapidly, he was breathing in gasps. The highwayman’s face stayed indifferent and he turned to the carriage, kicking the body out of the way.

It took all of Sunaya’s self-control to stay there as someone lay dying fifteen feet away. She pressed her face to the dirt and clenched her teeth, listening to the men push the carriage off the road.It was a trap. A clever trap. The woman felt tears welling in her eyes. That dirty boy was a distraction so they could ambush us. And the result is there are two men dead, my carriage is gone, and my money is stolen. She managed to lift her head very, very slightly, and watched the highwaymen run into the trees on the opposite side of the road, far off in the distance behind her. Odol had two sacks strapped to his back, as well as his weapon. The boy was not with them.

Stay down, stay down, she told herself. Just a little bit longer—they could still see you if you stood up now…

The bandits disappeared into the forest.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Ava's poem




The fission between happiness and sadness, hot and cold, shadow and substance.

Masomenos, child of two opposites that never should have met.

I am the lowly and the great: living in the castle and on the streets.

When the earth and sky, sun and moon, lightning and thunder met, I was created.

I am tangible and elusive.

The seen and unseen.

Known and unknown.

I am Masomenos, who never should have existed but was needed here all along.

I am not living or dead.

Not invisible but not seen…

Masomenos, the offspring of lies and truth.

I definitely exist. Yet I do not.

I am the impossibility of the world, everything that ever existed pureed in a blender until it was nothing.

Then it was me.

I am the shattered fragments of a golden mirror that wasn’t meant to be, red rain falling to a cracked glass that is lying on the pavement until all disappears, and then it’s there again.

Like some celestial merry-go-round, in the sky, that keeps things going: a piece of chalk writing words on the sidewalk by itself—

What it writes makes no sense.

But I do.

I am Masomenos, spinning out of control, on a tiny speck in the universe.

Five while crocodiles biting each other’s tails until they disappear, and then they’re there again.

An infinite pink ribbon, wide as a fingernail but long as time wraps and re-wraps itself about the earth.

Only I can untangle it.

Mortal, but here until the end of time.