Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Prairie Marsh Story Beginning

This is a story I've been working on. Here's the beginning:

The dawn sun rose expelling bright rays of light across the endless ocean of corn stalks that blew noiselessly in the summer wind. It was a hot day in Prairie Marsh Wisconsin, whose population was 8,603 people, (Recorded at the last census) It was only four o’clock in the morning but many people were up setting up the county farmer’s market. The farmer’s market was something of legend; it had been reviewed in the New York Time Travel section by Michelle Higgins in the Practical Travel column. The article as written follows;

Continuing in my journeys in Wisconsin I ventured into, Prairie Marsh, Wisconsin which is a charming little town in Barron County. It is located four hours from Green Bay and Madison and five hours from Milwaukee. The most famous thing in Prairie Marsh is the farmers market which is widely considered as one of the best farmer’s markets in the Midwest. Every Saturday a sign is lifted between two telephone poles that proudly reclaim “Prairie Marsh Farmer’s Market, The only Emu Egg Omelets in the Midwest.” Along with the emu eggs there is also, eggplant salsa, vegetable juice smoothies, moose medallions and honey combs dipped in chocolate and even a large selection of freshwater caviar. In my visit I met Jane Sumac, the head organizer of the farmers market. She is a bubbly woman with wild blond curls and piercing blue eyes.

When I asked her what is the goal of the farmers market she didn’t hesitate before answering this, “The main goal in the Prairie Marsh Farmer’s market is to bring fresh fair trade meat and produce to the public at a fairly cheap price.” She continued with a smile, “It’s a pretty unique place,” she tells me goodbye as the first customers start to arrive for the morning market.

If you happen to be in the area, I highly recommend that you visit the market. Saturdays, starting at eight.

By Michelle Higgins, AP

Milo slapped the newspaper down on to the wooden table with many rough patches and knots in the brown solid surface. He had saved the article, not for a scrap book or a keepsake, but as a reminder of his mother. Jane Sumac. On the page in the newspaper where the article is there is a hole in the page, this hole was where the one photograph in the entire article, a picture of his mother, all blond hair and blue eyes. Milo sighed and stared at the hole in the paper imagining his mother bursting through the hole like a whale leaping up from the water.

He waited as if it could actually happen. Nothing. He sighed again, it was a tired sigh, a mournful sigh; that sigh was what summed up Milo’s feelings. Tired and Mournful.

He stood up stiffly, like the tin man, the tin man whose joints needed a oiling, in the form of happiness. Happiness, a thing that Milo’s life was extremely devoid of at the moment. He walked to the side of the road and sat on a log that was still wet from the night’s rain. He sighed again, the only sound in the still silence that let you here the blood flowing in your ears. He picked at the rotting log with his fingernails letting the flakes of wood fall to the dewy ground slowly accumulating in a pile.

A car drove by its tire kicking up geysers of water droplets from the dirt road that was Main St. The car’s front tires hit a puddle, splashing Milo with muddy water. He ducked to no avail, he coughed and spit out water and then wiped dirty water off his face and hands. He walked inside, a gloomy expression on his face.

Monday, January 30, 2012

Haiku Monday

Filled with red rubies.

Sweet, sour, and bitter taste.

The Pomegranate.

Sunday, January 29, 2012

10 Different Ways of Looking at a Walnut

I wrote this poem in writing group. It was inspired by the poem, "13 Different ways of looking at a Blackbird"

In the vast forest,
the only sound
was a falling walnut.

Taken from sky
to earth,
the walnut sits for many seasons.

The mountain adventurer,
knapsack leaning on his back,
steps on a walnut.

If a walnut falls in a forest,
and no one is around to hear it,
does it really make a sound at all?

The Walnut,
eaten by people,
eaten by squirrels.

Who walks in the many
cliffs, crags and fissures
in the shell of a walnut.

There are some with
a rare talent, to
see the pattern in the leaves
of a walnut tree.

Rain falls in a storm,
the pattering
is accompanied by
the creaking of a walnut tree.

The food critic sips
wine aged in a barrel
made of walnut
and nods.

They thought they found
Blackbeard's lost treasure
but when they opened the chest
they found that it was full of walnuts.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Ava's Writing Piece



The man was dressed in decidedly unremarkable clothes.

In fact, they were quite shabby. She could tell that even as he ran. His plain shirt was torn along the edge and his black slippers had multiple holes.

It was an odd contrast, actually: his creased, drab clothing in shades of brown and grey, and the bright object he held in his hands.

It was a large piece of pottery, a vase, bigger than his head. The colors of it so new and fresh the sun glinted blindingly off the glazed surface. Blues, golds, crimsons. All in intricate design. Vibrant.

But look. He was stopping. His feet were planted firmly on the cobblestones, holding the vase high with both hands. She could see him better now, as he stood still, a faded brick wall behind him. Middle-aged, with a roundish face and small stubbly beard. There was no expression in his features. No expression as slowly, slowly, he drew his hands apart and the vase fell.

Fell down to the street in what seemed the slowest manner gravity would allow.

It shattered. A mass of color and fragments of dreams. There was a scream from the street below. The man’s face stayed blank. She banged the window shut.

There were warm tears welling up in her eyes now. She opened the window back up and let herself fall, not caring anymore.



Kir’s dreams were fitful that night.

Her entire life was falling down, and she was falling. And everything around her was falling.

The vase. Dropped by the man in the square.

Raya. Out the window. To that same square, because it was too much to bear anymore.

A white feather. Drifting. Doors slamming and a light flashing:

On, off. On, off.

Morse code. Old metal pipes lying under the snow, waiting to be found again. The spilled salt. Red droplets like blood. Or maybe they were blood. Nothing was certain anymore.

Everything was falling and spinning, spinning and falling.


There was none of it.

A cannon firing blanks.

She wept.

The darkness was crushing her.

Everything. Nothing. No more.



He swept up the pottery shards. The girl’s body lay on the stones, crumpled.

His mustache ticked his lip, like it always did, and he sneezed. Why did he have a moustache anyway? It was idiotic. He would shave it off tomorrow.

Looking up at the darkening sky made him wonder. Why was anything anything?

There were still dark stains throughout the square. He had tried to scrub them off. They stayed. A reminder.


Everywhere was disaster, disaster was everywhere.


There were tears in his eyes. He let the broom fall to the cobblestones.



Tendai stared out the window at the town center. People bustled through the square, noses red from the biting wind.

It was as if they didn’t care, she thought. They were caught up in their own lives, their own business, thinking about inane things like how butter sure was getting expensive or a little itchy thread in their coat.

Did it not matter to them? Did nothing matter? It was just the way they walked past the stains on the cobblestones, the pink marks spreading like pale flowers that killed her inside. The way the people stared straight ahead and walked faster, and pretended—to themselves and to the world—that they weren’t in the middle of a catastrophe.

Tendai told herself maybe it was the right approach. I mean, life must go on. Through war and through hardships.

But she always came back to, how can they not care?

There are bodies lying in the street and people act like they aren’t even there.

She sighed deeply. It was something Tendai did a lot, lately.

How is everything like this so SUDDENLY? How can the empire just unexpectedly work itself into a corner and start making all the wrong choices?

She sighed again.

Well, no one knew the answer to that.

Picking up her quill, Tendai turned her attention towards the piece she was supposed to write for the newspaper. Of course, it didn’t make her feel the least bit more cheerful thinking about what was coming. After her weekly fiction piece it had been arranged that she also write out a list of the dead.

Monday, January 23, 2012

Haiku Monday

This is about a mask I made in 3rd grade.

Constantly staring.

Face, cold-blooded, looks ahead.

Motionless, always.

Strings attached in back.

Strikingly proportionate.

The mask, hanging, still.

Saturday, January 21, 2012

I don't Know

Ever since I was old enough

to think consciously

I have felt

a tugging in my chest

like a string

as playful and free as the dolphins

as deep and mournful as the call of the whales

as defined and pointed as the fin of a shark

as bouncing and powerful as the ocean waves

as calm as a tidal pool, untouched by the tide

I’ve wondered what it could be

Many times in my life.

Then as I enter

the white capped waves

and the feeling

eases away

like the feeling

of pain

oozing away to

form complete


I realize that the feeling

has been,



the call

of the


Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Sunday, January 15, 2012

Please give me a good rating!

So my writing got put on Teen Ink magazine website. If you give me a good rating I could get published in the real magazine. Heres the link, just click on the 5th star and that will really help.


Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Skeletal Trees

A poem made up of haiku. Its about trees and the sky in winter. Enjoy and comment! :)

Frost drapes the dead grass.

The Frail backbones of Birches

The Skeletal Trees.

Rising up over.

The hill… like haunting monsters.

Being forced to bend.

By heavy winter.

The Sky, gray like the ugly.

Duckling, waddles, Cold.

Monday, January 9, 2012

Saturday, January 7, 2012

Random Poem

Rivers run white while our hearts sleep gray. You look outside no children play. They sky is black and the stars fall the like stones. The only sign of life are the piles of bones.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

I'm 13

So tomorrow it's my birthday and I'm going to be thirteen so yeah. I'm going to write something hopefully and post it. Sorry I haven't posted for a few days, I've had an annoying cold.

Monday, January 2, 2012

Haiku Monday

Here's is a haiku that I wrote like a week ago. Enjoy and please comment.

I live to fashion.

In the puzzle that is life.

My own puzzle piece.

Sunday, January 1, 2012

The Brainstormer

Check out this blog if you want yourself in a children's literary and art magazine. The submission guidelines our on the blog.


Happy New Year.
And yes tomorrow is Haiku Monday! I have written a haiku everyday since when I posted the Haiku a day challenge so yay I've gone one week!

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year Everyone!!!