There were fireflies,

on a wet summer night

cloudy, with a glint

of moonlight

peaking in surprise.

The thunder crashed,

the lightening sizzled in a fury that

drenched the dirt,

freshened the plants:

green again,

dripping with raindrops.

A Baptism

The rain falling on the metal roof,

like chimes clinking

in a warm summer breeze.

I opened the window to breathe

the fresh, moist air.

Droplets hit

my window sill

splashing my fingers.

I leaned with my chin

stretched out and my face

turned upward

letting it soak me.

Like at a baptism,

I sighed

as the water streaked my cheeks.

I was revived.


The Superhero

My heart floated in the air and hovered around the ceiling. I tried to jump to get it back in my hands, but it was just out of reach. So since the moon was shining bright and beckoning my heart to leave through the window, I was moved to tears. A superhero arrived. You lulled it back and into your hands where you gently handed it back to me. I promised to share it with you if you would always protect it.

Stream of Consciousness Exercise

There was something

in the sound

of the TV

that was comforting.

It blared in

her ears but

never got through.

Much like her

life it was

but it wasn’t

necessarily being heard.

Heard, heard, heard

the clock ticked

by and by

but seemed stuck.

The pendulum had

broken years ago.

She must get

that fixed she


The Oak Tree

There is something about four tall oak trees. They are standing in a row across a field. Nothing in front or behind except a dirt road. They stand so perfectly side by side that it seems as if someone had planted them there. There is perfect distance between them. There are perfect trunks that expand up into the exquisite branch and leaf formations. Their size makes me wonder when their growth first began. I wish I could read about the person who thought to come to this place and create this miracle for me to view many years later. I sit under them writing some thoughts and it crosses my mind: What if the Earth put them here and man is really not as in charge as we think we are?

Sensory Details

Show, not tell is one of the key cliché’s of writing. It is the best way to keep from giving too much information too fast, and the best way to keep the details concrete, specific and interesting. Sensory writing is something that I do all the time in my classroom of middle school writers. No matter what genre we are focusing on, the idea of elaboration into the five senses and involving the use of show, not tell always come up.

Example 1:
It was hot. The kind of hot that made it hard to move through the air. When I left the house to walk the twenty feet to the car, I could feel the air pushing back against me; maybe it knew something that I did not. By the time I got in the car I could already feel the drench of the summer on my shirt and in the small curling hair on the nape of my neck.

Example 2:
It was dark now around 9pm. I was in bed staring out the window. Even without glasses on I could see the bright lights of the fire flies dancing in the leaves and branches of the apple trees. I pulled my glasses on slightly, just enough to be able to focus in the lights. They were beautiful random bits that were saturated in a summer evening. The moon was drifting in and out of nighttime clouds as if to play a game of peek a boo with me. Off in the distance, was the sound of someone’s backyard fireworks booming in a most pleasant way.

Setting the Mood

When she opened the front door the dim light made her squint for any sign or recognition. She tried to flick the lights on, but nothing happened. It was not really a surprise to her that the power had been turned off eventually. As her eyes slowly adjusted she could make out the layout of the room. The couch was a green sectional. She remembered nights of curling up on the nook of the arm with a book and a blanket. Now there were holes worn through with dirt and unidentifiable stains throughout. It sat against the gray wall covered in crayon marks that scribbled out a message only the young could understand. The brown clock hung on the wall stopped forever at 9:36: the very moment of the event. The worn leather arm chair was dad’s. She slowly caressed the back, directly where his head spent so many evenings resting against. A train table full of toys sat by the window with a map of the world taped above on the wall to the left. A bench by the door held the coats and jackets of two toddler boys. She slowly bowed her head in silent prayer. She looked for any memento she could take with her. Most everything had already been salvaged through by squatters. It had been years since she had been back to her parent’s house and she blamed herself for not doing more. The musty and thick air clung to her as she moved through out the first floor. Feeling the roughness of the walls, she flinched as a splinter hit her finger. She pulled her arm back and paused to wipe the blood droplets and noticed that some blood was on the wall. Now she was a part of the history of this demise.

Quick write prompt: Teachers Write


Questions are from Teachers Write:

Just a bit from my main character of my work in progress!

What do you look like?

I am 17 yrs old. Just old enough to have to be an adult, but not wanting to. I am medium height with red hair and brown eyes. I would say I am slender, others have called me thin. My father makes me keep my hair tied back under a bandana so that it won’t be as apparent to the rest.
• Describe your bedroom. Do you have your own room? Share?
It is pretty typical I guess. I have a bed and a closet with my school uniforms and some other random assortment of clothes. It looks similar to what everyone else wears. Muted colors only and certain items are allowed by age. So I have clothes in my closet that have been approved by the elders for teens.
I am an only child. My parents were allowed to have a baby, their application went through much quicker than others because of my father’s status. But after I was born their application was revoked for any more children.

Sometimes in the Backyard on a Quiet Morning

Sometimes in the backyard on a quiet morning you can hear the rustle of the sea grass in a slight breeze. My toes slipped in flip flops become wet in the dew and stick to freshly cut grass. Sometimes I lay on my back and stare at the blue sky and white clouds trying to remember what it was like to be five years old and able to appreciate all the most important things.
Sometimes in the backyard on a quiet morning I can see the few morning commuters starting their days as the car slips by down the street. There is a careful balance of the morning, a gentle sway.