Congratulations to our featured writer
Congratulations to Amy McClure of Bridgewater, our featured community prompt writer.
The writing prompt is a weekly writing challenge cosponsored by DailyUV and Joni Cole, author, founder of The Writer's Center in White River Junction, and believer in bringing out the inner writer in all of us.
What's a prompt? A trigger to get you writing.
Next week’s prompt is: "It’s about time."
What’s the key to being featured? Well, DailyUV is a website for all things Upper Valley -- so what we like best of all are entries not just from local writers, but grounded in where we live.
You can participate by sending your piece (300 words or less) to firstname.lastname@example.org by next Wednesday at midnight.
Last week’s prompt was, “What’s so funny?” Here’s our featured entry from last week.
By Amy McClure of Bridgewater, VT
Cardio for Chickens
It is so funny that way chickens run.
Pushing their round bodies forward.
It looks uncomfortable.
Two or three together,
Trotting along in a green yard.
Cardio for chickens.
Why so funny?
They need to get their summer bods too.
Congrats to all of our participants!
By Marjorie Morehead of Lebanon, NH
Why are you laughing?
Do I hear a giggle?
I want to laugh too; laugh with you.
We’ll wash our insides with bubbling laughter
Let rumbling laughter sweep through
Clear out the doldrums top to bottom
Shake up the dust!
Let’s laugh till our sides ache
Till we gasp for air
Laugh oxygen laden blood to our cheeks!
Show me what’s so funny; I’ll go on your journey.
Take my hands; I may laugh till I cry.
Show me what’s so funny;
We’ll shed tears of joy.
By C.W. of Enfield, NH
I would like to think that everything is funny. Isn’t it just one big joke what we put ourselves through. What we strive for, what we value, and how we interact with each other. Actually, it can all change in a heartbeat or lack of a heartbeat.
I prefer to witness drama, to be one step away as a careful observer. It takes vigilance to stay on the safe side. It is so easy to react to your button pushing. Well, the joke is on you. I will ignore you; just to see your neck tense up and the redness spread throughout your face, with the heat creating water in your eyes. I will be kind and not laugh in your face. I can do that at least. Is smiling too smug? Or maybe just a blank stare from me to indicate that I have checked out – vacant. Just what are you going to do? Have a tantrum? That would be hilarious. Tough act to follow, those tantrums. I am sorry, I am mocking you. Okay, stop your barking; I won’t look you in the eyes. You can be the alpha dog if that is what you want. It may be a good time for me to turn and walk away.
And here we are; having to work together. You want to be an authority, but you do not want to communicate, only blame. Blaming is much easier. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. I render you useless. And where is the compassion it that? Sorry again, that is your lesson to learn and I am happy to assist you in your progress. I like being smug. I will definitely have to look up smug in the dictionary. I would have to say, probably not so much for the meaning of the word, more for the expression on my face.
By J.T. of East Montpelier, VT
I stop dead in front of the door to the corner market, paralyzed it seems.
In the building where I work, where there are many doors, entryways, elevators, narrow places where only one person can go through at a time, the men almost always motion for the women to go first; they open doors and stand aside. It’s like the building embodies this kind of chivalry, no one can escape it; well, except for the young men, the interns, the newly graduated, you can see it doesn’t cross their minds. At first, I found it tiresome: “Oh God, really? I have to go first again?” I’ve gotten used to it; though, I’ve wondered where it ever got started in our culture. I imagine it comes from the days when women were considered too frail to do such things, or perhaps it was so their hands wouldn’t get dirty, or maybe men liked to watch the sway of their bodies as they walked through. I prefer to think it developed during an earlier time, when it wasn’t safe to go first — maybe there was a sabre-tooth tiger outside the cave, so “here honey, you go ahead.”
Anyway, standing there, staring at the market’s heavy glass door, wondering what to do because the door isn’t opening, I start laughing. You, behind me, impatiently waiting, ask, “What are you doing? What’s so funny?”
“I’m waiting for you to open the door for me.”