Choose one of the photos in the slideshow and write a story or poem about it.

The Yellow Tunnel

Once upon a time, long long ago there was a beautiful girl. Everyone wanted to meet her, but she died when she was only 11 years old. the only thing she left without telling anyone was her time under the Yellow tunnel. Or so she thought. While her best friend, Grace, was looking through some of her old stuff Grace found a little purple note book. The only thing on the cover was her name. It said "June".  As Grace was fliping through the book there was one page that she thought was very interesting. All it said was "Under the Yellow brick Road"

The House

Hi my name is Saddie, I am camping right now and I want to explore around the campsite a little before it gets dark! there is an old abadond house I really want to explore but my mom said I can't go alone, so my dad is coming with me! okay we are there, I am going in right now I am kind of scared! I go into a room  


as an arow pirses a tree a loud baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa comes frome the army of sheeps behined the bushes as the dark elevs atack now the dark elfs are not the standard tall wood elfs they were pixi like cretures with pointy ears coal black skin 8 gleaming red eyes and they were 6 inches tall with wings  

The Sheep Revolution!

     The time had come. It was the time to end all misery and to be freed from those horrible humans. Those mean ones that took advantage of us and took our  fuzzy fur to make things they didn't even need. It was time for this to end. it was time for a new life. The life where Sheep would have more freedom than ever. But that wasn't happening soon at all. Or so I thought.

"Lets go!" wispered mama in the middle of the night. "now!"

"where?" I asked.

" I'll tell you when we get there." she answered. That's what I loved about mama. she wasn't like those other adults that never answered others questions

sheep going to war

the sheeps are going to war with the bears for eting ther kind thay are evil bears that kill everething in ther path. and have large fanings that can bite thouro enything evin metil so the sheep put up barbd wirer. 

Fred in a dark room

Dark in a room,

Down in the shed

Lived a little fool, 

His name was Fred.

It was bright outside but he din't care

All he cared: was not to share.

He din't share a friend

He din't even lend, 

He din't even have any mail to send.

In a dark dark room,

Down down in the shed

lived a little man,

The gingerbread Fred.




Prison Walls

           I fought the urge to peel the paint off the wall and place the thin lacquered layer on my tongue since stepping into the abandoned prison. An urge so strong it was screaming non-stop in my ear and my head was splitting. If the afternoon activity went on for longer than a few more moments, I would lose this battle.

           The prison was listed on the itinerary as must-see historical location of southern Vermont, a place ripe with inquiry into the punitive practices of the turn of the century, now a few windstorms away from demolition. Five of us stood in the doorway after convening in the parking lot. I had been laughing about something as our guide unbolted and then pried open the heavy metal door. Laughing like we were about to enter an Olive Garden to sip wine on a Saturday afternoon and not entering a place where torture was commonplace, where mental illness a crime, where abuse daily protocol. But as soon as the door did open the joking stopped. Like lead. Heavy all around. Replaced by peeling paint. On door jambs and window casings. Along the cracks in the walls. Left in piles swept up by decades of shuffling visitors and errant airs.

         My trembling hand wavers over the broken bits sharp and edgy breaking right before my eyes. The tour guide is listing the most prominent inmates of the last century. The woman who butchered her fiance, the man who buried his neighbor, the teacher who went mad; each a compelling story of isolation and trouble, but all I wanted was to let one small sliver of decayed wall and lost life desolve on my tongue. To taste their horror. To acknowledge their silent end.