A special thank you to Andy Schoenborn for his compassion and support during this month’s writing challenge. We so appreciate the time Andy took to develop these meaningful writing opportunities and to nurture our community. As we look toward November, please continue to invite colleagues and writers to join us by sharing this form. Also, many of the writers will be at NCTE in Baltimore, please reach out to say “hello” and try to attend this special session Saturday night, “Hear Us, Trust Us: Student-Directed Inquiry that Spirited a Year of Community and Curiosity” (4:15, Ballroom II). Eighth-graders will be leading roundtables about ten great teaching methods.
Inspiration
Some of the best writing comes from the simplest words. Too often writers rely on multisyllabic words that can have the opposite effect of the writer’s desired intent. When that happens to me as a writer resetting my approach is useful. This writing challenge asks you to write a 100-word story using only one-syllable words. The poetic twist is to then revise your piece by adding intentional enjambments and spacing that cause the reader’s eye to pause and consider the story from a new angle. It’s a fun challenge. Are you game?
Process
- Write a story of 100 words using only one-syllable words using narrative prose.
- When finished read your piece aloud and listen for the moments that make you pause.
- Honor those moments and revise your piece by adding intentional enjambments and spacing.
- Example:
- “Still.” She said, “Be still, and breathe.” Though I did not know her, my lungs drew breath. Mint and a faint waft of salt – strange, yet good. My mind was still. Blood beat in my ears – a drum. A fist, tight and wide, clutched my chest. “Breathe.” The word hushed through the dark like a faint hand. “Breathe. Damn it!” A pin prick of light hung like the glow of a lamp. Cold air rushed me and the glow of the light swelled. Light burst and I saw the green eyes of the one who brought me back to life.
Sample poem: “Be Still, and Breathe” – Andy Schoenborn
“Still,” she said, “be still, and breathe.” Though I did not know her, my lungs drew breath. Mint and a faint waft of salt - strange, yet good. My mind was still. Blood beat in my ears - a drum. A fist, tight and wide, clutched my chest. “Breathe.” The word hushed through the dark like a faint hand. “Breathe. Damn it!” A pin prick of light hung like the glow of a lamp. Cold air rushed me and the glow of the light swelled. Light burst and I saw the green eyes of the one who brought me back to life.
Your Turn
Scroll down to the comment section and write your poem. It need not be long nor follow the prompt but give it a try if you wish. Just write whatever is in your heart or on your mind in any form it takes. Then (or before), respond to at least three other writers using any of the sentence-stems offered below. Check back throughout the day to read the response to your writing (and smile).
You are done. You are good. This is what I was told. But I did not believe it. I hurt them. I fail them all day. One day, it will be good. But now, no. The kids are so kind. But hyped. All the time. I am not sure where to go next. I just want to be good for them.
Six Ways to be Cruel
One:
Walk past the sad girl,
fart
then blame
her for the smell.
Two:
Don’t laugh when
she tries to make a joke.
Just stare
say That was dumb.
Three:
Save a seat, then say
Oh! This seat? It’s for a friend,
not you.
Four:
Plan a road trip
to the lake to meet up with boys.
Leave her out.
Talk it up
where she can hear.
Five:
Spread lies, more lies, like thick slabs of tar.
Six:
Act like you care.
Ask her to tell you her fears, her crush.
Then tell your friends
and laugh
your cruel laugh.
Allison— lies, like thick slabs of tar—this was painful to read and powerfully accurate. Beautiful.
I agree. Painful and true. I feel like you have totally channeled a middle schooler in this poem. Breaks my heart.
Allison, your poem brought back the memories of middle school mean girls. The “talk it up”
scene is vivid for me. I can see Felicia (a mean girl who tortured me). I would love to know what inspired it. Sometimes I feel a pain and my poem is the medicine. Then I wonder am I crazy. Thank you for sharing.
Inspiration: The day I wrote the poem, my daughter was home for fall break (she is now a teacher herself– math! a traitor!) and told me about a time in middle school when she walked by a girl and farted, then proceeded to blame it on the girl. We talked about the cruelties we see in our students, and cruelties we ourselves enacted at that age. Pushing all this into one-syllable words was a bit of a trick, but coming up with examples from my own experiences (giving and taking), unfortunately, wasn’t.
Allison — Here I am again, a day late in responding. I was sound asleep early last night. But this morning, I’m here again to hug you for another terrific and slam-dunking poem. This elicits such sharp cruelties that I’ve watched teenagers lay on peers… and why!?!? Doggone, these cruelties might seem little, but you deliver each one with such a controlled slap that I am mumbling “Ouch!” “Ouch!” “Ouch!” These are acts that even parents don’t see as clearly as do teachers, it seems to me. As you capture it with a focus on the cruelty and its universality more than on the wounded victim of the slight. I really think that took crafting your voice carefully– well done! My absolutely favorite image is “…lies, like thick slabs of tar.” OOoo, baby, that really brings it home… lies are so so so nasty. And tar, for me, evokes a gagging smell as well. The thing that I wonder about — and it really has nothing to do with the poem, but it is a reminder of some particularly rough students I had over the years — did you have male students who delivered these cruelties? I mostly came across mean girls… not many, but some … did boys do this and I was oblivious somehow? What is it that makes a kid be cruel like this? I know all that self-doubt and peer angst and hormones were very real, but just plain ol’ nastiness really always floored me. I used to wear a pin that said, “Tell the truth, eat good food, be kind” — pretty much wore it every day for thirty years in the classroom. LOL! It always felt like a shield. Ha! I love how your poems evoke jabber in me. Thanks! Susie
Susie, you ARE the best reader. You see things in my poems that I am not aware of until you point them out. Thank you. For example, you mentioned my controlled tone, and when I read that I thought: yes, I did struggle/wonder/notice as I wrote that I was manipulating voice to turn cruelty into “advice,” which meant seeing the act from the viewpoint of the deliverer (yet still subtly from the receiver too). Thank you for the SLAP comment. I didn’t know it until I read it, when I thought: yes! that’s what I was going for!
I thought mostly of girls, I admit, but writing the poem (and forcing into monosyllables) gave me time to mull lots of cruelty….no short supply.
Again, thank you for your generous reading of my efforts.
The C Word
a mass
stage four
in her right breast
the rare form
“What can we do?”
the dim doc said,
“Be there and take the time to help her through
she will get weak
and won’t want to eat or drink
she cried, “I won’t quit.
I’m strong.
I can beat this.
Don’t leave me here
in this cold room
take me home
where I can rest.”
Her kids and friends and us kin
watched her wilt
it took one year
to kill the bad cells
it took two more years
to kill all of her
rest on wings pain free
StaceY, you have a gift for capturing the moment and the emotions.
This is stirring! Your conclusion is peaceful and reassuring.
Stacey, your poem is rich and clear.
“it took one year…it took two more…” is a wonderful stanza. Even when limited to single syllables, you find the best words: wilt, rest, wings, kin, dim.
Thank you for turning this aching experience into a lovely poem.
Stacey—the last two stanzas. Whoosh—they took my breath away.
Stacy, the dim doc, the cold room, the wilting- you’ve captured everything simply and clearly. Your poem is so sad, but the ending is lovely.
Stacey — Oh man, this is so tight with image and the last lines are like TNT. “…took one year/to kill the bad cells/it took two more years/to kill all of her” just hits so hard. Some of the wicked words that evoke such a stab are placed so well in this poem: “stage four” sits alone on the line like the stark sentence that it is; “she will get weak” also sits there in a lonely line that delivers the cruel reality of that; “cold room” – always a stinking cold room; “watched her wilt” — that sense of losing strength in a bowing down… just plain hurts. Whew, I am so sorry that you’ve lost a loved one this way. The reality of it scares me, as it may all of us who have ones close who face this. Again, your voice is powerful and the sense of C being a word that is next to impossible to utter is so hard. Thank you for sharing such difficult, personal loss. Susie
We took a flight to Rome and France, ate new foods.
France was a place of love – a Seine boat ride, an art tour, a walk with a guide, a show.
“Home is the best place,” he said. “It’s safe there.”
“But I like to breathe fresh air and forge new paths, to storm the streets with a map and a mind spin. Your warm bed will wait.”
“Each hour is a trip if you seize the day and see it through a new lens,” he said. “We don’t need to jet the globe to find a world of fun.”
Ah! The push and pull of the serenity of home and the excitement of exploration. For me, that always happens from within. When I’m on vacation, I want to work only to travel. But then I’m a homebody at heart. I absolutely adore the line “storm the streets with a map and a mind spin.” The use of storm adds layer to the piece.
I love to travel, but when it’s time to go home, I can’t wait to get there. You get it. I love your vivid verbs!
I love the line “with a map and a mind spin.” It made me feel like I was navigating my way through a foreign street.
oooooh, you’ve read my mind! For the first Poetry Friday of November I’ve challenged my writing partners to write a poem based on a favorite mentor text for National Author’s Day. I found a text, read it … and am writing my prose piece to then shape into my poem. Very similar to your prompt!
YOUR poem is very intense! The repetition of the word, “breathe” and the realization that the speaker is near death makes me read faster and faster to the end to make sure they make it.
Some days it’s evident that I work in a middle school. Today is one of those days.
What can I say? I’m the man.
Who else could do this?
Your mom? Your dad? Your bro?
Nah.
Just me.
I got the right stuff.
You see I’m the real deal.
I got the skills.
I got the tools.
And I’m here, now.
You don’t have to call,
Just ask me.
Don’t be shy.
I’m your main man, babe.
I’ll give it a go so we all can go.
What do you think?
Give me a chance?
Call a friend if you want.
But I don’t think you will get help.
I mean, for real?
Who else wants to fix this old john?
This reads so naturally that I forgot it was a one syllable word piece. It has a great rhythm, voice, and attitude, almost like a rap. I really like the vibe you’ve created. As a middle school teacher, I can relate!
Mo,
I read this a couple times and smile more broadly each time. You are so clever, my dear! “I’ll give it a go so we all can go.” Perfect.
Sarah
I just read this poem to my husband. He thought it was about something else- right up till the last line! LOL
Ha, Mo, you plumbed the lines here! LOL! I just love the voice in this piece. Attitude! Love it. And saving the punch for the last word…priceless! Did you plan all those perfect words? “Main” “go” “don’t be shy”… on subsequent readings, I just chuckle all the more. You’re a rock star! Thanks, Susie
Very clever, in true Mo style. I love the uses of the words give it a go and we can go. You go, Mo!
This reminds me of the “super” on some ’70s sit-com named Duane. So cocky and sure. Love it!
One Day at a Time! That’s hysterical! Thank you.
How to Lose a Boy
June. Hot. Three kids, an eight and two fives.
No air. Fights and spats win the day.
The red-haired boy does me in…
GO TO YOUR ROOM!
Peace at last.
Sit down, cool down.
Breathe deep.
Time goes by; an hour or so.
An hour! Where is he?
Check his room. No one there.
The bed? Clear.
Check the house. Not here.
Shout his name. No sound.
A wave of fear.
I’m not a bad mom.
Just a tired one.
Search once more.
Call his name loud.
Tears loom near.
Dread sets in. Guilt grows.
Call the cops? What would I say?
Hey-I lost my son?
If they ask what he’s dressed in,
I don’t know—red shirt? Blue shorts?
Two hours gone—what kind of mom am I?
What will I tell them?
Grief. Shame. Love.
Look in the room one more time.
A closed door! Look in…
Lump on floor,
Not just clothes—the red-haired boy naps ‘neath.
Red-faced and hot, but fine.
Found at last. At last.
Hug him, hug him, hug him.
(I loved this challenge! Thank you!)
Gayle, your poem has all the emotions! I love that you did that so honestly and beautifully in just a few small words. I hope it’s not to weird to say that we’ve probably all been there if we have more than one child!
Something like this happened to us with our brand new puppy years ago. We were all in the yard with her, then she was gone. She was small enough to scoot under the fence. We panicked but eventually found her fast asleep under the hosts leaves.
Gayle, this was so much fun to read because I can picture myself as the child hiding as well as the mom searching for the missing child. I really like the line: naps ‘neath/red-faced and hot but fine
So realistic that he’s fine! Meanwhile you’re practically dying from panic.
As a mom who would absolutely panic in this circumstance, I could completely connect to the emotions you conveyed. The mom who needs a break, who feels the wave of fear, who experiences growing guilt, and finally the hugs of relief and love – these are all me. Thank you for capturing these!
Gayle,
I loved being right beside you wishing I could hug you and affirm you are not a bad mom and wishing I could run room to room looking for the “red-haired boy” “red-faced and hot, but fine.” The monosyllabic words really brought this moment and the urgency alive. I concur that I loved this prompt, Andy.
Sarah
I’m
So thankful for the happy ending! Your one syllable challenge is a gripping story!
Wow, Andy! This is going to be fun! Thank you for all of your inspiration this week!
THUMBS
He was all thumbs —
not dumb,
not slow nor bent by sour woe;
but when it came to voice his thoughts,
out poked his thumbs and he fell numb
to say just what he meant;
but pen in hand,
his thumb could plumb
the lines he meant to speak.
His words, like gold,
they glowed in print,
like gems and pearls on skin;
each turn of phrase stirred
hearts of men
in ways that changed the world.
Judge not too hard!
Thumbs once thought weak or shy of might,
in deed, could be a bard’s.
by Susie Morice
There is so much hope in this! Thank you for bringing to life and reminding us of the worth of every person. I love the play on all thumbs and how you use it to advantage in stanza two – out poked his thumbs. This is masterfully done!
How you’ve managed so many beautiful rhymes and make them seem so effortless is a wonder to me, Susie. Every time I read one of your poems I want to become a better wordsmith. Your gold, gems and pearls stanza is perfect. I love your positive message, too!
Susie,
The “ums” throughout make the mood whimsical for me at first, and then “the lines he meant to speak” alerted me to a tension. I love that his words “glowed in print” and his words “stirred hearts of men in ways that changed the world.” Such artful storytelling here, Susie, that brought me to a contemplative space knowing that all our words here have moved hearts and minds in immeasurable ways these past few days.!
Sarah
His thumb could plumb the lines he meant to speak – I love this, and the meter is so satisfying. The message is powerful as well! Those who may not have an audible voice can change the world with a pen!
Andy, thank you for breathing life into our writing (and classrooms) this week! And thank you for sharing your writing with us as well. I greatly appreciated that you began this last piece with “Be still, and breathe.” It gave me a moment to be calm heading into the day. I loved the line, “The word rushed through the dark like a faint hand.” This poem is an awakening, even as the light grows larger and the full idea is realized.
Count to 100
The lie sat in his eyes.
I could hear it shout for life,
See me! Hear me!
as the wrong words spilled from his mouth.
The child in him spoke up, out
I would not.
I did not.
Why would you think…?
He swore by his truth.
He must have thought
I would not find out
or why bring this lie to life?
This was not the first time
I had heard his false words.
Each time, the hope that had built back up
dried,
cracked,
sagged,
weighed me down.
He made his lie then went to bed in it.
Oh, Jennifer — I know the “he” in this piece! Dang…I wish I did not. This is so slamming real to me. Dang! The last lines, in particular ….”dried, cracked, sagged, weighed me down… [and then the doggone kicker…] He made his lie then went to bed in it.” Aw geez. Okay, Jennifer, you nailed this…and I’m bleeding at this end. And can’t help but think you are raw at the other end as well. I am so sorry this is so real. That you named this Count to 100 is also something I had pushed away and tried to forget….as the lies spewed forth, I actually remember internally saying, “Count to ten, count to ten, count to ten,” or I thought I would literally “crack,” “dry,” and slump to the concrete that was under me at that moment. Whew. Oh man. How on earth can 100 words pack so much? You blew me away. Susie
Wow Jennifer. Your words do not mess around. It’s amazing what you’ve done with one syllable words!
Powerful. “The wrong words spilled from his mouth.” I can feel the disappointment in that tight phrase…
Jennifer, I have to ask a question: is this poem about my ex-husband? LOL I HOPE NOT! This is an incredible explanation of who he was and it’s so sad. On the other hand, you created a heavy piece of work with the lightest words in a most eloquent way.
Oh wow. I love how even in this sad, weighted poem you weave in word play (LOVED the last line).
Your opening line got me going with the assonance: lie, eyes. Then I kept hearing it, repeating like the lies themselves: I, life, lie, life, time, dried.
My poem isn’t so much a story as it is a philosophy of how I want to live my renaming days. I suppose the travel I’ve done this year has much to do w/ the ideas in my poem today.
“Simple Life”
Take the long way home.
Stop in a new place.
See a fresh sight.
Eat local food.
Drink old wine
From a gourd.
Choose a new life.
Face death and live.
Hear a strange tongue.
Find a new place.
Cast away and sail
Blue seas as the sun sets.
Run up a hill.
Hike down a gale.
Ride lands away.
See life through the glass of
A train as fields of
Gold and green pass by.
Sing a tune to
Flute and harp.
Feel the cool rain.
Find things that
Steal your breath.
Burst forth from
Your nest. Fly free.
It’s so beautiful that even one syllable words flow lyrically – hike down a gale, see life through the glass, sing a tune to flute and harp. You capture the essence of life so simply yet elevate the experience in your word choices. I love that ending – burst forth from your nest, fly free!
Glenda, my favorite lines are the opening ones
Take the long way home.
Stop in a new place.
See a fresh sight.
They remind us all to live life to the fullest, without rushing through experiences. I imagine it’s our time of life as retired educators who spent sooooooo much time on classroom things, where we primarily got away by reading. So glad you’re having this opportunity and are sharing it in your poetry.
Glenda — This poem is a lift… I needed that just now. I love the sense of resolved in the voice here. You go girl! Gotta love that CAN-D) that I’m hearing! Thanks, Susie
Glenda, this is great- the poem and the philosophy. It’s what I try do do, too. I want to share this with my students who after ask questions like, “Why would you want to go there?” or “Why would you want to do that?”
Choose a new life.
Face death and live.
Hear a strange tongue.
Find a new place.
My favorite line. Thanks for the uplift!
I’m
So right there with you, Glenda! This is a beautiful philosophy for all of our days! I love the old wine and the new life. You are blessed to be able to travel and enjoy the sights. Thank you for reminding us to live!
Andy, thanks for the inspiration. I love the simplicity of single syllable words and the way we can say complicated things w/ these words. Your poem has wonderful tension. It makes s me think about life’s complications and Tge trust we place in strangers.
Also, thanks for hosting this week. It has been a busy one for me, so I have lots of catching up to do after I get home.
Andy – I love the visceral moments of this poem (the cold air, the mint and faint waft of salt).
It is such a tense poem, my own chest felt tight!
Thanks for the great writing ideas this week!
He’s got the hose!
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Let me out of this house right now!
I need to be out there!
I need to bite and splash and chase!
What is it with that dog?
He is so weird!
Did he need a drink so bad that it scarred him for life?
Why are you like this? Let me out! Now!
I WILL SCREAM AND YELL TILL YOUR EARS BLEED!
Stop it! I hate the smell of wet dog!
I will not let you out to play with the hose!
Your coat will mat!
I curse you and your kind!
Shaun,
I felt like I was listening to a fun children’s book, and I could see the accompanying illustrations. You made me smile and giggle with your last line “I curse you and your kind.”
Sarah
Shaun, this is a fun poem. I remember playing w/ my dog w/ the hose. My boys did, too. Wonderful dialogue here, too.
The shortened words work perfectly for the dog’s voice – simple, concise, too focused on a goal to elaborate. The pull between owner and dog works so well. Our dogs always loved the hose and there’s nothing like the smell of wet dog!
I can almost see the dog bounding around the house!
I WILL SCREAM AND YELL TILL YOUR EARS BLEED. so, you’ve met my dogs?
Andy, your prompt from Day 4 is lingering. So, I’ve combined the two with the poem for Day 5. It’s keeping a memory alive.
YES, HON, I KNOW
I know you love her, Hon.
You must show her how.
We can’t just sit and watch.
We must show her now.
Let’s do what brings her joy.
She won’t be here long.
Let’s sing her a song.
When she takes her last breath,
We don’t want to mourn her death.
True, we may be sad .
But it need not be bad.
We know she loves us
And that makes me glad.
And, she loves tea.
She likes it hot and sweet.
Let’s use that big cup.
It’ll keep our love neat.
Then, we won’t be sad
When she goes up.
Anna,
Just the word HON resonates with me. What my mom would call my dad. What my husband’s mom would call her spouse. I just love the endearment. And I love how you blended the two days of topics, remembering what you wrote to me about my poem with holding on and “keeping.” You are so gentle in the third stanza with your re-assurement, and the rhyme adds a tenderness to the moment.
Sarah
The urgency to show love is conveyed even more strongly with the one syllable words. We can feel the time rushing as we move through the piece rapidly. I love that you work so hard to share joy with her before she goes away and that you remember the details, how she loves her tea, hot and sweet. Having just lost my grandmother, this really resonated. Thank you for showing your love.
“Son, come now.
Let me show you.”
I stop my game,
no gripes, and rise
to sit beside
her.
“Flour, eggs, salt,
hands, knead, knead
like so. Now you.”
She moves my hands
’til she can’t and
mine take over.
“That’s it, son.
Now for the fruit.
Bring me a knife.”
I wipe her hands with
a cloth,
shine her ring with
my thumb,
slice a peach with
the knife, and
wait for the
next step.
“Son, come now.
Let me show you.
Wheel me to the stove.”
And I stand beside
her.
And my hands become
hers.
And sugar
and butter
and vanilla
and cinnamon
and Sprite
simmer
our story.
I love the details of each action “wipe her hands, shine her ring, slice a peach”
The economy of details still creates a vivid image.
Sarah, This is such an intimate poem. The dialogue adds to the intimacy. I notice “hands” are a recurring image in your poetry. I suspect that is at least in part a reflection on your life as a tender, caring person aware of how you move through the world.
I read somewhere that we remember a person’s hands far longer than we remember other parts/sounds of the person. That may be a result of the work we do and in the watching of the work that other’s do. Your line “and my hands become hers” shows the transference of that work. I love the list of ingredients as they simmer the story. What a beautiful detail to leave for readers.
Sarah, your lines
And I stand beside
her.
And my hands become
hers.
are so descriptive and terse. Whether we want to acknowledge it or not, we become our parents! And, for most of us, that okay!
The closing lines, with the alliteration of “s” are powerfully poetic, because we can hear the sounds and imagine both the “hissing” when parents are upset with us and the shushing when they want to comfort us. Thanks so much for giving us something to think about with pleasure.
Sarah — I read this earlier this morning and thought about it through the day. I so so so love the blending of your hands…the two of you becoming each other…she knowing you that much more and you filling her hands with that youthful, learning heat. So sweet! Your details are explicit and crisp… I love that… the thumbing of the ring to clean it off. That sparked (although totally unrelated as it morphed on my page) my 100 words for today. Ya just never know where a poem moment is going to go! But I have a question about “Son” … I keep visualizing you and the elder in a wheelchair… these two connecting family elder and child in union around a task I truly love. And a central word that moves me is “simmer”…. oooo, that’s really a rich word. I have to borrow that. You’ve simmered the images into an amalgam that really just oozes with those ingredients (butter especially). Love this! Again, this has been a heck of a week…loved all of Andy’s prompts…not to say they were easy for me, but I loved the challenge of it all. Thank you! Susie
This is a story that I imagined between my husband and his mother who was struck by ALS when he was in his 20s. She was always in charge of the kitchen but as she lost the use of her legs, she was still cooking until she slowly lost the use of her hands and needed his help. He also wanted to learn how to make peach dumplings.
And my hands become hers. I just walked into your kitchen. I can smell the love.
Oh my goodness! This part right here:
And I stand beside
her.
And my hands become
hers.
I love poems that relate to food and cooking and family. I pictured my grandmother when I was a little girl showing me how to cook and it makes my heart so happy. Lastly, you must share the recipe and let me have a piece! Love it Sarah!
Andy, what FUN October writing prompts you have given us this week! I look forward to today’s challenge – – I can’t wait to read the stories later this afternoon. Your story had me going in the direction of Frankenstein today, and then with new eyes I realized it could have been a surgical patient or a heart attack victim. Thank you so much for your investment in our writing process this week.
Ditto, Kim, to Andy.
Commendations to all who participate by writing and by commenting. I hope those who are reading recognize how powerful these exercises can be for your students. The work need be nothing more than stretches, that develop into limber writers, willing to try new things just because they draw on language and draw out experiences.
Daily writing does not have to be graded!