Thursday, December 29, 2011

Stone Soup Submission Update

So, I just got a letter from Stone Soup.... and I'm in the maybe pile.... Well, that's OK because I still have a chance of getting published, right? And I was heartened by the fact that more than 95 percent of the submissions are rejected immediately. So I guess I'm in the top five percent right?? YAY! So keep those fingers crossed and wish me luck!

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Stone Soup- YUM!

Okay everybody it's time for you to all cross your fingers and toes because I just sent in a copy of my poem "Lunar Musings" in to Stone Soup, a children's writing magazine!! They'll tell me in four weeks if I'm getting published or not, and I'm kind of freaking outtt!!!

Thursday, October 6, 2011


It's a moment I'll never recapture.
I'll never recapture my eyes glancing
upon that clock,
And resting upon those numbers,
Glowing green.
I'll never recapture this feeling of calm,
Lying in my unmade bed,
with only the spiders to keep me company,
and my thoughts.
I'll never again hear the harmony of man and nature,
The soft padding of my fingers against
My phone accompanying the melody
sung by the crickets outside my
Already it's gone, all of it,
Bleeding away, like words in the rain.

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Seasons Change

It's not spring yet.
It's not spring when the flowers bloom.
It's not spring when the grass grows lush and thick over the hills,
And when green sprouts from barren branches.
Its not spring when the dew of early morning casts a thin veil over the world.
It's not spring yet.

It's not spring until the ice of your frozen heart melts.
It's not spring until you can let new love into your life.
It's not spring until you can rise in the early morning, look out at the blooming flowers, the rolling green grass, the dewdrops on the ground,
and want to live.
Because the seasons don't change
Unless you change them.

Monday, May 23, 2011


A crystal droplet,
A shining tear.
Just one in a million
From all these years.

A crystal droplet,
A fragment of pain.
One bit of purity,
In a heart thats been stained.

A crystal droplet,
A final goodbye.
It falls to the ground,
As she closes her eyes.

Saturday, May 7, 2011


Hey y'alls! At school we are having a poem contest on discrimination, and how it's wrong to discriminate. This is the poem I submitted, so cross your fingers and hope for me!


Sitting in the back of the room,

The new kid.
He has his head hung low,
Back hunched,
As if ashamed of his existence.
He should be.

Doesn’t he realize he’s different?
Doesn’t he realize that no one wants him here?
Doesn’t he understand the looks the other kids give him?
Doesn’t he know why he’s never called on?

And so-
I hate him.
I hate his hunched back.
I hate his sorrowful eyes.
I hate his deep brown skin.
Because my friends do.
Because my parents do.
And what I hate most of all
Is that I don’t even know his name.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Lunare Riflessioni

Out of curiosity, I went on google translate and translated Lunar Musings into Italian. Reading it out loud, I just thought it sounded beautiful, so I decided to post it.

Si può dire quando si tratta di una luna piena
senza guardare il cielo.
E 'quando tutte le fotografie della vita,
non per lo spavento, ma in segno di riverenza.
E 'quando le maree salgono
per incontrare il cielo luminescenti,
e il potere della luna da solo
porta cielo e terra insieme.

Si può dire quando si tratta di una luna piena,
perché la neve brilla
con l'incandescenza riflesso della notte.
Grandi distese di polvere,
come specchi schiacciato una dea lunare
lasciò cadere dalla sua mano,
semplicemente per poter godere del gelido immagine di se stessa.

E quando si tratta di una luna piena,
si sono liberati dalle grinfie del sonno,
perché da qualche parte in fondo,
tu sai che questo è ciò che la bellezza è davvero,
e che avete bisogno di assaporarlo,
la rara bellezza di una luna piena.


Hey every1! So you know that completely awesome poem that I posted a few days ago? Well surprise surprise-  
It won the environmental fair poem contest! Yay! And furthermore, my prize was a chair made out of skis! Who doesn't love that!?

Monday, April 25, 2011

Black Rose

This is what I'm submitting for the environmental fair poem contest. Wish me luck!

A single flower
The color of blushing cheeks
Swaying in the breeze

A single highway
Newly paved and painted
As dark as oil

Monsters roaring past
Unnatural creatures
Of glass and metal

The bleed as they pass
Their black lifeblood spraying out
Across the pavement

Flowing into grass
Parched stems soaking it up
Gulping down poison

Tainting the flower
Sanguine petals veined with black
The lacework of death

Crumpling, folding
Grief, sorrow bending the stem
Leaves turn to powder

The blackness moves on
Oil engulfing the world
Blue and green turn black

Saturday, April 2, 2011


So, in school we had to write personal narratives, and I wanted to share mine with you guys! Its just a moment from my life that I remembered, and it just struck a chord in me somehow...

The Upper East Side of New York City was absolutely sweltering in the July heat. A cool breeze blew off the water of the Hudson, and it swirled around my mother, making her bright patterned maxi skirt billow. My thick brown hair, darker then than it is now, was pulled up from my perspiring neck in a ponytail, and I panted as my mother and I traveled down the baking sidewalk, on the lookout for any unique gallery or boutique. It was one of those days when you felt guilty being stuck indoors, seeing the gorgeous day through your window while you sat in the chill air of your house. However, I was wishing that I had stayed inside now that I was actually experiencing being broiled alive.

"Ooh, this shop looks interesting. Lets check it out." I looked over at the store window my mother was talking about.Mannequins modeled trendy fashions, showing off expensive dresses and jewelery. Fashion-minded as I am, , I was actually more eager to enjoy the air-conditioning than the designer clothes.

I walked through the door my mother had opened, and a front of cold air hit me. Clothes hung on racks all around the room, with tables placed erratically, displaying chunky bangles and tribal-styled earrings. My mother scanned the room for any sales racks first, being her usual frugal self. When she found none, she relaxed and began a slow browsing of the room, picking up different pieces, examining materials and price tags. A pair of dark skinny jeans was leaning half off a shelf, almost as if it were being magnetically pulled to my mother. She spotted these, and if she were a dog her ears would have perked up. She hurried over to them, picked them up, felt them, checked the price tag, her usual routine. When they seemingly met her approval, she called me over.

" Skye, go try these on." She ordered me, and ushered me down the dressing room hallway. Left on my own, I pulled the jeans on. They were Joe's, an Italian brand, although the name was deceiving, and they fit perfectly, if not a little long in the leg. I opened the door and looked around for my mother.She was reclining on a cushioned bench down the hallway, and when I opened the door she looked up.I walked down the hallway to her, and she looked me over, spun me around, pulled at the waist. I expected her to make a comment about the jeans, maybe about the price. But instead she said, "I used to be that skinny. I bet you could actually fit into the jeans my mother made me." I was still relatively young then, and I wasn't all that knowledgeable about my family tree, so I asked, "Your mother made you jeans? Thats so cool!"

"Haha yes, she was a fashion designer when we still lived in Italy. She made all my clothes." She smirked, and got a rather gloating gleam in her eye. " Whatever I wanted, I just drew up as sketch, and she would make it for me."

Her expression fell a little though, when she said, " I wish you could have met my mother. She would have loved you so much."

She ended the moment of reminiscence when she said, " Let's get you these. They fit perfectly." She got up, and together we strode over to the checkout desk, where a girl with iron-straight blonde hair rung us up. I got a little thrill when she handed me the shopping bag, and, purchase in hand,my mother and I left the store, leaving the comfort of air conditioning and braving the heat of summer.

We stopped in and out of a few galleries after that, oohing and aahing over pieces of artwork, gathering a collection of business cards. My mother's eye was caught by a large sculpture in one window, so we went in to examine it further. The sculpture was made of metal, and it was formed into the shape of a Hello Kitty wearing a pink and white space suit, and standing on a glowing orb. My mother seemed to find this extremely funny, and she just stood there smiling and doing that strange chuff thing when you don't want to laugh out loud but still want to show your amusement. We explored further into the gallery, the footsteps of my Juicy Couture pink wedges making a dull thudding on the polished wood floor, that echoed up into the space the high ceiling provided.

My mother and I found that the gallery we had stumbled into actually had a very good collection of unique art, and my mother and I poked around, like mice trying to find food. That actually became more literal when my mother spied a box of cookies resting on the front desk, and I practically had to physically restrain her from eating them. At this point we decided that we had better go find something to eat.

The Upper East side of New York City felt like a totally different civilization than New York City. The sidewalks were wider, and weren't crammed with rushing people and dirty beggars. A pleasant, pure breeze replaced the smell of greasy street food, garbage, and exhaust, and kind shady trees replaced looming skyscrapers. Happy couples ambled through the shade , sidestepping little kids skating on the sidewalks while their mothers talked nearby.

A pair of young girls, probably in their mid-twenties walked by, chattering, and at certain points laughing in that way you can only do when you're young, when the weight of life hasn't worn you down. Their voices were carried to us by the breeze, and what reached my ears was some kind of foreign language . and although  I couldn't understand the words, I could almost understand the meaning of what they were saying just by their expressive inflections. Between phrases they swallowed scoops of melting gelato, eating out of those bright-colored little shovels that always make you so happy when you look at them. Maybe it was the appeal of talking to an interesting foreigner, or maybe it was just my mother's stomach talking, but she saw these two people and made a beeline straight for them. I trailed after my mother, a little bit surprised. My mother isn't the kind of person that is outgoing with strangers, and I've never seen her just approach someone on the street. But here she was, and as I approached, the conversation that my mother was having with the two girls came into focus. My mother was inquiring about the gelato the girls were eating, and they were responding with beaming smiles and lilting words.

"Are you visiting from Italy?" My mother asked, and the girls laughed again, probably at nothing but the joy of life, responded with a very Italian sounding,"Si." At this point whatever they were saying was lost in translation as they transitioned into Italian, and my mother followed suit, changing out of her American Housewife persona and stepping into the character of an Italian foreigner who has found her kin. Their conversation rolled on, and my enraptured mother seemed to forget about the baking sun and her grumbling stomach as she nodded and gestured with her hands like a true Italian. Of course, I was still affected by the heat and my hunger, and soon I tugged at her arm, signaling that I wanted to go. My mother sadly said her goodbyes, and we went in pursuit of the gelato that had started the snapshot of time that would stay with me for years to come. After my hunger was satisfied, I found myself wishing that I hadn't pulled my mother away so soon. Seeing her with those two Italians was one of the only times I had been able to see a different side of her, the side that was Francesca Lavorato, not Francie Kupping.


Tuesday, March 8, 2011


Hey y’all! Sorry I haven’t written in awhile but my school has state testing right now and OMG is it ANNOYING!!!!
Anyway, I wrote this poem on the bus today in the very front seat(I think we all know that’s the worst place) because my anger management French teacher decided to keep us like five minutes late so I got on the bus when all the seats had been taken(ugh!) So, I was trying to look as non-loserish as I could sitting in the front seat of the bus and I was thinking about how people always call me weird(I don’t know why I was thinking about that, Im probably going insane) I mean, its not like they call me weird in a mean, way, its more in a loving way, and people love me because I’m not normal. And then it struck me!(Just so ya know, Im not gonna say what IT is, you’ll find out in the poem) So anyway, being the total literary nerd I am, I decided to write my thoughts in poem format-
There is no such thing as weird.
People say,
That if you are not like everyone else,
You are weird.
No two people
Are the same.
That’s why we have
Every person has something
Unusual about them,
Even if they try to hide it.

If everyone is weird,
The ones that really are dull,
They who have no personality,
They are the weird ones.

It goes round and round
Like this.
On and on,
Like the number pi,
If you call that a number.
The only conclusion to come to
Is that,
There is no such thing as weird.

Friday, February 18, 2011

Lunar Musings

You can tell when it's a full moon
without looking at the sky.
It's when all life stills,
not in fright, but in reverence.
It’s when the tides rise up
to meet the luminescent sky,
and the power of the moon alone
brings heaven and Earth together.

You can tell when it's a full moon,
because the snow glistens
with the reflected incandescence of the night.  
Great expanses of powder,
like crushed mirrors a lunar goddess 
let fall from her fingertips,
merely to be able to bask in the frosty image of herself.

And when it's a full moon,
you are freed from the clutches of slumber,
because somewhere deep down,
you know that this is what beauty really is,
and that you need to savor it,
the rare beauty of a full moon.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Valentine's Day Sucks

To all my readers out there, I would like to say HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY! Valentine’s day is a day to consider and appreciate everyone we hold dear to us. So, for this edition of Skye Writes, I thought I would talk about a book that I believe EVERY teenage girl in the nation has read at least five times. Because who can’t fall head over heels in love with the smoldering golden eyes, the gently tousled hair, and the brooding, passionate love of Edward Cullen?
            Like all trends, be it skinny cargos or vampire stories, the original is always the best. Swept up in a tidal wave of vampire high school romances, I think that we sometimes forget how it all started. Ah yes, with good old Twilight. For some reason, the mixture of a normal girl, an insanely hot vampire, a muscley werewolf, high school, and true love lit up some kind of lightbulb in the minds of readers everywhere. The Twilight phenomenon blew across the country as inexplicably as Glee or Bieber Fever.
            Myself, I am a true Twilight fan. Having read the series eight times, I think its safe to say that I know it pretty much inside and out, and having said that, I think that Stephenie Meyer is truly genius. I mean, no one can get inside a high-schoolers’ mind quite like that lady. The everyday dialogue between Bella, the main character(for those of you who don’t know that you should be ashamed of yourselves!!!) and her friends flows so naturally, you could almost pretend you were in the scene, and from personal experience(I won’t mention any names) I know that you find yourself being a total geek and using quotes from the book in your own life. I think that we should all take a moment to applaud the extreme creativity of Stephenie, for breaking vampires from Bram Stoker’s dusty old mold. No, Ms. Meyer’s vampires didn’t sleep in coffins, well they didn’t sleep at all, but they would recline in gorgeous, glass walled mansions. Cast away was the idea that vampires would burn up in light. No, that wasn’t fabulous enough for our good friends the Cullens. Instead, they merely sparkled, intensifying their unearthly beauty. And to top it all off, because our new vampires couldn’t possibly kill people, they went quote un quote, vegetarian. (Oh, those vegetarians, they’re taking over the world! I mean soon brains won’t be good enough for zombies, they’ll be eating rice pudding. Geez.)
            There’s no argument that Twilight was a hit, but I don’t think that the rest of the series should be ignored. It is a well-known fact between us readers that in most cases, the first book in a series will be the best, and from there, well, its pretty much a parked car with no brakes on a San Francisco hill. In case you didn’t get that, it goes down. Sadly, I think that this applies to the rest of the series. New Moon, the second installment of the Twilight series, is almost as good as the first, Edward leaving Bella because he thinks it is better for her, and Mr. Sixpack swooping in to woo her. With Jacob introduced to the story the hotness level shoots way up, and I think that we can all admit that an added hottie makes the story a lot more interesting. So lalalala Bella misses Edward, Jacob comes in at her weakest hour, Bella falls in love with Jacob but they can’t be together because Bella still believes Edward will come back(classic), Edward thinks Bella’s dead, goes to commit suicide, Bella arrives in the nick of time(typical), saves Edward, they rekindle their love of eachother, the end. That was basically new moon in 3x fast forward with everyone talking in really high, fast voices. Overall, I’d say that New Moon was an excellent book. However, Eclipse is where the problems start. So, Bella and Edward are in love, but Bella still feels something for Jacob. This is even worse now, because vamps and werewolves hate each other’s guts. So Edward starts being all controlling and basically kidnaps Bella. Then there’s this whole thing with some evil vamp lady who wants to kill Bella, and you can basically predict the rest of this book. Edward kills Victoria(the evil vampire lady) but he has to join with Jacob to do it, yadayadayada and then when Edward is fighting this little kid that Victoria brainwashed, he uses words to fight instead of actions(Ok like really? Total puke.)
            Last but not least(well, actually, yes, it is least) is Breaking Dawn. The whole story can be summed up in one sentence. Bella gets pregnant and turns into a vampire. The end. I mean, I understand that Stephenie Meyer wanted to add a twist, but no one under the age of twenty eight is going to want to read about a mom. I mean, parents are the enemies. Parents are the antagonists. And Stephenie Meyer just has to ruin the whole seies by turning the Bella, who we all know and love, into a mom. I know, it broke my heart, too.
            So,  whatever good or bad things I’ve said about Twilight, it is still something that I believe everyone should read. Bella and Edward can be placed upon the shelf of classics, resting right next to Romeo and Juliet. So for this Valentine’s Day, read Twilight, and hopefully the timeless love of Edward and Bella will inspire you to appreciate those that are close to you.   

Thursday, February 10, 2011

My Life in Words

Hey everyone! I thought that this piece of writing would be fitting as my first post. Its a mini memoir that I submitted for a school competition and I won! Enjoy!

Young Writers Showcase presents seventh grade winning memoir of Central Middle School competition

I can remember the first time l ever wrote. I was just a little girl, maybe two or three. I don't know how I got my hands on a pencil; I was so short I couldn't even reach the top of the table. But I did, and, well, like every normal toddler I saw the wall as the most obvious place to write. And write I did. Not words of course, those were beyond my tiny mind's ability, but not scribbles either. When my mother saw my series of little figures, she said my writing looked like a real language, one only I could understand, but a language nonetheless.

I did not get reprimanded for writing on the wall. I was not made to erase my work. Instead I was praised, and encouraged to write more. Perhaps this was what sparked my interest in language. Perhaps I had been born yearning to translate my thoughts into words, like some are born to paint, or to sculpt. But over the years, that wall filled with my tiny characters and scribblings.

The wall has been painted over now, a pristine advance of warm gray coating the words of my childhood. But still, when I need inspiration or just want to reminisce on those early days, I stare at that wall and just wonder what all those little pencil marks, hiding beneath that single coat of paint, meant to my little toddler self.

As I grew up, the interest in writing that was kindled in me was nurtured into a larger and larger flame, an ever-present glowing warmth that has kept me company all my years. I wrote about my dreams, I wrote about the happenings of my life. Everything I experienced, words, phrases, would drift into my head like a poetic fog, one that I had to snatch and write down, lest it escape. One such dream that I captured on paper was, as I like to call it, the Princess Without Hair.

A six year-old me opened her eyes, returning from a misty land of jumbled thoughts and dreams. One memory was clear, however, like wiping away a small window of condensation in a steamed up mirror. Peering through that window in her mind, the six year-old saw a beautiful girl glaring at the reflection of herself in the rippling waters of a koi pond as all of her silky chestnut locks fell from her head, spiraling to the ground in a horribly graceful dance. The little child rushed to grab a piece of lined paper and, in the big, clumsy letters of a first grader, began her first story, a fanciful tale of a bald princess who seeks revenge on an evil squirrel witch named Sandy for cursing her.

That moment when I wrote my first story was one of the greatest of my life. It opened a door for me, revealing that writing is not just words in a sequence, but the ability to create, to imagine, to be ruler of your own world. Others writing can even help us better our own skill at the craft. I learned that in one of the most inspiring books I have read, Writing Magic. That book taught me to keep all of my work, however much I don't like it, because any piece of writing is special, and shouldn't be discounted. And that statement helps me get through the valleys of writing, when I just feel that I'm losing my voice. Not the voice of my mouth, but the voice of my mind, the true voice, the one that makes my writing as unique as a thumbprint. Whatever I write, I can take pride in the fact that it is my own, because nobody can ever steal my voice.

To be perfectly honest, this memoir feels incomplete. I have only experienced twelve years of life on this Earth, and at this point in my existence, my hopes and dreams are facing towards the great expanse of time that is the future. My writing career is still only a little bird, growing in its nest until its wings are strong enough to fly. Reflecting back on my life, I realize that maybe right now it is best not to look back, and only forward, to experience life with an open, optimistic mind. When I am older perhaps I will write another memoir, and hopefully I will smile upon my achievements in life.

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