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What is a Verse Novel and why are they GREAT!
What is a Verse Novel and why are they GREAT!
Verse novels are an extraordinary way to read a story. The entire story is written in verse–rather than prose. Prose are usually what fiction books are written in. That means the story is told in sentences which become paragraphs then pages and turn into chapters.
In a verse novel the story is told through poems–rhyming or not, it doesn’t matter. Each turn of the page leads to poetry.
The rhythm of verse novels becomes hypnotic making this type of book a very quick read.
When twelve-year-old Maddie hatches a scheme for a secret sleepover with her two best friends, she ends up waking up to a nightmare. She’s alone—left behind in a town that has been mysteriously evacuated and abandoned.
With no one to rely on, no power, and no working phone lines or internet access, Maddie slowly learns to survive on her own. Her only companions are a Rottweiler named George and all the books she can read. After a rough start, Maddie learns to trust her own ingenuity and invents clever ways to survive in a place that has been deserted and forgotten.
As months pass, she escapes natural disasters, looters, and wild animals. But Maddie’s most formidable enemy is the crushing loneliness she faces every day. Can Maddie’s stubborn will to survive carry her through the most frightening experience of her life?
She's big.
She's smart.
She's mean.
She's the bully on the bus.
She picks on me and I don't like it.
But
I don't know
how to make her
stop.
At schoolon the first daythey split us into groupsto learn about new classmates.
When they ask
I say:
Wedayo, my name is Bindi HoskinsI'm 11 years old
I live with Mum and Dadand a brother and a sister.
We live on the hillup a steep drivewayin a yellow housebacking onto bushlandat number 19.
Nan and Poplive close by.
We have two dogs:Rocky and Tazz.
When they ask
I say:
Wedayo, my name is Bindi HoskinsI'm 11 years old
I live with Mum and Dadand a brother and a sister.
We live on the hillup a steep drivewayin a yellow housebacking onto bushlandat number 19.
Nan and Poplive close by.
We have two dogs:Rocky and Tazz.
Be strong. Be fierce. Life is more than a concrete floor.That is all my Mamma yip-yap-yipsthat is all she ever says with nubbling nuzzleslulling lickswith her tail's fwip-fwap-fwip on the thick ofthe wire theclick of her paws thewhine in jawsand the way her heart ROARSBe strong. Be fierce. Life is more-
and then we ten pups are rough-grabbed awayto another concrete floor.Colderon our little thin-furred belliesthan before.
We wait whine andwhimper for our mumma to comefor the warm of her milk the silk of her fur on our snoutsbut all we get are the shoutsfrom the big GrowlMan toSHUT IT!Shoe-legs can be mean.
and then we ten pups are rough-grabbed awayto another concrete floor.Colderon our little thin-furred belliesthan before.
We wait whine andwhimper for our mumma to comefor the warm of her milk the silk of her fur on our snoutsbut all we get are the shoutsfrom the big GrowlMan toSHUT IT!Shoe-legs can be mean.
I whip out fake smile reserved forMonday mornings, cheerleadersStepmomsKara stitches series of mom-esque wordsForming dubious praise
"Your face is so pretty this morning"= You look fat
"I made egg white omelets and wheat toast"= So you will no longer be fat
Kara is stuckWith meShay Summers: pretty-faced fat girl whoReads. Writes. ThinksToo much
Dad diedSelfish, Dad, very selfish
"Don't be late for school"= Don't stay behind, pig out, get more fat
"Your face is so pretty this morning"= You look fat
"I made egg white omelets and wheat toast"= So you will no longer be fat
Kara is stuckWith meShay Summers: pretty-faced fat girl whoReads. Writes. ThinksToo much
Dad diedSelfish, Dad, very selfish
"Don't be late for school"= Don't stay behind, pig out, get more fat
You have to be quick,None of this pretending to be browsing businessthat some shoplifters go for.
It's ingrab what you wantand out again.
But the others don't get it.They take ages making decisions,like they might be legit buying,so I know before we're done thatwe're done for.
And I'm right.
We don't make it two steps out ofBootsbefore a security guardnabs me by the hood of my jacket.Liz and Shawna arelegging it up the high street and away,while Meg and Iget dragged back into the shopand up to an office.
'Empty your pockets,you little scrubbers!' the security guard shouts.
It's ingrab what you wantand out again.
But the others don't get it.They take ages making decisions,like they might be legit buying,so I know before we're done thatwe're done for.
And I'm right.
We don't make it two steps out ofBootsbefore a security guardnabs me by the hood of my jacket.Liz and Shawna arelegging it up the high street and away,while Meg and Iget dragged back into the shopand up to an office.
'Empty your pockets,you little scrubbers!' the security guard shouts.
Rachel
My townis exactlyfour hundred and twenty-two kilometresfrom the ocean.I check the distancedriving home from holidayswith Mum and Dadthe day before school beginsand while Bondi Beachgets frothy wavesof cool, salty water on white sandmy town sufferswaves of dust stormsand locust plaguesand heat that melts the bitumenand the first thing I dowhen we get homeafter driving all dayis run down to the damin the near paddockand dive in.The water is warm and brown.My toes squelch in the mudwhile the windmill clanks.A pond-skater buzzes the surfaceand starlings fantailacross the skythe day before school begins. Rachel
Friday, August 24Stoop-Sitting
The summer is made for stoop-sittingand since it's the last week before school starts,Harlem is opening its eyes to September.
I scope out this block I've always called home.
Watch the old church ladies, chancletas flappingagainst the pavement, their mouths letting loose a trainof island Spanish as they spread he said, she said.
Peep Papote from down the blockas he opens the fire hydrantso the little kids have a sprinkler to run through.
Listen to honking cabs with bachata blaringfrom their open windowscompete with basketballs echoing from the Little Park.
Laugh at the viejos- my father not included-finishing their dominoes tournament with hard slapsand yells of "Capicu!"
The summer is made for stoop-sittingand since it's the last week before school starts,Harlem is opening its eyes to September.
I scope out this block I've always called home.
Watch the old church ladies, chancletas flappingagainst the pavement, their mouths letting loose a trainof island Spanish as they spread he said, she said.
Peep Papote from down the blockas he opens the fire hydrantso the little kids have a sprinkler to run through.
Listen to honking cabs with bachata blaringfrom their open windowscompete with basketballs echoing from the Little Park.
Laugh at the viejos- my father not included-finishing their dominoes tournament with hard slapsand yells of "Capicu!"
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