Burlington Free Press Index 2013-14

THIS WEEK: Chance & General
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and individuals who recognize the
power and value of writing.
If you would like to contribute,
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THANKS FROM YWP ABOUT THE PROJECT
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the Schools Project, a comprehen-
sive online classroom and training
program that works with teachers to
help students develop their writing
and digital literacy skills. To learn
more, go to ywpschools.net or con-
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hun-
dred submissions from students in Vermont and New
Hampshire and we publish the best here and in newspa-
pers around the state, on vpr.net and vtdigger.org. This
week, we present responses to the prompts, Chance: It
was my last chance to...; and General writing. Read
more great student writing at youngwritersproject.org.
MORE GREAT STUDENT WRITING AT
YOUNGWRITERSPROJECT.ORG
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Kevin Huang / Burlington High School
THE CALVIN
Vermont writers (under age 20) are
invited to write about a topic close
to President Calvin Coolidges heart:
Should I stay in Vermont or leave?
The Calvin Coolidge Memorial Foun-
dation is offering
$1,500 for the top
essay and $500 for
second place, along
with a trip to the
foundations annual
gala in New York
City next fall.
Learn more at
youngwritersproj-
ect.org & coolidge-
foundation.org.
Calvin Coolidge
(Library of Congress)
There is hope
BY COURTNEY CROSS
Grade 8, Camels Hump Middle School
There may come a time when you
close your eyes crossing the street. Youre
not afraid of getting hit by the oncoming
traffc. A time will come when you aren`t
afraid of falling down. Even if you bruise.
And unfortunately, this happened quite
early in my life.
Point to what you dont like, she said
with a faint smile. I looked up at my self-
portrait. I pointed to my stomach and my
thighs, my nose and my eyes, my fngers
and toes, my hands and calves, my shoul-
ders and collar bones, my ears and mouth.
My everything. There wasnt one thing I
didnt point to. I hated myself, and every-
thing to do with me.
I would look at all the other girls in
my grade and just not understand why I
couldnt look like them.
I would just look down at my stomach
and just want it to be gone. I would eat
disgusting, junk, high- calorie food. I was
just a sad, sad, little girl, that nobody knew
how to change, including myself.
That was what my frst therapy session
was like. I kept going to therapy.
All in all, my life was just one big, sad
story. I would go to therapy once a week.
Id walk in hoping things would change,
but they never did. It felt like I was put-
ting so much faith into something that just
didnt seem to want to meet me halfway.
About a year later, while I was in a
session, we got on the topic of fears. She
asked me to tell her what I was afraid of;
I was a paranoid little girl who thought
everything was bad.
I told her I was afraid of Santa, seeing
airplanes in the sky at night, sleeping in
my bedroom by myself, being home alone,
getting too close to an oven while cooking,
vans, trucks, horses, taking showers (espe-
cially when no one was home), homework,
answering the door, knocking on someone
elses door, the dark, spiders, big dogs (for
the longest time), dogs in general, really,
stairs, getting kidnapped, getting up to get
a tissue in the middle of class, blowing my
nose in front of others, being in front of a
large crowd, being the only one awake at
night, and I hate to admit that the list goes
on and on.
I grew up thinking it was just one big,
bad world. After listing a ton of ridiculous
things, that at the time I was afraid of, she
told me what anxiety was...
Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.
org/node/93853.

For my sisters
BY MATTHEW BLOW
Grade 11, Mount Mansfeld Union High
School
When I close my eyes,
the world loosens its hinges and begins to
spin back and forth.
I can feel it smile;
it, too, is trying to fnd a place to ft in.
We are all trying to fnd our place.
Do not think it odd if you and a good friend
grow apart.
Their place has shifted, and it is no longer
next to you.
Do not be angry.
Thank them for what they have done,
and being in your life,
but ask them to leave the door open,
so that another may enter.
When your signifcant other leaves you,
or someone you wish was, leaves you,
do not fall into despair.
Cherish their memory.
Keep it, if you feel so inclined, in your
pocket;
carry what you have learned along with
you,
but do not take love back from the pocket.
If you live in the past, youll miss the pres-
ent,
and the present stops for no one.
When you fnd that you are no longer who
you used to be,
do not lament your loss.
Welcome your new self.
Tell her you are happy she is here,
that you hope to become best friends.
And when she leaves, thank her for the
years you have spent together.
Even if the memories are sour,
thank her for spending them with you.
And when you think you`ve found a place,
do not tell yourself you will be here for-
ever.
You are a traveller, who is setting up a
temporary home.
Slowly, but surely, make that home more
permanent.
If you experience hardships, do not leave,
tough through them,
lean on the friends you have,
and allow them to lean on you.
Do not anger when one of you falls;
help each other up.
But if you see a new skyline, wait.
If it looks better, wait.
Look carefully at yourself before you make
the frst step to somewhere new,
but once you do, do not let your worries
delay you.
You are fnding yourself,
not that she was ever really hiding.
She just needed to be told to reveal herself.
Summer sonnet
BY MALIN HILLEMANN
Grade 9, Burlington High School
Blue sky I see above my pale green eyes.
The pretty sun may shine throughout the
day.
There are still the clouds emptying their
lies.
The winter winds still blow their way
through May,
And though my toes may dip in the water
clear
And my hair breezes blonde with salty
touch,
The loud sounds of thunder are oh-so near.
Hands grapple mine flled with angst and
scared clutch.
Scared I am not of teachers hectic wrath;
Stress is all I mutter beneath my breath.
My head bubbles with science, English,
math
And everyone may feel that this is death.
Now fnally, the summer I can see
And my body is fnally so free.
Goodbye
BY SAMMIE BLACKMORE
Grade 5, The Renaissance School
It was my last chance to say goodbye
Because that day I was moving away.
It was my last time to remember a friend
Because that day I was drifting away.
It was my last hope to fnd where I be-
longed
Because that day I was leaving my home.
It was my last day to live my life there
Because that day I was foating away.
It was my last moment to be with you
Because that day I was moving away.
Last chance
BY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS-MONTESANO
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
It was my last chance, the one I had
been waiting for, everybody had been
waiting for. No way am I going with you!
Youre just going to throw me in like the
brats that you are! And there went my
chance. It wasnt really too bad, I thought.
Being mean was all I knew and it felt
powerful. The girls from cabin number
three sighed and one muttered, I told you
we shouldn`t have tried. And Tracie just
looked at me with a mixture of disappoint-
ment and disgust in her eyes. I turned away
before I started softening.
I sat on the dock. The moon shone
through the clouds and the darkness was
layered around me. I stared at the water
lapping at my feet, always coming back,
sometimes getting stronger with an oc-
casional breeze. Millions of thoughts ran
through my head. What if I had gone with
them? What if they started to like me?
Maybe I could be accepted. And Tracie
could believe that I was still the friend she
used to have. I heard a soft thump as Tracie
sat down next to me. There was a long
silence, and then I whispered, Im sorry.
She sat some more and then jumped up,
leaving the wind whispering, That was
your last chance.
THIS WEEK: Consequences & Epic
BAY AND PAUL FOUNDATIONS
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Hampshire and we publish the best here and in news-
papers around the state and on vpr.net and vtdigger.
org. This week, we present responses to the prompts,
Consequences: Write about understanding the idea of
consequences; and Epic: Describe an epic journey.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Kevin Huang, Burlington High School
Calling 911
BY HUSSEIN AHMAD
Grade 5, Edmunds Elementary School
My frst few days in America were
memorable. I remember the plane ride to
Winooski, Vermont in the United States of
America.
The frst 10 to 15 days we lived in the
Sheraton Hotel until we found our house.
One day sticks out in my mind.
My dad went to the grocery store to
get food for dinner. I couldn`t go with my
dad because I was sick, the same with my
brother and sister.
I tried calling my dad because we
wanted parsley and we had forgotten to tell
him we were making macaroni. I didn`t
know his number.
So I kept trying and I fnally dialed the
numbers 911. I didn`t know that was the
cops` number. After three to fve minutes I
heard a knock on the door. It didn`t sound
like my dad`s knocking.
I opened the curtain very slowly and
peeked out the window and saw this big
man with a fashlight and a gun in his
hands. He looked at me like we were both
doing the staring contest.
I ran and while I was running I yelled,
'Thief, thief!
I ran straight under my bed and hid
there. I was silent like someone pressed the
mute button on me. But that didn`t work so
well because I had hiccups.
I was shivering like I was the ghost of
John with no skin on. While I was hiding,
my mom went to the door and looked out
the window. She took a huge deep breath. I
thought, 'Welcome to my world!
So she opened the door. She didn`t
know a lot of English but she had a diction-
ary with her. The cop knew we didn`t speak
English that much so he asked my mom
what language she spoke. My mom replied
that she spoke Arabic. The cop got his
walkie-talkie and said we need an inter-
preter that can speak Arabic.
Then the guy answered back, and told
us that someone in our house called the po-
lice. My mom didn`t even bother to look at
my brother and sister, but she looked at me.
Suddenly I saw someone running down
the street. It was my dad and I ran up to
him and gave him the biggest hug ever. My
mom explained everything to my dad but
they didn`t get mad at me.
Later, when we were all sitting together,
I said out loud to all my family that they
should never call a three-digit number.
We all laughed.
Jimmys mission
BY MERRICK MENDENHALL
Jimmy stuck his head cautiously from
his small crevice. He looked right, then left.
Nothing. The house was dark, the kitchen
silent. Jimmy sniffed the air; he could smell
chocolate coming from the living room.
His ears perked up at the sound of the
TV. Someone must be up. Jimmy took
several hurried breaths, then threw himself
forward in an effort to jump-start his body.
He missed his footing and slumped onto
the foor. Jimmy froze. Not a single hair
moved, not even his whiskers twitched in
the darkness. The TV continued to drone
on, and the smell of chocolate still lingered.
After what felt like a lifetime, Jimmy
continued on. He grabbed at the lowest
shelf with his tiny hands and heaved him-
self up. Quickly and silently, Jimmy began
collecting supplies. He hadn`t wanted to
renovate his tiny home, but his wife was
insistent. She claimed that the kids re-
quired more space... With a sigh Jimmy
continued on. He found a small toothpick,
some cracker crumbs, a penny, and some
cardboard. Jimmy carefully lowered all the
goods down to the foor, then scurried up
the shelves for one more look. His wife had
said that they needed a new bed as well as
extra bedrooms... Jimmy sighed again. He
loved his wife, but she could be so demand-
ing sometimes. Of course, he knew it was
only because of her father. Jimmy`s father-
in-law lived two holes away from theirs,
and he stopped by every day to check on
things. In theory that would be very nice,
the kids would be able to see their grandpa,
and maybe he could even babysit every
now and then. But instead, the old mouse
would just criticize their entire home! He
had been an interior designer before he
retired, and the whole town had wanted his
opinion on their homes. Matilda, Jimmy`s
wife, was under so much pressure for a nice
home. So it was left to Jimmy to get her the
supplies so that Matilda could redecorate
every time her father hiccupped.
From across the room, Jimmy saw the
ultimate prize; an old dishcloth. He im-
mediately headed toward it. He would love
Matilda to make them a new bed from that.
It looked so soft, a huge improvement from
their old tissue mattress. Jimmy had the
thing in his hand, when the lights went on.
This time he didn`t freeze; he lunged across
the foor and into his hole, pulling the rest
of his goods behind him. He pulled the old
matchbox back in front of the hole, and,
with all his fndings, dishcloth and all, he
hurried home, not waiting to see what the
light was.
To the tower
BY MARIA CHURCH
Over the drawbridge gate he must go
To toil through the rain and snow
Through the forest
Through the glen
Till he reaches the other end
Abandon the tired horses
To continue where the river courses
To the tower laced in moss
In the piles of stone and dross
Kill the serpent that lies in wait
And enter through the rusted gate
And at the top
There she lies
Staring at him with puppy-dog eyes
'Never mind! he cries
An epic journey
BY SIMONE EDGAR HOLMES
Grade 10, Champlain Valley Union High
School
To have an epic journey
Sturdy boots tied tightly
Treasure map on hand
The expectation of excitement.
Sturdy boots tied tightly
Raincoat zipped up halfway
The expectation of excitement
Pockets stuffed with provisions.
Raincoat zipped up halfway
Flashlight ready when darkness falls
Pockets stuffed with provisions
Extra magnifying glass for starting fres.
Flashlight ready when darkness falls
Recording adventures in a notebook
Extra magnifying glass for starting fres
Field guide for reference.
Recording adventures in a notebook
Umbrella for rain and shelter
Field guide for reference
Protected with a pocket knife.
Umbrella for rain and shelter
Setting out at sunset
Protected with a pocket knife
With hope for a new day.
Setting out at sunset
Treasure map on hand
With hope for a new day
To have an epic journey.
Undiscovered
BY MARIKA MASSEY-BIERMAN
Sometimes I feel like we`re all living
in a fake, imagined world. The only real
stories are the ones we hear about the great
adventures of past times. What good are
our phones and computers if they don`t
make us happy?
Sometimes I just want to be transported
into one of those worlds. I don`t really need
any of this technology. I`ve survived in the
wilderness before.
But there aren`t very many places left in
this world that haven`t been discovered. So
I guess I`ll just have to be content with all
of the phone zombies and computer whiz-
zes and people who just don`t care.
But maybe someday I`ll have an epic
journey of my own.
THE CALVIN
Vermont writers (under age 20) are
invited to write about a topic close
to President Calvin Coolidge`s heart:
Should I stay in Vermont or leave?
The Calvin Coolidge Memorial
Foundation is offering $1,500 for the
top essay and $500 for second place,
along with a trip to the foundation`s
annual gala in New
York City next fall.
More details at
coolidgefoundation.
org or youngwriter-
sproject.org.
Calvin Coolidge
THIS WEEK: Childhood & General
power and value of writing. If you
would like to contribute, please go
to youngwritersproject.org/support,
or mail your donation to YWP, 12
North St., Suite 8, Burlington, VT
05401.
FAIRPOINT COMMUNICATIONS
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
pers around the state. This week, we present responses
to the prompts, Childhood: What piece of your child-
hood would you like to keep?; and General writing.
More at youngwritersproject.org.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Nate Ertle, Essex High School
Where Im from
BY CECILY BREEN
Grade 6, Charlotte Central School
(Inspired by the poem, Where Im From
by George Ella Lyon)

Im from Fisher-Price toys to getting
locked out in the cold,
To the frst petrifying days of pre-school.
From getting lost at Disney, to picnics at 5
a.m.,
To getting my tooth knocked out by a hose.
I am from spraining someone`s fnger to
spraining it again,
From, Arent you tired? to Im on the
phone!
I`m from picture books to blueberries, to
falling down the stairs,
To losing a unicorn and being scared of
ants,
From Judy Bloom books to confession at
church,
To falling off my bike and getting sick on
boats.
Im from midnight music to butter knives
in the wall,
To sandboxes, to dragonfies,
And Junie B. Jones.
I`m from fowers to cemeteries,
To bunnies and dogs,
To playing and camping out under the
moon and stars.
I am from stepping on nails to stubbing my
toe,
From splinters, to bruises,
To falling down the stairs.
From my old yellow room to my new white
one,
To catching frefies and fshing with
worms.
Im from snowstorms to sun showers,
To bikes and skateboards,
I am from mountains to hills,
To trying to stay up for New Year`s Day.
I am from dancing in felds
To campfres and ghosts,
From early morning movies
To late night hide-and-seek.
But in the end,
I will always be from
The memories that I have made.
Shes the one
BY JEREMY BROTZ
Shes the one always surrounded by the
people
Who she likes to think of as her friends.
She has perfect hair, smiles a lot.
Guys secretly love her, but none get near
enough to see
The little lines of worry and lack of sleep
under her eyes.
She wears her clothes like a model, but if
you look closely,
The brands are from K-Mart and the knees
and elbows are all
Almost worn through.
Her exterior is always satisfed, carefree,
cool.
It shows none of the confict of her per-
sonal life.
No one ever goes to her house.
No one asks
About her dead mother,
About her alcoholic father and his
abusive girlfriend,
About the job which she works every day
after school,
Earning the money that keeps her alive.
No one ever asks.
She never tells.
Whitestripe
BY ZANIPOLO LEWIS
Grade 5, Homeschool, Burlington
When I grow older,
Weary, bent and gray,
Id like to remember
Many a good and joyful day.
The person I remember,
Fast and nice and soft,
Is a mouse who used to ride
In my little wagon loft.
My mouse`s name was Whitestripe.
He had a little white belt.
His belt was shaped like an eagle.
So soft he always felt.
Sadly, Whitestripe passed away
And was buried with 'Ahem.
It left me sad and dry and broken,
Like a fower with just a stem.
When I grow weary, bent and gray,
Id like to remember
Many a good and joyful day.
The Flynn
BY ELLA SKINNER-SLOAN
Grade 6, Albert D. Lawton Intermediate
School
A part of my childhood that I want to
keep forever is my frst time performing
at the Flynn Theater; its a day Ill never
forget.
The butterfies in my stomach swirling
around right before I went on stage.
The noise of the hundred instruments
tuning loudly in every room.
The way I looked out into the audience
during the concert, searching for a familiar
face. How the lights beat down on my face,
lighting up every corner of the stage.
The faces I made at my friends, goofng
off while waiting for our turn to get our
ffteen minutes of fame. How every violin,
viola, cello and bass played perfectly to-
gether, never missing a beat.
The way my mom wore a proud look
all night, congratulating me every few sec-
onds. How my brother just grumbled, 'You
were okay, and then walked away.
How after it was all over I knew I
would never let this memory slip away.
Challenges
BY HAMARA MUBARAK
My family is not from here. I came
from Kenya, Africa. My parents walked for
months just to get my family somewhere
safe from war. My parents were originally
from Somalia, but with all the war they had
to leave. They walked from Somalia all the
way to Kenya. It wasn`t an easy journey.
There were more than 300 people.
Some had kids and even newborns. They
didnt have enough food to feed everyone
every day. There were no bathrooms. My
bathroom was my backyard. On our way
to the refugee camp my older brother and I
were born in Kakuma, Kenya.
When we fnally arrived at the refugee
camp, it was challenging. There wasn`t
enough food. We had to wait till it rained
to fnd water. We had to hunt, or grow our
own crops for food. My two brothers were
born in the refugee camp. We left Africa
when I was four years old.
I got off something big that few me
across the world. I didn`t know what an air-
plane was. I didn`t even know how to speak
English yet. I didn`t come in a good season
because it was snowing and I was not used
to the snow. I didn`t even know what that
was. I went outside from the airport and all
I saw were these white, soft dots touching
my face. I leaned my head back and I stuck
out my tongue. That was the frst time I
ever saw snow.
The years went by and I got older.
I went from desks to tables, cubbies to
locker, four classrooms to eight classrooms,
and paper to Chromebooks. Middle school
has been a real challenge for me. There are
some great things and some not-so-great
things about it. In middle school everyone
changes. You have to fnd the right friends:
the ones that wont get you in trouble,
the ones that have your back... I have my
strengths and I have my weaknesses. My
strengths are writing and reading and some-
times math. My weaknesses are science
and social studies.
I usually say I hate middle school,
which sometimes I do, but I wouldnt be in
middle school right now if it wasnt for my
parents. Without all of the hard work my
parents put in to get me here I would never
have gotten where I am now. I am ready to
leave middle school, enjoy high school, and
try not to have bumps in the road.
The world and me
BY FRANCESCA M. CAMPANILE
Grade 3, Jericho Elementary School
Look out at the sky so blue, so beautiful.
Just a few clouds to stare at you.
The fowers bloom, such colors to see when
you look out at me!
The air tastes crisp in the April morning,
and smells like pine.
I touch the trees as I skim by.
The world is within me, and I am within
the world!
THIS WEEK: Middle School,
Gibberish & Silence
JANES TRUST
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
to the prompts, Middle School (Read all submissions
at youngwritersproject.org/middleschool); Gibberish
poetry; and Silence.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
MIDDLE SCHOOL CHALLENGE
WINNING SUBMISSION
There is a difference
BY AMELIA SANBORN
I am a real life Via (like in the book,
Wonder by R.J. Palacio). The day my sis-
ter came home from the hospital, we knew
something was wrong. She was born with a
craniofacial syndrome similar to Auggies
in Wonder.
Many of the challenges Auggie faces,
she also faces. The main challenge is
people not knowing the difference between
tolerance and acceptance. Many people
tolerate Auggie in Wonder, and the same
is true for my sister in real life. Just like
Auggie, my sister also has hearing aids.
Ive seen the difference between when
someone is at our house having a playdate
with her, and at school. At the playdate,
theyre kind of forced to be nice. They
tolerate her. People will be kind, but they
dont act like they want to be her friend.
She does also have some friends that do
accept her. But it doesnt feel good to see
people being kind when theyre having a
playdate, and then not let her sit with them
at lunch, to see that people only care when
an adult is around, just like Julian in Won-
der. Julian acts nice around the principal
and Auggies mom on the day of the school
tour, but is just rude and mean to Auggie
when its only students around. People
like Julian are the people who tolerate her.
Mostly because theyre forced to.
Acceptance can be a hard thing. Even
as a sister of someone with differences,
I sometimes get caught staring at other
people who look different. Its not because
Im trying to be mean, its because Im
curious. That is like what happened with
Auggie and Summer. She was curious, but
she got to know him and accept him.
Everyone knows the saying, Dont
judge a book by its cover. The same thing
should be true with people. Dont judge
them by their face, or by their differences.
You need to get to know them to actually
know what theyve been through, what
theyre like.
Acceptance means that you care about
that person. You include them in all things,
not just when its convenient, but whenever
they need you. It means treating them like a
human being, not acting like that person is
just a nobody.
Everybody has differences. Yes, you
are different, just in your own way. You
have your strengths, but you also have your
weaknesses. Its the same with people who
look or act different. Auggie and Olivia
(my sister) both have their strengths and
weaknesses, just like any other person.
Summer in Wonder does a good job of
accepting Auggie. She sits with him at
lunch, she talks to him, she plays with him
at recess, she even does the science fair
with him. She truly accepts Auggie. Also
in Wonder, Jack Will does a good job
of showing that it can be hard to include
someone, and it is really easy to give in to
peer pressure. But what you say can really
hurt someone. The world needs more Sum-
mers, and less Julians.
This was one of two winning submis-
sions to the VPR-YWP Middle School Writ-
ing Challenge aired on VPR this week. You
can hear the complete series at vpr.net and
read all submissions at youngwritersproj-
ect.org/middleschool.
Jillian Kenny, Essex High School
Snofhng bloors
BY JEREMY BROTZ
As I wumbled to the offce as I did most
every vawn,
I halped to snoff the bloors,
and I trell onto my bootybone in the most
paichful way Ive ever done.
A madiot stupped up to me, and said, You
need helstance, madmoisel?
But I swapped him cross the facehole and
resplied I, Dont you dare!
And he fepped away and made a snork and
got into his car.
What a hilpid guy, I yaughed to myself, and
got back on my knegs.
At last I keptinued on into my workding,
I glooked back to the bed of bloors,
and I saw that they were sminning at me,
as brappy as the blurquoise sky.
Just silence
BY DEMETRI MARTEL
Grade 4, Champlain Elementary
They sit without a word to say to each
other. Nothing. They dont say a word.
They dont move a bone. Nothing. Just
silence.
Hour by hour, time passing by, day by
day, month by month, year by year.
Finally, one gets up and says, I am out!
I am getting too old for this!
Flickamoka
BY HAILEY CHASE
Grade 5, Williston Central School
A Flickamoka is an obergitley thing,
On his fngers is a gullippillus ring,
He likes to zeupharlessly sing,
About a rijjusbling, rijjusbling, rijjusbling.
A rujjusbling is a bonkeesh king
That is so munduke and hurbisding,
He only will deinch to lobing-schmobing.
Sing the song
BY ZANIPOLO LEWIS
Little boy and little Klig
Come with me and sing.
Sing the song of a natural fg
And see how you will zling.
See the little figgy lig
And the zupie kookly king
Sing the song of a natural fg:
Weegee woogy,
Klink-a-tee-clonk,
Zigly nig
Fickly tig
Sing the song of a natural fg!
So come with me little boy and little Klig!
Sigy loop,
Lipppy toop,
Saga de sogig Igg siggy-er-op!
Googoo jagalee teetee gig!
Ziggy zaggy little pig!
Sing the song of a natural fg!
So come with me little boy and little Klig!
On Middle School
Here are some favorite quotes from the
Middle School Writing Challenge. Read
more middle school quotes at youngwriter-
sproject.org/middleschool-quotes.
When will it end? Ive had enough drama
to last a lifetime. Or at least to the end of
my personal eternity.
- Raina Carfaro, Grade 7, Camels Hump
Middle School
Middle school has many complex tunnels,
some are underground.
- Alexandra Contreras-Montesano, Grade
7, Edmunds Middle School
Middle school is like being shattered into
a million pieces all at once, then having to
choose between your favorites, pick them
up and juggle them while having a bag on
your back that weighs a hundred pounds,
doing a bunch of timed math problems.
Oh, and this is all on an old, rickety roller
coaster.
- Vashta Nerada, Grade 7, Camels Hump
Middle School
Middle school, I believe, are some of the
hardest years of school I have gone through
and Im hoping they will be the hardest,
because I cant see how Ill get through
other ones.
- Isaiah Brathwaite, Grade 7, Glover Com-
munity School
THIS WEEK: Spirit & Photo 7
VERMONT BUSINESS ROUNDTABLE
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
papers around the state, on vpr.net and vtdigger.org.
This week, we present responses to the prompts, Spirit:
What is your spirit animal?; and Photo 7. Read more
great student writing at youngwritersproject.org.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Will Barr, Essex High School
Down in the mines
BY KAT TURNBULL
Grandpop used to work down in the mines,
didnt he, Ma?
Sure did.
A photo was passed to me,
one pair of shaking hands
to the next.
Younger than me
but he looked weathered,
lunch pail in his hands
and cigarette between his lips,
a lit cigarette.
Worked there his whole life, Ma?
Worked there his whole life.
Work boots,
dust all over,
dirt matted on his shirt.
Then how come he stopped, Ma?
Accident.
Photo 7 (Archie Love, Springstein Mills, Chester, S.C.) Lewis
Wickes Hine, Shorpy images
Farmhouse
BY RUBY SMITH
He stands proud in front of the small farm-
house,
a limp hand hooked on hand-me-down
suspenders,
pants a size too big, shirt a size too small,
a world of black and white,
a determined future dripping with quiet.
The boy sees this now,
and he is sturdy,
silent,
seamless,
proud in front of his small farmhouse.
Cold, red hands
BY MARIA CHURCH
The air was crisp and cold. Freezing
in lungs and bringing tears to eyes. The
ground was devoid of snow, leaving frozen
clods of dirt exposed. Bare trees rattled
with the breeze, like bones. None of this
seemed to deter the wild gang of children,
who had been kicked out of their own
houses by tired parents and had taken to the
streets quite naturally. They called to each
other with unidentifable shouts and ran
with surprising nimbleness on worn shoes,
hunting each other like packs of wolves.
They moved in an eerily synchronized
way, leaping from behind trees and corner-
ing a singled out child with unspoken com-
mands. The hunted child always seemed to
change. One second it was the girl with the
tightly braided pigtails that stuck out over
her shoulders, and the next it was the tod-
dling 5-year-old with a gap-toothed smile.
One of the boys fell back as he re-
moved his jacket to toss on the ground.
When he looked up, the rest of the children
had moved their game to behind a row of
houses, leaving him shivering and alone.
He pouted for a second and wrinkled his
brow at their fckleness.
Dressed in worn clothes in various
shades of gray, he didnt look like he
should be outside. His cold, red hands
seemed less mobile than the others and he
kept pressing them under his chin. How-
ever, even at this young age, he seemed
to know that to not participate was to be
singled out and to be singled out was to be
hunted. He rubbed his hands together once
more before running after the group before
they noticed he was gone.
Jackrabbit
BY COLE EWOLDSEN
If I had a spirit animal, it would be a
jackrabbit because I am crafty and really
fast like a jackrabbit can be.
Jackrabbits are clever and smart like
I am. Their ears are big so they can hear
really well like I can. They are brave like
I am.
Buffalo
BY MICAH ROSSMAN
Grade 3, Sustainability Academy
at Lawrence Barnes
My spirt animal is a buffalo. I dont
know why because Im small, but I just feel
like thats what it is. A buffalo is tough, just
like me.
September
BY ELLA STAATS
He comes to me every so often. Its
been two years, but he still looks the same.
The same faded button-down shirt. The
same baggy overalls. The same leather rid-
ing cap, the brim pushed to the side.
His skin is slightly paler, but besides
that there are no signs that hes been
wandering through time and space, lost
between the world of the dead and living,
for the last 24 months. Spirits dont age, I
suppose.
The last time I saw him was this past
September. I was sitting against an oak tree
by the lake house, my journal resting on
my lap, waiting for an idea to drift into my
mind. That`s when he appeared, fve feet
away, standing in the trampled grass.
One moment there was air, the next
there was a boy with sandy hair and sunken
eyes. I had learned not to be surprised by
his uninvited appearances; he never an-
nounced when he was coming to visit...
org/node/91723.
Spirit of the loon
BY MAEVE FAIRFAX
The loon is an animal of wisdom,
of underwater grace,
and of great joy
and deep love for song.
I share many of those traits.
For one, I have collected wisdom
of wildlife, and respect, as well.
I love the water like no other place.
A loon dives with ease and grace
and cannot move about on the land.
I enjoy the aspect of music like nothing
else.
I love to sing,
and singing makes me feel
free, free, free.
Phoenix
BY MORGAN ROBERTS
When I look at my sister, I see a phoe-
nix, a bright, young girl who has an image
of her own, and is unique in her own way.
She was born as something different, some-
thing that Ive never seen before. My sister.
She reminds me of a fngerprint or a
snowfake. One of a kind. No two are iden-
tical. Like her, theres only one.
With her wild spirit and caring heart,
she may look like just a young girl, but
inside, shes much more.
The hawk
BY DEREK PICKARD
Grade 5, Shelburne Community School
Im the messenger of the spirits, very
quick-witted and you never know what Im
going to do, with claws of evil and eyes of
coal.
People often seek me before making
a decision. Im fast and the leader of the
pack.
It gives me happiness to fy and I am
very good at defending myself. I am clever,
but use it for tricking people...
I will always protect myself but others
need to fend for themselves.
THIS WEEK: Farm & Senses
TURRELL FUND
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
papers around the state, on vtdigger.org and vpr.net.
This week, we present responses to the prompts, Farm:
Write about an experience youve had on a farm; and
Senses: Use every sense except sight.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Calleigh Brignaull, Essex High School
Beneath the city
BY LENA STIER
A sudden blast of hot air envelops my
body and flls my lungs, the usual odor of
trash and pollution entering my nose.
The rush of traffc and various city-
street noises become faint and muffed as
I descend the steps into the elaborate under-
ground tunnel system.
The fast clicking of heels and the beep-
ing of various machines can be heard from
all directions around me. Dozens of hurried
bodies, being swept through the room in a
wave of people, shove me and jostle me,
seemingly unaware of anything but getting
to their own destination.
The air feels thicker in my lungs as I
descend yet another staircase, leading me
deeper into the underground.
The platform shakes as a quiet rumble
becomes closer and closer, louder and
louder, until fnally I feel a gust of wind
on my face, and a short silence before the
doors open and the jostling and shoving
resumes. I wait as the crowd clears, and I
step onto the train, hearing the doors slide
shut behind me.
Caring for animals
BY ETHAN BESSETTE
I live on a small farm. I have 60 laying
chickens and I also raise 15 turkeys in the
summer; they`re meat birds. I usually raise
about 40 to 50 per year.
I also raise a calf or two that I show at
Addison County Fair and Field Days, and
two beef cows. I hope to get a few more
and raise a herd of beef cows.
I love taking care of my animals. It is
fun spending time with them.
When I have my show calves (or calf)
my mom walks them to school to pick me
up! I feel so badly for the kids who kind
of hesitate because they have never seen a
calf.
I love walking my cows every day in
the spring and summer... When I get home
I take them for a 10-minute walk and spend
another half hour or hour with them, some-
times in the pasture taking a nap together...
org/node/91567.
YWP ANTHOLOGY
CALL TO WRITERS, ARTISTS,
PHOTOGRAPHERS
Students up to 12th grade: Sub-
mit your best work for a chance to
be published in YWPs sixth annual
Anthology.
Our team of judges will be re-
viewing submissions starting May
26, so don`t delay.
How to submit: Go to youngwrit-
ersproject.org, start an account (if
you don`t already have one); and cre-
ate a blog entry. Click on Newspaper
Submission, fll out all information
boxes and click the prompt 'general
writing. Same steps for photos and
art, but click on 'Add images, and
make the genre 'photo story.
You may also email your work to
sreid@youngwritersproject.org, and
include your name, grade, school and
best contact information.
Published writers, artists and
photographers will be honored at
a special Celebration of Writing
on Saturday, November 8 at the
Vermont College of Fine Arts in
Montpelier.
Be part of this distinguished
group, representing the year`s best!
My world
BY LYDIA SMITH
Grade 10, Homeschool, Charlotte
Beep, beep, beep. My alarm clock lit up
- 5 a.m. I pulled my warm blankets over
my head and snuggled back in. Ten minutes
later, my sister shook me back to reality.
Stumbling over a pile of schoolbooks, I
fumbled for my clothes. I slipped down the
stairs, trying to shake the cobwebs from my
dozing brain.
As my feet hit the cold tile foor, the
sleepiness fnally dissipated. Mechanically,
I mixed together a warm bottle of milk re-
placer for the lamb we were supplementing.
Bottle in hand and big sister at my side, we
slipped on our barn boots and heavy coats
before stepping out into the frigid morning
air. Squinting through puffy eyes, I trudged
across the driveway to the elderly 15-pas-
senger van. The brief drive to the old,
three-sided barn where we wintered the
fock that year seemed longer than usual.
The van hummed, dispelling the morning
mists and shaking the cold from its rusty
bones. As we turned into the driveway and
eased down the icy slope, the barn came
into view. It was little more than a glorifed,
overgrown shed, but it offered protection
from the wind and snow.
With a creak, the van doors swung open
and we hopped out. As I approached the
gate, I called for the bottle lamb, named
Relish. The hungry lamb erupted from
the bottom of a pile of snoozing sheep,
unperturbed by the disruption. I squeezed
through the metal gate blocked by a stub-
born ewe. The lights jolted on, momen-
tarily blinding me. A quick scan of the barn
revealed no new lambs and a demanding
tug on my jeans reminded me that Relish
was starving. Tilting the bottle carefully, I
held it as he greedily chugged it down. My
sister carefully looked over the slumber-
ing ewes, checking for signs of impend-
ing labor. As Relish licked the fnal drops
of milk from his lips, I snuggled with the
youngest addition to our farm, not quite 24
hours old yet.
... I wouldn`t trade my early mornings,
late nights, and long days for anything.
In spring, I help new lives come into the
world, watch them wobble on their fresh
legs, and teach them how to nurse. In sum-
mer, I earn their trust, prepare them for the
shows, and walk them into the ring. In fall,
I say good-bye to many friends and begin
my plans for the next year, promising to
do it all better than ever before. In winter,
I wait. This is my life. And I wouldn`t
change it for the world.
org/node/79444.
Shelburne Farms
BY WALKER GRAY
I spend most of my time on a farm. I go
to school at Shelburne Farms.
One of my favorite memories is the frst
day of kindergarten. When I left the house
I was nervous but excited. When we drove
through the gates, we checked in with the
friendly man in the little house. We saw the
big felds with fowers and animals...
We drove up the winding road and up to
the parking lot where I caught my frst sight
of goats, pigs and donkeys. The donkeys
greeted me with a heehaw-heehaw while I
was putting on my backpack.
When we walked into school it was not
at all what I expected. I expected a regular
school building but this was not regular.
It was a barn that used to be the home for
the cows, goats, horses and donkeys. We
walked into my classroom and I knew from
that point on that school would be great! At
recess time, we went outside and ran up a
big hill to the recess feld.
I thought that there would be a play-
ground. Instead there was a big feld. We
got to play in the forest and make up games
of our own. The best part was that when we
played, we could hear all of the animals...
org/node/91535.
Grandpas farm
BY SADIE SUMNER
If I was going to bring anyone to my
grandpa`s farm, Windy Ridge Farm, in
southern Vermont I would bring all of my
friends and my teachers, especially Ms.
Peterson. My grandpa`s farm has cows and
barn cats, not a crazy, cool barn, but one
where you can fnd the country inside of
you... My grandpa is probably the hard-
est working old man that I know. And I`m
proud that he has a farm...
org/node/91570
Without sight
BY EMMETT YOUNG
I walk into a room full of people. Then
I hear it; it is the sound of a band playing. I
hear the trumpets trumpeting. I hear people
playing the piano.
Then I smell the fragrance of roses,
tulips and many more fowers.
I taste the snacks at the snack table.
I feel for the chair as I sit down at the
table.
THIS WEEK: Senses
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
pers around the state, on vpr.net and vtdigger.org. This
week, we present responses to the prompt, Senses: De-
scribe entering a room full of people, using every sense
except sight. More at youngwritersproject.org.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Walker Jones, Essex High School
The spy contest
BY ZANIPOLO LEWIS
Im in my room waiting for The BSYC
(The Best Spy of the Year Contest) to start.
It`s in fve minutes. I call down to my mom
that I have to go somewhere and press my
index fnger to the hidden fnger print pad
that will access the hidden door in my wall
only with my fngerprint.
As soon as the door pops open, I go in
and the door closes behind me. Then a huge
panel with an eye laser identifcation makes
sure that its my eye, and a reconstructed
sensor opens after I place two pieces of my
hair on it. I pass through and suddenly Im
engulfed in brilliant light in a high-tech
underground spy headquarters.
I`m a 16-year-old spy who has very
high training. I`ve been a spy for six years,
since I was 10, and am very high ranked. A
year ago when I was on a mission, I went
blind from a painful radioactive liquid that,
unfortunately, did not give me superpow-
ers. Thankfully my headquarters surgically
implanted a small machine in my brain
that gives me sonar so I know where I`m
going. My eyes got kind of glazed over so I
had to tell my mom that I had a skateboard
accident.
I hurry over to the crowded doorway of
an enormous room where all the spies are
going to celebrate the 60th anniversary of
the BSYC. It is the biggest honor to get the
main prize at the BSYC.
(Read the complete story at youngwritersproj-
ect.org/node/90058)
YWP ANTHOLOGY
PHOTOGRAPHERS
Anthology.
26, so dont delay.
you don`t already have one); and cre-
boxes and click the prompt 'general
art, but click on 'Add images, and
make the genre 'photo story.
Montpelier.
group, representing the years best!
NEXT PROMPT
Consequences. Write about a time when
you really understood the idea of conse-
quences... Alternates: 48 hours. If you had
48 hours to do anything or go anywhere,
what would you do? or Bully. Write a letter
to a bully. Due May 9
A storm of senses
Whispers rain down on my ears.
The walls are rough,
calloused, complete.
Flavors bend in the air,
business sweat and carpenter blood.
I stumble to a table,
flled with the hissing and crackling of fre,
the smell of sausage and cheese.
The greasy loneliness bursts in my mouth.
The volume of a fall
booms like a bass around the room,
a slight tremor underfoot.
The shifting is like sand on my ears.
The uneasy feeling of people looking flls
my heart.
The foor is a mix of messy mud and rough
gravel.
The smell of disappointment touches the
air.
My fngers fumble with my glasses.
The action of taking them off is foreign to
my fngers.
They slip off; the feeling of them hitting
my feet is one of fear.
I can smell them staring.
I can feel them becoming embarrassed.
I can hear the silence - like hail.
Crowded room
BY SIMONE EDGAR HOLMES
Grade 10, Champlain Valley Union
Stepping blindly into a crowded room
Out in the open, sense of standing on a
stage
Buzz of energy in the room
Bumped sharply to and fro
Out in the open, sense of standing on a
stage
Jazzy piano music tinkles softly
Bumped sharply to and fro
He tugs at his too-tight bow tie
Jazzy piano music tinkles softly
A cold dead fsh handshake
He tugs at his too-tight bow tie
Neutral taste of water on his tongue
A cold dead fsh handshake
The heady smell of perfume rises to his
nose
Neutral taste of water on his tongue
Heat curls and swirls from the crackling
fre
The heady smell of perfume rises to his
nose
Flutter of lace curtains against his neck
Heat curls and swirls from the crackling
fre
Clatter of heels on hardwood foors
Flutter of lace curtains against his neck
The constant chatter of delightful conversa-
tion
Clatter of heels on hardwood foors
Scent of fresh rose petal potpourri
The constant chatter of delightful conversa-
tion
Buzz of energy in the room
Scent of fresh rose petal potpourri
Stepping blindly into a crowded room
Crack the code
BY ISABEL VIVANCO
I walk down the deserted hallway, my
shoes squeaking on the newly polished
foor. Every sound I make bounces off the
walls back to me. There is a faint chatter-
ing from a door at the end of the hall. I
reach out for the door and feel the knob. It
is grimy and the paint is peeling beneath
my fngertips. Some paint fakes off when I
turn the knob.
As soon as the door opens, a wave of
sound crashes over me. I feel a soft plush
rug beneath my feet. People grab me, their
rough hands leading me in different direc-
tions.
One person, chattering like a squirrel
in my ear, leads me over to an area where
there is the feeling of rushing and hunger
in the air. I bump into a table and suddenly,
the most delicious smells fll my nose.
I smell cinnamon and sugar on a sweet
freshly baked pastry. There is something
fresh in the air like juicy fruit, waiting to
explode with favor when you bite into it.
Someone opens my mouth and stuffs
something in it. There is some sort of spicy
meat and potatoes steaming with favor. As
I bite into a potato, a fresh wave of steam
erupts, and I am forced to open my mouth
and release the steam. A heat from the food
overwhelms me with spices that tickle
my tongue in a pleasant way. As soon as
I swallow the delicious food, I crack the
code and realize that it is a bite of picante
chorizo and potato.
I quickly excuse myself from the crowd
surrounded around me and walk toward
the direction I came from. I grasp the knob
and slowly open the door. It makes a low
squeaking noise, something I didn`t notice
last time. I shut the door with a bang and
am immersed in the silence of the corridor.
I walk, my feet slapping against the foor
echoing loudly in the peaceful quiet.
THIS WEEK: Rhymes & Photo 6
CHAMPLAIN INVESTMENT PARTNERS
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
papers around the state, and on vpr.net and vtdigger.
org. This week, we present responses to the prompts,
Rhymes; and Photo 6. Read more great student writing
at youngwritersproject.org.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Jake Maurer, Essex High School
Sleeping song
Every day the wind blew its song,
Twirling with its righted wrong.
The trees whistled because they were
strong.
And the grass chimed a theme song
As together they sang their lullaby,
Putting to rest the dawn and day
Till nothing was left but yesterday.
As night dragged in,
The animals shivered in their skin.
And the moon and sun began their spin,
As if to dance away the sin.
Funeral owers
BY ERIN BUNDOCK
Grade 10, Champlain Valley High School
They sit on a crystal plate,
and the drying sunfower petals
send my heart into a futtering rate
that pounds against choking metal
wrapped around my chest;
I had forgotten what they were,
I had let my mind rest
far away from those fowers.
I used to hear you whistle
Zip-a-de-do-dah;
before the missile
broke me, I saw
you on holidays,
and talked on
birthdays,
but those days seem to be gone.
And today is not
a wonderful day,
and my voice caught
when I asked why it had to be this way.
NEXT PROMPT
Silence. Begin a story with this line: They
sat without a word to say to each other...
Alternate: Gibberish. Ever read Jabber-
wocky? Write a poem of nonsense and
made-up words. Make your reader laugh!
Due May 2
YWP ANTHOLOGY
PHOTOGRAPHERS
Anthology.
26, so dont delay.
you dont already have one); and cre-
boxes and click the prompt general
art, but click on Add images, and
make the genre photo story.
Montpelier.
group, representing the years best!
Your name
BY DUNCAN MACDONALD
What is your name?
It could be cool and it could be lame.
It could bring you sadness and it could
bring you fame.
You might think your name wont bring
you fame and its lame,
But your name is your name.
My modem
BY NATHANIEL CHRISTOPHER BABCOCK
Grade 12, Mount Mansfeld High School
My modem is about to die, and so am I.
What will I do when I die?
Whatever it is, I need to sigh
And tell you all goodbye
And tell my god hi.
When my modem dies, the world will end.
I will not be able to send
My SOS.
So cant you lend
A modem to your best friend?
I will not be able to Facebook and You-
Tube.
Skype and Google-plus will be down,
And I will have to actually go to town.
With that said, I will be uncool.
That is a thing for old folks to do.
I have a reputation at stake if my modem
dies,
And if that happens, then so will I.
About rhymes
BY ANDREW SILVERMAN
The most annoying phrases of all time
All happen to be written in rhyme.
Every vulgar limerick and bad pun
Is a rhyme, each and every one.
I truly hate it, I do.
Rhymes are a bother, its true.
Why I now write in rhyme, I do not know.
They are truly annoying, so
I must stop rhyming, as of right now.
But I dont stop; I dont know how!
Or do I like it? Oh, perish the thought!
Perhaps I do. I really hope not!
I cant like it, not a bit!
I... Hey, wait a minute!
This poem is about rhymes overall.
Maybe I do like rhymes after all!
Friends
BY SUNNY PREMSANKAR
Friends,
thats what I want to be,
friends with you.
Play with me. Walk with me.
I need you. Do you need me?
I hope so.
Why wont you talk?
Please dont ignore me.
Im not mean.
Dont worry, I dont bite.
I used to. Not anymore.
Be my friend.
Well do everything together.
I wont leave you.
Never ever. No.
Please, Im begging you.
Ive never had a friend.
Please, at least for a day.
Victoria Gibson, Essex High School
PHOTO 6
A dolls life
BY AMELIA LAWLOR
Being a doll isnt as easy as it looks.
Little girls pick me up and make me kiss
my brother and then they drop me and most
likely they break off my leg.
Then they want to glue it back on. It
hurts so badly. How would they feel if I
broke off their leg and then hot-glued it
back on?
Anyway, there is a girl who lives next
door to my owner Tara. They play with me
and this guy named Gavin and pretend we
fall in love and get married.
I wish that they wouldnt stop at the
part where we are at the park and he is
about to propose.
Tonight we are planning to meet outside
Taras house and we are going to the real
park. The bad thing is that Tara has a dog
that sleeps with her every night and if it
hears the smallest noise, I am dead meat.
Later... I luckily get out without making
a peep. I get outside and see Gavin there
waiting for me.
The sun peeks out over the horizon and
we hold hands and walk away together,
and... we live happily ever after.
THIS WEEK: Garden
TURRELL FUND
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
This week, we present responses to a writing challenge
sponsored by the Vermont Community Garden Net-
work on school gardens. We received more than 120
submissions from students across the state. You can
read all submissions, including the winning story by
Zofa Zerphy, Grade 6, Hartland Elementary School, at
youngwritersproject.org/garden.
READ ALL SUBMISSIONS AT
YOUNGWRITERSPROJECT.ORG/GARDEN
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Erin Anderson, Vermont Community Garden Network Intern 2013
Its our turn to grow
BY RAMONA BILODEAU
Grade 7, Edge Academy, Essex
This is my garden. The garden holds
more inside it than food. It holds memories.
Long sweaty mornings and short fatigued
afternoons. A hearty laugh with old friends
and a soft smile with new acquaintances.
The walls of this garden are built strong
and will not fall because we stand united.
Our garden expands larger than most
would. Our garden reaches outside the
fences where the plants grow. Far away to
the other side of Vermont. In a small town
on the other side of this state a teacher has
a beehive in his backyard. A whole civiliza-
tion run by a teacher and his students. We
come to visit whenever we get the chance.
We have seen queens fall and come into
power. Servants were once infected and
driven mad. We solved this problem with
limited material. We saw all these things
happen. All in a few beehives.
Life grows outside man and animal.
Our history is rooted within this forest. The
trees holding the thought and feeling of
everyone who roams here. Holding them
inside. We tap the trees because the inside
taste is just too good to gather slowly.
Make haste. For sap is in our blood and has
always been there for us Vermonters, and
the Vermont trees fll our needs. So the con-
nection runs oh very deep.
One part of the vast garden is the part
that grows food. We protect it for the better.
The kale grows extra tall as it bakes in the
spring sun. It waits to be cooked into some-
thing for lunch, maybe a nice kale salad or
kale chips. The plants sprout all around it.
They grow like our stories do...
org/node/92809.
HONORABLE MENTION
From the ground up
BY LAUREN HOUSE
Grade 8, Essex Middle School
One cell. The red of a worm. A piece
of dirt. A drop of water. A blade of grass.
A stem and leaf. The petals of fowers and
the core between. They make up one plant.
One organism in a garden of many, from
the ground up.
Blooming and expanding. Growing
and producing. Fruit and vegetables of all
colors. People come and see us plant. We
help them learn to grow. For if you havent
planted into the ground, you have not yet
lived life to its fullest. My friends and I,
we plant our gardens. To help our earth
and others, from the ground up.
We plant from the ground up. From our
seeds that grow and thrive to the roots of
the plants there. We plant from the ground
up. We plant to make the community of
Essex Middle School a better place. We try
to keep life growing all year. Helping our
community by gathering maple sugar from
the trees. Having a colony of bees. Show-
ing our gardening projects for the world to
see. Life is too short to not build from the
ground up.
That is what we fnd here. Life. Ev-
erywhere. In the roots that spread from
fower to fower, from plant to plant. From
one particle to another. We buy, we dig, we
plant, we grow. From the ground up...
org/node/92812.
HONORABLE MENTION
Food hghters
BY EMMA FORBES
I can easily defne myself as a runner,
a reader, an extrovert and a music fanatic.
But I had never tried gardening.
In the winter of our junior year, my
friend and I chose a semester-long project
for our anthropology seminar. The project,
an exploration of sustainability with very
loose parameters, could be on just about
anything we wanted. We did some brain-
storming, and before long our eyes lit upon
the greenhouse.
The existence of a Burlington High
School greenhouse was unknown to most
people, despite the fact that it jutted into
the middle of the school courtyard. It was
that unassuming: run-down and full of
boxes, tools, and crumpled-up seed pack-
ets. We hoped to hollow out a little spot
for ourselves to try our hands at gardening.
Our original idea was to experiment with
methods (such as vertical gardens) that
would make gardening possible for people
in an urban setting. But these ideas were
hypothetical on a large scale, and we ended
up exacting real change within our school.
When we gained permission to use the
space, my friend and I realized we were not
the only ones who had noticed the poten-
tial of the greenhouse. Sarah Heusner and
Jessie Mazar, two proponents of sustain-
ability and urban agriculture who worked
for the Burlington School Food Project,
quickly became our mentors and friends.
In a surprisingly short time we gathered a
sizable group of students, and I became a
co-founder of the frst BHS Food Fighters
garden club...
org/node/92004.
Epic gardens
BY SETH ROSSMAN
Grade 5, Sustainability Academy
at Lawrence Barnes
When youre eating your veggies at
school have you ever wondered, how did
my vegetables get here on my tray? The
answer is clear: gardens.
These spots of land with seeds in them
grow our crops, then fuel our bodies.
Having one at home is cool, but having
one at school is epic.
Just take a little plot of land then grow
your crops and eat. Our school went from
having an average schoolyard to fourish-
ing gardens that even the neighbors come
over to eat from.
When you eat out of a garden you are
not only eating food, you are appreciating
the gardeners work of planting and taking
care of the plants. So just think about it...
Beautiful place
BY ABIGAIL HUTCHINS
Grade 5, C.P. Smith School
At my school we have a garden. Right
now our garden is buried by snow. Im
guessing its very wet underneath.
When the snow melts I have a feeling
we are going to have to put more soil down
if we want more plants to grow.
In the spring we have lots of pretty
fowers, thanks to the bees... I think our
school is really lucky to have such a beauti-
ful garden...
Watch it grow
BY KHALON TAYLOR
Here at Champlain, my class planted
cucumbers. We watched them grow and
then picked em. Then we harvested some
dill and made pickles. They were so good!
We also picked some mint to make
some tea. It was very good.
It changed my attitude so now I eat
things we planted fresh from a garden.
Thats healthy for you!
Planting the garden
BY MADELINE HAYDOCK
This year the Architect team is planting
our school garden. I cant wait for spring!
Our garden will have veggies and fow-
ers. We will have tomatoes, kale, parsley,
and chives. We will also have daisies,
bulbs, and many more fowers. We will
have a beautiful garden. We always do.
But not only our class is going to work
in the garden. All of the fourth grade works
on the garden every single year.
We are allowed to eat the food through-
out the year. We always are looking for
some tomatoes to eat. But we always save
the kale for kale chips.
NEXT PROMPT
Childhood. Write about a piece of your
childhood that youd like to keep as you
approach adulthood. Alternate: General
writing in any genre. Due April 25
THANK YOU
To the Vermont
Community Garden
Network (VCGN) for
sponsoring the garden
challenge. VCGN has
sent the winner a $50 cash prize
and a $50 gift certifcate from Red
Wagon Plants of Hinesburg; as well
as a bundle of seeds to every writer
in the contest!
Find out more about VCGN at vcgn.org.
THIS WEEK: Fear & Top 5
VERMONT COUNTRY STORE
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
pers around the state, and on vtdigger.org and vpr.net.
This week, we present responses to the prompts, Fear:
What is your biggest fear?; and Top 5: Make a list of
your top 5 anything. More at youngwritersproject.org.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Basketball
BY QUINN BOARDMAN
There are lots of fears and worries that
people have. It can go from snakes and
spiders to your house catching on fre. You
may think that mine is not such a big deal,
but it is truly embarrassing!
My fear would start at a basketball
game, a game where I am playing. My
heart is racing, and I am trying to catch my
breath. We are winning, but not by much.
There is only so much time left that it has
to be used so carefully.
I get the ball and dribble as fast as I
can, knowing that nothing can stop me. But
as I am dribbling, I see that the other team
does nothing to stop me. They stop running
and just stand there. They look at me like I
am crazy.
I wonder if the whistle has been blown
but I keep going because maybe it was not.
I am almost there, almost there, I keep
telling myself.
I hear my team yelling and screaming,
knowing that they are cheering for me. I let
the ball fy, spinning through the air. And
then swish. I get all net. The crowd is wild.
I am so proud of myself.
Until I fnd out it is the wrong basket.
VERMONTIVATE!
WRITING CHALLENGE
Write about climate
change and win prizes!
Read the prompts and fnd out more
about the challenge and Vermontivate,
the community sustainability game at
youngwritersproject.org/vermontivate14.
Due date: Monday, April 14
Same as everyone
BY MAGNUS SULLIVAN
Being non-individual, being the same
as everyone else there is no greater fear. I
pride myself in not necessarily being differ-
ent, but being individual.
The only way I see in accomplishing
things is to do it myself; help may be an
option but I would rather learn than be
taught because when you teach yourself, it
is impossible to get confused.
Being the same, copying others, and be-
ing taught life are my greatest fears.
Logging trucks
BY HANNAH MOSS
My greatest fear is being in a car behind
one of those trucks that carries big logs.
The logs can come loose and hit your car.
I do not like thinking about it too much
because one time when my family and I
were driving back from Massachusetts we
had to drive behind one of them.
The logs were shaking around and
moving. All I could picture was the logs
shooting out and hitting us.
My dad tried to pass the truck on the
road, but the passing lane was too skinny
and too short.
I was sitting in the back seat watching
my dad try to move around it and watching
the logs shift and roll. Eventually the road
got bigger so my dad could pass it.
That is my biggest fear, and how it
came to be.
Fear of nothingness
BY KAYLEIGH REID
Grade 11, Milton High School
Sometimes I fear the afterlife,
the possible nothingness that awaits me.
The cold.
I fear that after spending my short lifespan
among the living, I will be in eternal black-
ness.
No life, no light, no thought.
Sometimes I try to picture heaven, that holy
place that many elders have tried to tell me
is real.
I try to fnd comfort in it, but I just can`t
seem to convince myself.
I want to believe, to have faith in a mean-
ingful place after my death.
I can picture it, the beauty and the warmth
and the love.
Never being alone.
Though I still can`t believe, no matter how
hard I try.
I can`t see past the logic, or the lack of it.
I don`t have faith.
How can such a place exist?
So I go back to my fear, and the loneliness
of its eternal darkness.
I sink back into thoughts of a terrible
future.
One that can only lead to depression, that
is, if it held consciousness.
Letting go
BY GEORGIA MALONE-WOLFSUN
I am afraid of letting go.
Change scares me.
Is it worth it to become so close,
so bonded
with an experience, a dream, a person
for the chance that it could all be taken
away from you at any moment?
Is it worth it
to make a best friend
who you know can`t stay long?
To fnd a home
you know you are going to have to leave?
Having a team turn into a group of sisters
only to be split and twisted into different
people by the realities of the world?
To fall in love
when you know you are going to have to
say goodbye?
Goodbye.
That word is what scares me,
more than monsters and stalkers, and ghost
stories.
The word is painful, and full of memories
that you know will never come back again.
Is it better to just do
and not feel
so the pain of saying goodbye doesn`t hurt
as much?
Or is it worth it
to become so close
to give up any resistance you have
and let what is going to happen happen?
It might be what makes you you.
Is it worth it to miss out on that?
My top 5
BY AMANDA KIRBY
Grade 11, Rice Memorial High School
5) The way you say my name like it`s some
sort of treasure that you`re afraid to lose.
Like somehow not saying my name will
allow me to slip through your fngers, out
of your grasp.
4) That your eyes tell stories every time
you look at me, and I can see the accep-
tance in your eyes when you tell me that
you love me.
3) How your tongue runs across your lips
after you tell me I`m beautiful as if despite
the distance you can taste my so-called
beauty on your lips.
2) The way you laugh as if everything I say
is a gift sent from God that somehow de-
spite your beliefs, you accept and cherish.
1) And lastly, the love I can feel in my
bones for you, the kind of love that rattles
your soul and shakes your very being. And
that`s when you know.
Five things I like
BY MIKAYLA ROUCOULET
The frst thing that I like is gymnastics
because I really like fipping, jumping, do-
ing splits, and other stuff.
The second thing that I like is going
swimming with my grandpa and my friends
because it really takes a lot of strength and
it is not too hard, but not too easy.
The third thing that I like is playing
with my siblings. They are really fun.
The fourth thing that I like is riding my
bike because I don`t live on an open street
and I can bike to get ice cream.
The ffth thing that I like is having ice
cream because it is a sweet treat.
NEXT PROMPT
Color. Create a new color name it,
describe it. Where do you fnd it? Alter-
nates: Early. Are you an early bird or a
night owl? Which way is better? Or Photo
9. Due April 18
THIS WEEK: School makeover
CHAMPLAIN INVESTMENT
PARTNERS
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Each week, Young Writers Project receives several
hundred submissions from students in Vermont and
New Hampshire and we publish the best here and in
newspapers around the state and on vtdigger.org and
vpr.net. This week, we present responses to the prompt,
Makeover: How would you redesign your school?
Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Deanna Davis-Kilpatrick, Essex High School
Dream school
BY RUBY SMITH
In an ideal school for me, the cur-
riculum and schedule would be radically
different.
I think it would be really useful to have
three-day weekends and four-day weeks.
Two days isnt enough time to recharge and
catch up on sleep.
However, to make up for this, school
days would go every day from 8:45 a.m. -
5:30 p.m. Starting school 45 minutes later
would help infnitely on students` sleep
schedules and prevent the exhaustion that
most teens feel daily.
Extending the school day two and a half
hours every day would make up for the day
missed.
With this, however, there would be no
homework. Teachers say students should
only spend half an hour to an hour on
homework per night, so this would give
plenty of time to cover this.
Also in a school, I would enjoy more
options of activities. In my opinion, schools
should focus more on the arts because they
build up crucial skills like concentration
and determination.
I would take away most testing and
standards for the school system because
they cause so much stress and make learn-
ing a very negative experience. Many
children might enjoy math if they didnt
associate it with frustration resulting in a
letter which goes on to defne who they are.
Lastly, I would focus parts of every day
on doing good for the community. If every
school had just one day per week where
every student went outside and picked up
trash, had a conversation with a homeless
person, cooked for a food shelf, etc., the
world could be a thousand times better and
I think thats much more important than
learning silly facts that will be forgotten the
next day.
School? Like heaven
BY ARNAUD DAHOUROU
Do we not all want to make things into
our own? To have things the way we want?
To run things our way? As kids, school is
a major thing weve all wanted to change.
This is how I would do it.
IPad Airs and Chromebooks would
be the generally used devices. Instead of
books and notebooks, all kids would need
to carry around would be their device. No
more heavy textbooks, no more having to
carry a billion notebooks home. Teachers
wouldnt have to read through books any-
more; with the touch of a fnger they could
be teaching their class in no time. Anyone
that missed a day at school could catch up
on work through their devices.
The library would be the only place
with books. It would be flled with thou-
sands of books. There would be two parts
to this library: the tech library and the
original library. The original library would
take up two-ffths of this literature heaven.
It would be just a regular, good old library.
The tech library, on the other hand, would
have electronic shelves all hooked up to a
supercomputer that would be able to tell
readers exactly where to fnd their books.
The shelves would have little individual
book holders. All users would have to
do would be to look up the book on their
school device and wait. The books holder
would silently pop out and glow.
All students would be satisfed with
their schedules. They would be specif-
cally put together just to ft their needs and
demands. A hangout would be situated on
all foors. Students hate being supervised,
therefore students would be trusted to
behave and maintain their hangout privi-
leges. Each hangout would be different and
unique in its own way, attracting people
with the same taste. Each hangout would
consist of a snack bar and vending ma-
chines. The school would be four stories
high with two elevators on each corner.
Classrooms would be big but only consist-
ing of less than 15 students. School days
would start at 8:40 a.m., and end at 4 p.m.
Students would be given seven minutes
between each period. The school would
have a grand auditorium big enough to hold
500 people. It would have two gyms and
two band rooms. Everyone would be given
a chance to play an instrument or any activ-
ity offered.
Obviously, schools like this would be
too good to be true, but as a 13-year-old
full of imagination, this is the school I
would like to go to.
Add some color
BY LARAGH SCHARF
I walk down the narrow hallway and
see all the boring things around me like the
boring foors, walls and ceilings. As I walk,
I think, What if I could change all this?
The next day, I ask the principal,
Could I change a few things in the
school?
No, she says sternly.
As I walk to the classroom I think, may-
be my teacher will agree. A few seconds
later I am in the warm classroom and I go
to my teacher and say, Maybe we could
change a few things in the school. Maybe
we could turn the walls into iPhones and
the foors into trampolines.
Stop, she says loudly. I think that is
a little too much.
Then my teacher says, Maybe we
could paint the walls... that would give a
little color.
I say, Maybe we could paint the
school red.
'I think that would be fne, she says.
We will start tomorrow.
The next morning we call the painters
and get started. Two weeks later, it is done.
I look at it and say, Wow, that does look
good. And then I say, I guess a school
does not need iPhone walls or trampoline
foors.
And I know that my teacher agrees.
Lunch buffet
BY NELSON NYAL
If I could change my school into what I
wanted I would change the cafeteria into a
buffet because we dont get enough food to
fll us up.
Also I would change the time we start
school. I think school should start at 10
a.m., because then we wouldnt have to
wake up early. We can get rest if we went
to bed late.
Students choose
BY EMILY LUBAS
School
If I could change anything I wanted
about my school, there would be a lot of
changes. First, instead of having a music
wing there would be a pool and a hot tub.
During activity period a different
teacher every day would take students
down to go swimming. The pool would be
huge with rainbow-colored lights. The pool
would have a really high and a low diving
board and the stairs to get into the pool
would be spirals.
We would get to choose to go on feld
trips on Fridays or we would have Friday
Fun Day. The students would choose where
the feld trips were so they would be really
fun. Meanwhile, the students who wanted
Friday Fun Day would be able to do any-
thing, like going swimming or drawing on
teachers whiteboards...
In the cafeteria there would a creemee-
maker or a choice of hard ice cream with
toppings. The ice cream would be free and
open to students before school, lunch and
after school.
There would also be a movie theater for
students to watch movies. Popcorn, drinks
and candy would be served with the movie.
The students would be able to choose the
movies that were playing.
YWP AT POEM CITY
MONTPELIER | APRIL 7
POETRY WORKSHOP
WITH LELAND KINSEY
4 5:30 P.M.
READINGS BY YWP WRITERS
6:30 8 P.M.
Kellogg-Hubbard Library
East Montpelier Room
135 Main St., Montpelier
Free pizza for workshop participants
at 5:45 p.m.
Poetry reading open to all who want
to share their words.
Friends and family welcome!
RSVP sreid@youngwritersproject.org
THIS WEEK: Inspired & Disaster
NATIONAL LIFE GROUP
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Each week, Young Writers Project receives hundreds of
submissions from students in Vermont and New Hamp-
shire and we publish the best here and in newspapers
around the state, on vtdigger.org and vpr.net. This week,
we present responses to the prompts, Inspired: What
inspires you to succeed?; and Disaster: Ever have one
of those days when everything turns to disaster?
Terrible morning
BY ELLA STAATS
I woke up at 6
with a pounding in my head.
I yawned and I stretched
then I fell out of bed.
My face hit the foor
and I smashed in my nose.
I quickly jumped up
and stubbed my big toe.
I limped to the bathroom
and turned on the sink.
It then overfowed
in what seemed like a blink.
I ran down to the kitchen
for a bowl of Cheerios
but the milk was all rotten
so I decided on toast.
There was one slice of bread
all covered in mold.
The butter was melted,
the jam three years old.
By then I was late
and Id begun to weep.
My days bad already,
Ill just go back to sleep.
Editors Note: Autumn Eastman, a senior at
Champlain Valley Union High School, is one of
the premiere distance runners in the state and
is part of one of the most successful Vermont
school running teams ever. Last fall, YWP asked
Autumn to write a journal about her running.
This is an excerpt of Autumns blog as she
reviews events of her senior year. To read the
piece in its entirety, go to youngwritersproject.
org/blog/7838.
Senior year
BY AUTUMN EASTMAN
School
Looking back, this year has a been a blur.
Spring track, summer workouts, fall cross
country the states, regionals and nation-
als the college visits, a decision and quickly
into Nordic skiing. So much packed in to
each day, each month, each sport. But for me,
the season really began this summer, when,
for the second year, my training had to get
serious.
My alarm clock rings, shaking me out of
sleep. I look over to see the neon digital 6:00
fashing bright. Ugh. As I step outside, I hear
the rumble of the garbage truck making its
rounds. It is still foggy and cool. The sunrise
will be soon. The air feels fresh on my skin
as I ease into my stride to wake up my legs.
Once I pick up my normal steps, I fall into a
rhythm, steady, strong. There is no stopping
me. When I return, I am fully awake. I eat a
big breakfast and take a nap; there is a second
half to my training day.
Around 3 p.m., I strap on my roller skis
and head out for another workout. I end near
dusk when there is little left of daylight.
Last summer, I ran 450 miles, did 50+
hours of rollerski training plus untold hours
of bike rides, hikes and strength workouts.
My summers havent been the usual carefree
breaks from the grind that most teenagers ex-
perience. My summers are routines; repeated,
regular, strenuous workouts and physical
training each day, alternating runs and roller-
skis with strength training. My training was
progressive; as the summer weeks passed,
my training became more intense. With my
feet half in Nordic training and half in cross-
country, I had to accommodate several of my
coaches wishes. I didnt want to disappoint
either side. I ran every day I was supposed to;
I never once skipped out on a training; I never
gave myself that option. Its like cliff jump-
ing: Instead of hanging over the cliff, second-
guessing yourself and giving yourself time to
back out, you just jump without thinking.
I was driven, too, by success. After a little
success my sophomore year, I had to make a
choice that really wasnt a choice at all; my
coaches and my team were counting on me.
Even when I was younger, when I put my
mind to something, I did it. I love to be in
charge and in control, which molds well with
having to train. All of this may seem crazy to
the casual person.
It is a blistering hot spring day; tempera-
tures are close to 80 degrees. The 2013 Ver-
mont State Track & Field Championships are
a few days off and temperatures are predicted
in the 90s. To prepare, I take the challenge
-- weather acclimation. In practice, I wear
long pants, a t-shirt, two jackets and a pair
of gloves. I do my running the sprints, the
mid-distances, the stretches fully clothed. I
am panting. I am boiling. But come Saturday,
I will be ready to battle the heat. And I was. I
was able to help bring my team to victory.
On days like that one, or when its bone-
chilling cold and raining, I do sometimes ask
myself: Why? It always boils down to the
same answer: My team; my coaches respect;
reward. Success means nothing without
people to share it with. Nothing meant more
than to be able to share my success at Nike
Regionals with my team. When I crossed the
fnish line with a time that qualifed me for
the Nationals, pressure lifted from my shoul-
ders. All of my hard work had paid off and
my teammates were right by my side to fll
me with congratulations. Now I was ready to
face one of the biggest and celebratory races
of the season.
It is Wednesday. The race is Saturday. As
the plane touches down in Portland, Oregon,
it hits me. I am alone. No team. No coaches.
Just me and my legs, my training and my
work. It is lonely at frst, but then I meet some
of the other Easterners we stick together.
There is also a lot going on: practice runs and
swag parties with Nike. But as the day ap-
proaches, I dont feel the usual jitters.
It is weird to be stepping to the start line
without my CVU teammates. My new friends
are there with me but it is different. The gun
goes off and away we go. The pace is fast. I
am up in the front. This is where I want to be.
I pass the checkpoints knowing that people
watching online can see where I am and can
see my time. I think of my teammates back
home watching the computer screen, cheer-
ing, urging me on. I feel good. I feel strong.
Hundreds of eager parents, coaches and spec-
tators line the course, screaming at us to go,
go, go! As I climb over each whoop-dee-doo
hill, my rhythm breaks and my momentum
shoots forward. The girls in the lead are just
a bit far off, but as I round to go into the fnal
stretch, I kick hard to go into the fnish line.
Twentieth, nineteenth, eighteenth, seven-
teenth, sixteenth. Sixteenth in the nation! My
high school cross-country running career is
over. Like a dream.
There wasnt much time to let the season
and Nationals settle in. When I returned,
there were Nordic practices, meetings and
before I knew it, Nordic races had begun.
After Nordic, will be track and beyond that,
Georgetown University.
My career as a high school athlete has
been enlightening, profound. I have learned
what it means to devote all of my time and
effort to one thing in order to chase deeper
goals. I have learned what it means to suc-
ceed and to come up short. I have learned that
all I really need to do is do the best I can. And
Ive learned that none of this could have been
done alone...
Read the complete blog at youngwritersproject.
org/blog/7838.
Autumn Eastman of Champlain Valley Union High School.
Photo courtesy of Autumn Eastman
INSPIRED: YOUNG PEOPLE WRITE ABOUT WHAT INSPIRES THEM TO SUCCEED
YWP AT POEM CITY
MONTPELIER | APRIL 7
POETRY WORKSHOP
WITH LELAND KINSEY
4 5:30 P.M.
READINGS BY YWP WRITERS
6:30 8 P.M.
Kellogg-Hubbard Library
East Montpelier Room
135 Main St., Montpelier
Free pizza for workshop participants
at 5:45 p.m. Poetry reading open to
all who want to share their words.
Friends and family welcome!
RSVP sreid@youngwritersproject.org
Must be a mistake
BY ALLIE BROWN
The second I opened my eyes, I knew
something wasn`t right. A malodorous smell
flled my nose and my eyes began to water.
I lay there for a moment deciding if I should
jump out the window or warn my family.
I decided that the best option was to sim-
ply investigate the situation. This was wise
because last time my panic led me to call the
cops over my brothers loose tooth.
As I stumbled out of bed, my bare foot
landed on something soft and squishy... I
fung my body to the side of it, hitting my
head on the night-stand. I stood up and
looked over at what had caused the large
bump, now throbbing on my forehead. There,
lying on my carpet, was a dead rat. My cat
must have gifted it to me during my heavy
slumber. I groaned loudly... I decided to leave
it there; I sure as heck wasnt about to touch
that thing!
I ran into the kitchen only to come face to
face with a cloud of smoke... I fell to the foor
dramatically and began to roll around on the
cold tiles, attempting to rid my clothes of the
billowing fames that could possibly be there.
While I rolled, a large fgure in a bathrobe
stepped over me and began to wave a dish
cloth in the air. 'Get off the foor, Timmy!
my mother shouted. Get the heck outside
and call the fre department.
I sprinted out the door, phone in hand, and
dialed 9-1-1while a cluster of neighbors gath-
ered around me, including some of the older
boys and girls from down the street.
'Are you okay? 'Are you hurt? I felt
like a celebrity with all those big, cool kids
looking out for me. I told them about the
dead rat and my near-death experience. They
listened in awe. Ten minutes later a freman
walked up, carrying something gray.
Heres this, he said, tossing it at me.
Thought you might want something familiar
to cuddle with while we get this sorted out.
He ruffed my hair. I looked down at the
stuffed animal. A soft, fuzzy, rat. I tried to
explain to my new friends that it must have
been a mistake. But they were already walk-
ing away, laughing among themselves.
Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.org/
node/91177.
THIS WEEK: Disappoint & Contrast
TURRELL FUND
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
papers around the state, on vtdigger.org and vpr.net.
This week, we present responses to the prompts, Disap-
pointed: Write about a time where your expectations
werent quite met; and Constrast: Hope vs. despair.
Olivia Fewell / Essex High School
The chase
BY SAMMIE BLACKMORE
The soft, light touch of rabbit feet on the
snowy earth averts the owls head.
A gleam of hope sparks in the dark void
of the owls heart, crushing the cloud of
despair.
Flying, swooping through the brushes and
brambles, hoping, waiting.
The rabbit jumps once, twice, avoiding the
talons of death.
Yet another spark of light, the hope of get-
ting away.
Dodging and missing, the chase is on.
Rivers of hope and swirls of light follow
the prey and predators as they make their
way through the deadly forest.
Life crumbling death.
The rabbit leaps into its hole.
It is safe.
Once again, hope crushes despair.
Life over death.
Maybe.
Treacherous maid
BY LYDIA SMITH
Shes strong enough to topple mountains,
yet gently ruffes children`s hair.
She dances across foreign fountains,
creating ripples of mesmerizing waves.
She sings a rocking melody,
then changes to a whispered lullaby.
She cools a summer afternoon merrily,
then tears frames from foundations.
She can give the power to fy, to be free,
or she can shatter and shackle and kill.
Natures treacherous maid is she
Wind.
The glass house
BY SARINA MARTINEZ DE OSABA
I had been waiting for this day all my
life. I had been working for this day all my
life. Every tendu of my foot or devel-
oppe of my leg was for this day.
My hopes and dreams for this were like
a glass house, every year a new foor flled
with expectation and hope would be added
to the magical glass house.
Thirteen years worth of hopes, dreams,
expectation, promises, hard work, determi-
nation, blood, sweat and tears were in that
13-story-high glass house.
I stood with the rest of the class facing
the teacher. He gave a speech about how
not everyone gets this role, and it doesnt
mean youre not a good dancer, but I
wasnt listening. I knew this didnt apply
to me.
He called the girls names one by one
followed by applause. He didnt call my
name.
A dark-cloaked fgure called Reality
had been hiding in the bushes near my
beautiful glass house.
He stood up from his crouch in the
shrubs. He began to throw rocks at my
house. Each rock he threw found its mark
and shattered with a heartbreaking crash.
He laughed with his you-will-never-win
laugh.
I was watching from a distance. No!
Stop! Give me another chance! I shouted
but no sound came out and Reality kept on
going.
Crash, crash, crash! Thirteen crashes.
Thirteen years of work and determination
shattered into a million pieces before my
eyes.
Just not as good
BY ELLA MASON
Grade 4, Champlain Elementary School
I felt not as good as them.
And I could not keep it in.
I cried.
And cried.
And cried.
I was mad and sad.
I felt just not as good.
Excitement stitched
into my backpack
Excitement is stitched
into my backpack.
I wish I could keep still.
A smile is peeking and peering its way out.
I close my eyes
and whisper reassuring pats
in my own ears.
I zip up my sweater,
ready for a ride.
And step up to the big sign
that says Edmunds Middle School.
Last year was a breeze;
I linger within the happy memories.
The bell rings
and we all race in.
Almost skipping in,
a smile stretched wide,
I turn to fnd my friends.
***Skip through half the year***
I wish now I could say
she was my friend.
An air is stuck around me
of disappointment in myself.
For I wish I could stitch this up,
with the thread in my backpack.
Hope and despair
BY HAILEY CHASE
All we can do now is hope,
hope for a better sun, a better moon,
to wish upon a star.
If we dont believe that things will get bet-
ter, they wont.
There is nothing left to believe in,
there will be no better sun,
no better moon, no stars to wish upon.
All we can do now is fear what is ahead.
The man in white
BY BAILEY LUTER
Grade 8, Colchester Middle School
The man in white
The anticipated news
No more hospital beds
No more sickness
The man in white
The anticipated news
Only hospital beds
Only sickness
They say she is almost done
That she is getting better
She is winning the fght
And they are rooting for her
They say she is almost done
That things wont get better
She is losing the fght
And they are praying for her
The tears stream down their cheeks
A loss of words
A wide smile
A joyful laugh
The tears stream down their cheeks
A loss of words
A forced smile
A painful moan
And the future will come
Full of strength
Full of recovery
Full of hope
And the future will come
Full of weakness
Full of loss
Full of despair
Cell phone trouble
BY ELESHIA BABCOCK
One time, when I was about 10 years
old, my mom told me I could get a cell
phone. A lot of my friends had them, and
I wanted to be able to keep in touch with
people I didnt see all that much.
I had also been to a party the weekend
before with some friends that were a few
years older and everyone had a cell phone
except for me and one other girl, which, at
the time, I thought was completely embar-
rassing.
After what felt like ages of begging, my
mom and step-dad fnally agreed to take me
the next day. When we got to the store, my
step-dad told me I could pick one out, but
every time I found one I liked he would say
that I was too young for it.
After a little while of that, he and my
mom concluded that I was too young to
have a cell phone and that I had to wait a
year or two.
Now that I look back on it, even though
I was really disappointed at the time, it
seems like a stupid thing to get upset over.
Black and white
BY ELLA FISHMAN
Black, dark, powerful
White, airy, light
Black, the color of despair, nothing
White, the color of desire
Hope, everything, yet nothing
They are opposites its true, but put them
together and they make a checkerboard
Equal in power, both sides are even
You cant have one without the other
Together, they are one being, one victory
One game
THIS WEEK: Elements & Photo 5
JANES TRUST
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
New Hampshire and we publish the best in newspapers
around the state, vtdigger.org and vpr.net. This week,
we present responses to the prompts, Elements: What
is the strongest and/or most beautiful force in nature?
and Photo 5. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Alexis Britch, Essex High School, 2013
Wishing tree
Wishing on the highest branch,
tussles of hopes and dreams wind up her
spine,
fowing through her fngertips,
embracing her cane of memories.
The frst branch is her misery.
Dragging her down,
she buries it in the fallen leaves.
As she holds frmly to a broken twig,
it seems to whisper of long lost fragility,
stealing back her promised word.
The tree stands tall,
harder and harder,
as she mounts each steed
of bark and fragmented moments.
Climbing like a falling stone
of feelings and wishes,
she reaches the very top.
Her emotions brim.
She sits down and cries tears of
happiness, fortune and love.
Balance of nature
BY JACKSON NEME
The strongest, most beautiful force in
nature could be the sun because it gives life
to all living things, or it could be love and
compassion, for it is the building block for
peace.
It could be a hurricane for in its destruc-
tion, it allows for stronger rebirth.
But for me, the most powerful force in
nature and the most beautiful is the balance
of all these things and the fact that we all
rely on one another; for death brings life
and life brings death, but throughout, the
circle of existence still turns.
Photo 5 (Great cedar tree, Stanley Park, Vancouver, BC, 1897) William
McFarlane Notman
YOUNG WRITERS PROJECT
SUMMER INTERNSHIPS
YWP is looking for college student
interns. If you know of any students who
love the written word, appreciate kids, are
web savvy and love being busy, urge them
to apply for a summer internship at YWP.
YWP offers a fexible, interesting work
environment, space for individual talents
and creativity, a small stipend and heaps
of M & Ms.
This internship program runs from
June 16 until August 15 at YWP headquar-
ters, 12 North Street, Burlington.
Internships will be offered in three
areas:
Publications (Editing and preparing
writing and photos for Anthology 6
and other YWP publications)
Web design, application and main-
tenance
Support for writing workshops/
summer camp program for elemen-
tary and middle-school kids.
Interested? Send a cover letter, writ-
ing samples and resume to Geoff Gevalt,
ggevalt@youngwritersproject.org, or by
mail to YWP, 12 North Street, Suite 8,
Review of candidates begins March 31.
Components
BY ZORA STEWART
Air was soft and gentle
Falling, swirling by
Sweeping past the morning sun
His humor kind but dry
Fire burned in brilliance
Vivid, strong, and free
His glowing, silken, yet raw vibrancy
Dazzling as could be
Water rushed in pleasant grace
Blue as azure skies
Deep and cool was her smiling face
As she whispered soothing sighs
Earth was strong and kindly
Reliable as a rock
Not in the least bit fckle
For Earth, she knows no clock
Sequoia
BY KAT TURNBULL
She stared up at the mighty branches of
the sequoia, wonder flling her eyes. She
rested her hand against the rough bark and
let out a deep sigh.
Birds were calling to each other, coos
echoing through the trees. Rays of sunlight
were streaming down through the gaps in
the leaves so high above her, and one of
those leaves fell from the heights down into
her outstretched hand. It had turned golden
with the changing of the seasons, and it had
no sooner landed when the cool autumn
breeze swept it away from her.
She pulled her feece tighter around her,
and shivered. The gale nipped at her ears
and nose, and she buried them in the soft
collar of the sweatshirt.
Even with the sunshine kissing her
face, providing a comforting warmth and
light, she knew winter was coming. She
started walking back toward the park`s en-
trance on the path, enjoying the soft crunch
and fragrant smell of dry needles under-
neath her tennis shoes.
NEXT PROMPTS
Goosebumps.
What gives them
to you? Tell a story
about the frst time
you got them. Alter-
nates: Grafhti. Is it
art or vandalism? Or
Photo 7.
SCHOOL GARDEN
WRITING CHALLENGE
WIN $100 WORTH OF PRIZES!
Due: March 20
For prompts and more info, go to
Challenge sponsored by
www.vcgn.org
Photo 7 (Archie Love) Lewis
Wickes Hine
Wildhre
BY MAEVE FAIRFAX
Fire,
an element of beauty,
of destruction,
a blessing in disguise.
When it is raging through,
it destroys all in sight,
but it relieves the forest of the unwanted
and unneeded,
and founds new growth.
It has transfxing beauty,
but although too hot to touch,
it has a bone-chilling coldness in all its
cruelty.
Essential but not,
wanted but not,
impossible but possible.
Beautiful?
Fire has a homely glow,
but a ferce glare,
and a beauty that is unique to none other.
THIS WEEK: Wonder & Angst
LANGWATER FAMILY FOUNDATION
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
New Hampshire and we publish the best in newspapers
around the state, on vtdigger.org and vpr.net.This
week, we present responses to the prompts, Wonder: I
wonder ...; and Angst: Write the angstiest angst piece
you can create. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Ice on branches
BY CAROLINE LAMANTIA
Grade 4, Richmond Elementary School
I peer out the window, wondering. Why
does ice leave that crunchy coating on the
snow that shimmers pink, blue and gold?
How does ice freeze on the branches,
icicles hanging down at the tips? How do
the trees know to lose their leaves and let
the shining, glimmering ice take over?
I lift up my hands which make hand-
prints on the fogged up window. And the
evergreen trees dont seem to care. Frost
hanging on their branches doesnt matter to
them. They make themselves look strong
next to the wilting, icy birch trees.
And yet, all I do is wonder.
Hope
BY KENDALL MUZZY
I wonder why we have war when we can
have peace.
I wonder why we hate when we can love.
I wonder why we are greedy when we can
be thankful.
I wonder why we are mean when we can
be nice.
These are questions we all need to ask our-
selves at least once in our lifetime.
I hope one day we will all live in harmony.
No war. No hate. No greed. But hope.
For what reason?
BY ELLA MASON
I wonder, was everyone made for a reason?
I wonder, what is their reason?
I wonder, is it to be a soccer player or a
dancer or someone to stand up for their
rights? I wonder.
Why are we here?
BY ELLA FISHMAN
I wonder why we are here. I know that
this is something everyone wonders about,
but whenever I start thinking about it, it
just gets me and I cant stop.
I think and I think and just when I feel
like I am close to the answer, it slips away,
and its infuriating!
Why do we live? Why do we die? Why
do these horrible and wonderful things hap-
pen? Why, why, why?
Some day, some day, Ill know. I must.
Some day, Ill say, Hey, I wonder... and
the answer will be right there and waiting.
And Ill grab it and it will not slip
away, and Ill lock it up tight.
Some day.
Why do I wonder?
BY JACOB SURKS
Grade 5, Browns River Middle School
I wonder why I wonder.
I wonder if a plane could fy to the edge of
the atmosphere.
It would be cool, but can it be done?
I wonder ... I wonder.
I wonder if you could drain the ocean with
a milk jug.
The problem is where would the water go?
I wonder ... I wonder.
I wonder about pollution and if it can be
stopped.
I wonder about the future,
about pollution,
inventions,
and population.
And most of all, if Earth will still be here.
If we will still have fresh air,
and people,
and new technology.
You see, there are wanting-to-know won-
ders and there are concerning wonders.
Fortunately for me, there are more want-
ing-to-know wonders.
But what about you?
Who knows what will happen?
So take a moment and wonder.
Wondering
BY LILLIAN KOLBENSON
Grade 10, Essex High School
I wonder
About facades.
Why I like the things I do.
About doubt and how it intrudes.
How other people think.
I wonder who will sculpt our minds.
About the beat on the pavement.
I wonder
Why people get angry.
About the time.
Why we lose pencils.
What fnally leads people to give up.
Why people choose the things they do.
Who watches over me.
I wonder
Why people are scared to try.
About the biography of a bug.
Why we must rest.
What birds think about.
Why people look at things in the way that
they do.
Why people dont and / or dont wonder
why they do.
I wonder
About the lucky clovers and the sunbeams.
What a miracle looks like,
And where they come from.
About trees and their leaves.
If the world will change much in a year or
two,
And if I will change, too.
Faraway star
BY MAEVE FAIRFAX
Oh, faraway star,
are you out there?
Oh, faraway star,
do you have feelings of your own?
Oh, faraway star,
can I ever fnd you?
Can you ever fnd me?
Faraway star,
you are the light of the Earth, our savior,
for you are the sun, our lifeline.
SCHOOL GARDEN
WRITING CHALLENGE
Due: March 20
www.vcgn.org
BY REBECCA WHITE
Grade 8, Winooski Middle School
Imagine something scary,
like being crushed to death.
So theres this brick on your back.
In the beginning, its not so bad,
till time starts to pass,
and youre feeling nervous,
and a bit sweaty.
As time goes on, it gets worse.
Its not that bad. You can handle it.
Youre a little scared.
And then the sweat starts to drip
down your forehead.
The brick gets heavier;
the time moves faster.
You look at the clock. 7:58.
You wipe the sweat,
squeeze your eyes shut, open them.
Its now 7:59.
The nerves are unbearable.
Your heart feels like its beating out of your
chest.
You let out a rigid breath.
Your hands are sticky, sweaty, shaky.
Your eyes wander to the time,
half a minute left.
Are you ready? You hear it.
No, no, no. Youre not ready.
So, so much pressure.
You shake violently.
A tear goes down your face.
You`re terrifed. So, so scared.
You know that youre not going to die;
you know that nothing bad will happen.
But it could, and it might,
and you feel like it will.
That brick that was resting on your back
is now crushing you.
Its now hurting you; its holding you back.
And its the scariest thing in the world.
And, and ... just imagine.
I`ve been terrifed.
Forever.
THIS WEEK: Vermont Wri tes Day
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
More than 95 schools across Vermont and New Hamp-
shire participated in Young Writers Projects annual
Vermont Writes Day taking just 7 minutes on Feb.
13 to write! This week, we publish writing in response
to prompts: Where youre most alive; You are about to
crush a spider and...; The best prize youve received; and
General writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Vermont Writes Day at Rutland High School, left to right, Talla Caruso, Aliya Schneider, Tessie McDon-
nell. Hunter Berryhill, Rutland High School
The dancing spider
BY KATIE COUCH
Grade 8, Mater Christi School
My hand was tight around the bottom
of the rolled-up newspaper.
I was about to pull my arm back to slam
the paper down on the little spider when I
saw something.
I stopped and set the paper down to get
a better look. The little black spider was
looking up at me with big eyes.
He held his hand up and waved me to
lean in closer. As I did, he began to move
around the foor.
After a couple of seconds I realized the
little spider was dancing! He moved with
such grace and ease and never tripped over
his many legs.
A couple of times his feet left the
ground and he would do a split in the air.
After a minute or so he stopped and looked
up at me again.
I put my fnger out next to him and he
high-fved it. Then he crawled away under
the foor board.
Remember the sky
You remember the sky,
were my grandpas last words.
You remember the world,
its twirls and its whirls.
I am forever present,
he promised.
Just look to the sky.
And as the sky shone garnet, my grandpa
died.
When the moon rose high over our funeral
night,
the clouds wept with us,
as black as his eyes.
Our walk home was short,
but the longest one, too.
As we approached our house,
the lawn wept with dew.
I fell onto the grass,
not caring that I was wet.
Before I closed my eyes,
I looked at the sky,
and its colors were bright.
Remember the sky,
for that is the frst light.
Dragon-y pie
BY LILY ESPENSHADE
Grade 8, Lake Champlain Waldorf School
You are about to crush a spider, but then
you see its web.
In its web is a tiny baby spider and the
baby spider says,
If you crush my mummy, I will surely die.
I will have no one to tuck me in bed at
night or feed me dragon-fy pie!
And you say, Yes, that is true. But if I let
your mama live, you might die, too.
She might get so hungry one night and
you look so plump and fat, that she will eat
you just like that.
Baby says, Oh, my. We all must surely
die. But her time is not today, so good-bye
friend. Be on your way.
You walk along and realize
that you have saved not one but two lives.
In a tree
BY OLIVIA PALMER
I feel alive in a tree. Like the wood
speaks to me. In a tree I can be who I want
to be, not get judged whether I am good at
something or not.
I feel alive with the bees (as I do with
the trees) as they work for some sweet
reward.
I feel alive with the fowers as they
open around me saying, I am here. We are
here. We are together.
I feel alive with the garden where
vegetables grow, where they all say, Come
join us, be calm and relax.
I feel alive with the grass as I look at
the clouds, as they say, Look, theres a
fower. And as I return, 'I see a bird.
I feel alive with the houses. As old
as the dirt. They all have personality like
nothing else in the world. I feel alive with
nature!
Prize heifer
BY COURTNEY BANACH
Grade 12, South Burlington High School
I am a 4-H kid with a focus in dairy.
Each year I lease my heifers from Shel-
burne Farms. Last summer I took my heifer
Shazam to some county fairs. I knew I had
a special heifer, but I was just hoping to do
OK and have fun.
My summer started off great with the
frst show. This was the multi-county show
at Shelburne Farms... My heifer ended up
winning her age class (fall yearling) and
that was great, but then going on to be
named Junior and Grand Champion Brown
Swiss was even cooler. I then got to vie
for Supreme Champion, which is the best
overall animal present, and I got Reserve,
which was amazing.
The rest of the summer went great
and I continued to win my classes. Then
came the last hometown show of the year,
Champlain Valley... I placed and won the
fall yearling class again and I guess that
was just the start. The judge said without a
doubt that fall yearling would be my Junior
and Grand Champion Brown Swiss, but
then it came time for Supreme and the cow
that beat me earlier in the year was vying
for Supreme again.
My cow was starting to get fussy and I
was starting to get nervous until the judge
came over and slapped my heifer as hard
as she could, saying she was undoubtedly
her favorite and was going to be Supreme
Champion. I was elated and speechless. I
gave the judge a huge hug and was still in
awe over what had just happened.
Shazams ribbons and awards are now
proudly hanging on my wall to remind me
of what a great summer it was!
Youre alive
BY AADITYA DIMRI
If you are moving
with an eagerness in your heart,
then you are alive.
If youre moving
with the sparks of dreams in your eyes,
then youre alive.
Learn to live freely
like the gusts of wind.
Learn to fow like a river does.
Meet every moment
with your arms open.
Every moment these eyes should
watch for new weather.
If youre living
with a fow of happiness,
then youre alive.
My family
BY DEBORAH MMUNGA
My family is very important to me.
They are the people in my life who want
me in theirs, the ones who would accept me
for who I am, and the ones who would do
anything to see me smile and be happy, and
who love me no matter what.
My mom is my everything... My mom
is my air and I cant live without her just
like I cant live without air. I would do
anything to make my mom happy ...
SCHOOL GARDEN
WRITING CHALLENGE
www.vcgn.org
Winterhsh
BY OLIVIA PINTAIR
The slush on the street is where the winter-
fsh breed.
They swim through wet shoes like a ghost
through the trees.
When the dying birches fell to their white
wooden knees
The passersby sighed as the cold found
their feet.
THIS WEEK: Gift & Rant
MAIN STREET LANDING
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
pers around the state, on vtdigger.org and vpr.net. This
week, we present responses to the prompts, Gift: Write
about something you cherish; and Rant: Send us your
best rant. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Aliya Schneider / Rutland High School
Ready for change
BY RUBY SMITH
Every single day talking in school,
sitting at lunch, walking down the street,
one thing stands out to me: sexism.
It seems to me that everything around
us in our world has the idea that men are
better, more important, than women.
There are little things: in the newspaper,
for example, the boys sports teams are
always listed before the girls.
Little things turn bigger when rape
becomes a joke that is laughed about freely.
In other countries, there are little girls
covered head to toe being raped and taken
advantage of by older men, and in the lucky
few chances that this goes to court, the
judge will say that this young girl who is
covered in clothes because of her religion
is asking for it.
The man is just in love, the male
judges will say as the case is being dis-
missed. You cant punish that.
This happens more frequently than you
could imagine, old men taking advantage
of young girls, and most of the time no one
does anything.
There is an expectation of boys to be
strong, tough, fearless. Boys dont cry in
public; boys cant wear certain colors; boys
have to risk certain things to be considered
a real man.
The more you think about this, the more
absurd it is. Women are expected to be
pretty objects, sitting around and keeping a
warm dinner ready.
I am more than ready for this to change.
Women are doubted in business, too; a man
is more typical for bigger jobs.
In the U.S., for every dollar a man
makes, a woman makes 80 cents. This
interferes with success, and because of a lu-
dicrous and insignifcant thing like gender.
There is also the idea that two boys in
love is disgusting, but two girls in love is
attractive another way of objectifying
women and putting them in their place, if
you will. Tell me how thats fair.
Its the 21st century; equal rights
between genders should have been accom-
plished long before now.
Obviously
BY CJ MCDEVITT
What really bugs me is when people
state the obvious.
They say, Hey, you got a haircut. And
I say, Oh really? I didnt notice.
I know I got a haircut; if you wanted
to say something about it, you could have
complimented it, not say I got a haircut...
Sometimes people say, You werent
in school yesterday. I know I wasnt in
school yesterday because I was sick or I
just had something to do.
You could have said, Why werent you
in school yesterday? instead of stating the
obvious.
Also people might say, That person
just fell. I just saw them fall. Why not go
help them, instead of telling me they fell?
Sometimes when people state the obvi-
ous, I say sarcastically, Thanks, Captain
Obvious!
Gift of friendship
BY CATIE MACAULEY
The gift that is most precious to me
is the one that cannot be wrapped.
If it breaks, it cannot be fxed with any tape
or glue.
It takes a long time to mend, if ever.
It is held together with strings of trust,
with knots of kindness and laughter.
To receive this gift, talking is not required.
To give it, explaining is not necessary.
But although this gift costs no money,
and although it isnt something you can
show,
people can cherish it their entire lives.
This gift I treasure most
is the gift of friendship.
No carbon copy
BY KAT TURNBULL
When I think about the fact that who
you are changes the way youre treated, I
can literally feel steam coming out of my
ears. If a guy likes other guys, hes looked
down upon, trod upon, and made to feel
that he is worthless and sinful by society.
If a girl realizes that she is a boy inside,
shes told to stop looking for attention
and to go kill yourself.
The idea that someone has to be a
carbon copy of everyone else, and not who
they really are, is so messed up and wrong,
and when they are being who they are,
theyre shamed for it. Over time, someone
who has opinions about what is right and
wrong is reduced to a nobody who mutters,
I dont know, when asked a question in
class, because they dont want to be made
fun of for having knowledge that others
dont.
Because someone is born female in
India, shes worth less than the boy living
next door. If you believe in Allah, people
call you a terrorist. People judge before
they know and force their thoughts on oth-
ers, restricting those who`ve barely defned
who they are yet.
In kindergarten, youre told to clean up
your own mess and work things out with
others, yet I dont see the real world fol-
lowing those rules.
Gritting teeth
BY CONNOR HERRIDGE
All people have pet peeves
and everyones is unique.
Some people hate crumpling leaves;
others hate when peoples wet shoes
squeak.
I personally hate the sound of gritting
teeth;
its like knives rubbing together,
a knife without a sheath.
Ill hate that sound forever.
I also hate a high-pitched buzz;
it isnt in the least hazy.
I dont like too much ear pressure because
it hurts my ears like crazy.
Scratching on a chalkboard may bother
you;
it doesnt bother me.
Though the sound of Styrofoam I do hate.
I wish I could let it free.
These are only some of my dislikes;
I have many, many more to say.
I also hate some kinds of sights,
but I will leave those for another day.
The wind
BY JACK FISHMAN
When I run in the wind, I feel free.
It hits me with such force that it almost
knocks me over.
I jump over a rock. I feel happiness run
through me. I am thinking, What would it
be like to fy?
I sit down by a cherry tree. I fall asleep.
I`m fying. It`s wonderful. It`s like swim-
ming, but its not hard.
I see birds in the distance.
Happiness is a true gift of love, family,
and friendshipand the wind is what takes
me there.
SCHOOL GARDEN
WRITING CHALLENGE
www.vcgn.org
NEXT PROMPT
Makeover. Youve been going to
school for years. Now is your chance to
tell the world how you would redesign
your school. What would it be like? Alter-
nate: Fear. What is your biggest fear or
worry? Tell a story about how you worry,
or how it affects your actions. Due Feb.
28.
THIS WEEK: Myth & General
BIRDSEYE FOUNDATION
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Each week, Young Writers Project receives submissions
from students in Vermont and New Hampshire and we
publish the best in this and other newspapers around the
state, vtdigger.org and vpr.net. This week, we present
responses to the prompts, Myth: Create the next urban
legend; and General writing. Read more great writing
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
NEXT PROMPT
Question. Ask any famous person
(dead or alive) one question. Who is
this person? What is the question and
what is the answer? Alternate: Disas-
ter. Ever have one of those days, start
to fnish, when everything you touch
or do leads to disaster? Write about it.
Due Feb. 21
What do you see?
BY MARLEY TIPPER
The door knob was cold, and smooth
to the touch. I could feel the metal through
my satin gloves.
The door opened and a thousand
screams of people who I would soon meet
wafted into my ears.
I held my breath hoping I looked okay
to the people surrounding me.
I stepped inside and it was like a current
pulling me into the fray of dangling ear-
rings and the clack of dancing shoes.
I heard a shout, and the smash of glass
against someone`s skull. I then heard a
huge wave of hoots and hollers.
I could smell the main course coming
from the kitchen.
I kept walking, trying to keep my bal-
ance from the random bumps and shoves
from the moving bodies around me.
The music was thumping through my
head as if I was being hit gingerly over and
over again.
I heard a voice and realized it was
someone asking me if I had tried the caviar.
I took a little bundle of the soon-to-be
ocean creatures and popped it into my
mouth. A rich taste swirled into my taste
buds.
I wanted to leave, but the almost silent
sound of dripping rain stopped me.
SCHOOL GARDEN
WRITING CHALLENGE
WRITE TO ONE OF THESE
PROMPTS AND WIN $100
WORTH OF PRIZES!
1. Does your school have a garden?
How has it changed your attitude
about food and/or your school?
2. If your school doesn`t have a
garden, why do you think it would be
fun or interesting to have one?
3. Tell a story about an event that
focuses on sharing food - a family
gathering, a celebration, a farmers`
market, a picnic.
Winner will be announced April 4
and receive $50 in cash and a $50
gift certihcate from Red Wagon
Plants for a Vermont school or com-
munity garden of the writer`s choice.
All writers will receive a bundle of
seeds to plant this spring - in their
school garden or at home - courtesy
of the writing challenge sponsor, Ver-
mont Community Garden Network.
How to submit: Write as a blog on
your account on youngwritersproject.
org. Click on 'Newspaper Submis-
sion at bottom, fll out information,
click 'Garden prompt and Save.

DUE: MARCH 20
(FIRST DAY OF SPRING!)
www.vcgn.org
The vicious ghost
BY MARIA CHURCH
'Beware the vicious ghost, they laughed,
making scary fngers in the light.
'Sometimes it grabs your toes in your
sleeping bag in the middle of the night.
'Beware the vicious ghost, they warned,
as you tramped along your way,
'That hides out in the old and twisted
woods a little past the hay.
'Beware the vicious ghost, they cried,
hovering outside the door,
'That lives inside that shack and eats ev-
erything and more.
'Beware the vicious ghosts, they moaned,
cornering you against a tree,
'For it and us are the very same, you see.
Dark corner
BY ANTONIO PUGLIESE
(In the style of Langston Hughes)
I wonder what loneliness is,
A bird left from the fock,
A runaway with no home to return to,
A shoe with no counterpart,
A book unread,
An unnoticed treasure,
A joke not said.
So what is it like, loneliness?
Is it a life with no bliss?
YWP HAS A FEATURED WRITER
ON VPR.NET EACH WEEK
BY MADISON SMITH
Janie washed up on land. Hair whipped
her pale white face. Her skin smelled of
salt, and that touch of fsh only the ones
closest to the sea knew of could be hinted
in her scent.
Eyes bluer than the tears that poured out
of the clouds. Her hair was black. Breaths
of wispy hair jumped from gusts of wind to
gusts of wind.
As she stood, her eyes shut. She turned
around and took a baby hop and fell. Free
falling for two small eternities as she
painlessly hit the rough waves. It seemed
as if everything stopped. The coral to her
left spiked its arms out, then back in. Fish
peeked their heads out, and soon, every-
thing gathered around. Janie was still. She
had drowned. The fsh soon began swaying.
Two 'things appeared. They were like
a cross between sharks and snakes. But
they had human-like fgures. Green faces,
with a fn at the top of their heads. They
moved with every wave. Eyes red, just star-
ing. The lower half had a large fn. You`ve
seen the kind on a shark. The upper half
had human hands. One held a trident. The
other 'thing held a crown. Both looked
over at each other. They hissed and fussed,
stuck their slender pink tongues out and
looked back at Janie. They shut their eyes
as the hums from Janie`s mouth started.
She began her transformation. Long jolts
from her chest began. Her pulse began
again. Janie`s eyes opened.
She glanced down and just gaped. The
things she once used to walk had dissolved.
It started at the toes. The royal blue specs,
more majestic than low hums of the waves
crashing on the shore at night, rose from
her body and left nothing behind. Her chest
jolted more and more. Her lips quaked and
she screamed. The fsh disappeared.
Everything went silent. Frozen. She
lifted her hand to wipe the tears that she
thought had formed but there was nothing
but the water that she had been occupying
for who knows how long.
Janie widened her eyes, closed them,
then rubbed. She was sure this was a
dream. But the pain was so real. The
'things, the way they looked at her. They
were saying something. She pulled herself
up and slowly swam towards them. They
placed the small, heavy piece of unwanted
jewels on her head, and her tail appeared.
Each scale, a blue mirror, refected what
was there. Janie soon fell back. Into a
permanent slumber of mermaid life. She
nodded, and swam fast into the air. She was
free, and ruler.
The tail of transformation
THIS WEEK: Perspective
TURRELL FUND
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Each week, Young Writers Project receives submissions
from students in Vermont and New Hampshire and we
publish the best in this and other newspapers around the
state, vtdigger.org and vpr.net. This week, we present
responses to the prompt, Perspective: Tell a story from
the perspective of something unconventional (dog,
ower, etc.) Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Moon dance
BY GABRIELLO LEWIS
The moon sat and watched the universe in
his eternal dance,
bored with his purpose.
He could see every ant and every bee.
He could see the trees breathe,
but he was bored.
The moon had been there,
orbiting the earth since he was created.
Not once had earth even talked to him,
except to laugh at him when the humans
down below fnally fgured out that he
orbited her.
The only other time the earth talked to him
or even glanced at him,
was to rant in anger.
Then one day,
when the men from earth fnally landed on
his surface
to learn his secrets,
she looked at him,
and her face wasn`t flled with rage
or mockery.
It was love.
Life as a dog
BY HAILEY CHASE
Running, fetching.
Chasing the sun to get to tomorrow.
A treat, a tennis ball.
No worries.
Life is like fetch.
Sometimes you have to run far to get the
ball; sometimes it is thrown right to you.
Never slowing down,
Running to catch it.
VERMONT WRITES DAY
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 13
THE DAY WHEN EVERYONE STOPS
WHAT THEYRE DOING FOR
SEVEN MINUTES AND WRITES!
JOIN US AT YWP HEADQUARTERS,
3-8 PM FOR OPEN HOURS TO SHARE
WRITING, PIZZA, OPEN MIC!
More info at youngwritersproject.org
Best pal Audrey Dawson/Essex High School
Appreciate
BY OLIVIA HUNT
Sometimes people dont appreciate
me. They look at me and think, Oh, thats
pretty.
So then they pick me up and take me
home.
They put me in a jar of cold water in a
warm room and then forget about me.
Every time they come back into the
warm room where I am sitting in that jar of
cold water they notice I look a little worse
each time.
Do they bother to feed me?! Oh no.
They just say, What a shame. It was so
pretty.
Here I am dying, for goodness sake!
And after a week or so when I am almost
dead, but not quite, they throw me out!
They cant stand the sight of me!
If their brother was dying, I dont think
they would throw him out onto the curb
into the hot, hot, hot sun.
The sun was slowly frying me as I lay
there on the curb; I could feel the rays pen-
etrating deep into my body.
Whenever someone walked by, they
thought, Oh what a shame, it was so
pretty.
I didnt see any of them putting me to
rest in the nice, soft, safe ground. No one
did anything to save me and no one will do
anything now that I am dead.
I say again, people need to appreciate
me a little bit more.
Flowers are people, too, you know!
NEXT PROMPT
Red. End a short story or poem with
this line: And yet all I see is red. Alternate:
Limerick. Write a limerick: a poem of
fve lines, the 1st, 2nd and 5th lines rhym-
ing, and the 3rd and 4th lines rhyming.
Use humor. Due Feb. 14
Cement
BY REBECCA WHITE
I get walked on every single day.
Im dense, almost unbreakable.
Sometimes I crack.
Sometimes snow covers me,
but its usually cleaned up.
Everybody relies on me.
I am needed.
Nobody really thinks about me;
nobody knows the things I see every day,
from crashes to kills.
The footsteps pound on me, the cars drive
on me, the bikes ride over me.
But I just lie here and take it all in.
Until I crack.
Then someone fxes me. Because I am
needed.
But I feel hurt.
Raindrop
BY CLARE MAXWELL
Oh me, oh my, I have just fallen from
the sky! Splat, I hit the ground and break
into small, wet pieces. Boing, I bounce
around on the cold, gray sidewalk.
My goodness, cant I ever travel
through this god-forsaken town, and not get
stepped on?
Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop drip drop drip.
The sounds of scared and joyful voices
come from above me, and I look up to see
more raindrops falling from the sky. There
are so many: dripping off buildings, falling
off roofs, so many I cannot count. Drip
drop, drip drop. Splash! Ouch! I blurt,
eyes wide. Oh, sorry bout that maam,
didnt see ya there. I rub my head in
disgust. Splash, splash, splash. People these
days, they just cant help themselves from
jumping around in puddles, unscrupulous,
it is. A woman and child walk by, the girl
splashing in the puddle; I bob in the wind
of the childs motion.
A man in a suit walks by and complains
about the weather and about his new suit
getting stained. He complains about his
phone, the newest generation, he adds.
Floating through the rainwater, I see a
girl, maybe 20 or so. She`s dancing, so free,
jumping and splashing. She is smiling and
joyful, and well dressed for the weather:
raincoat, boots, and all. Ive been trying to
decide who or what I would fasten myself
to and follow for the day. My day starts
when I fall from the sky, and it ends when
I rise back up again. I cling to make my
day interesting, fun, to pass time. When I
lay eyes on her, I think I want to stay with
her my whole life. She is so carefree and
happy, shes the shine of the rain.
Harleys adventure
BY HANNAH ERB
Whos at the door? Whos at the door?
Are they going to hurt me or my family?
Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof! Theyre telling
me stuff I dont understand. Help, help!
Harley, its OK. Its my friends. They
brought their dog, the humans say, but all
I get out of that is, Harley, OK, friends,
dog.
After, the humans give me a treat. I
sniff cautiously and take it, because thats
me. Im a dog. Why wouldnt I take it?
ON VPR.NET EACH WEEK.
CHECK IT OUT!
YOUNG TRADITION
SHOWCASE
FEBRUARY 8, 7 P.M.
CITY HALL, BURLINGTON
A rousing session of young tradi-
tional musicians. $15 suggested dona-
tion. CDs on sale include YWP-spon-
sored Ballad Project songs to beneft
Young Tradition and YWP.
More info at youngtraditionvermont.org
THIS WEEK: Home & Cold
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New
Hampshire and we publish the best in this and other
newspapers around the state, on vtdigger.org and vpr.net.
This week, we present responses to the prompts, Home:
What are you most proud of in your hometown or
state?; and Cold: What is the coldest youve ever been?
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Vermont Sophia Cannizzaro/Homeschool, West Glover
Green Mountains
BY CHANDLER BRANDES
The leaves falling from the trees
The yellows, oranges, and reds
Trying to pick the best pumpkins and
apples
And sipping fresh apple cider
The snow falling from the sky
The blues, whites, and greys
Skiing fast down the mountain
And drinking hot chocolate
The rain dripping from the clouds
The greens, blues, and yellows
Tapping maple trees
And enjoying maple syrup
The gorgeous sunsets at dusk
The pinks, purples, and oranges
Sailing and swimming in Lake Champlain
And eating Ben & Jerrys
The mountains standing proud
The lake standing strong
The greens, blues, and silvers
This is Vermont, the place I call my home
Fairheld, Vermont
BY ELIZABETH MENARD
Grade 8, Fairfeld Center School
My home. Im so proud of it. Every-
thing about it.
Im proud of being called a redneck
or hillbilly or country.
Im proud of our dirt roads. To say that
we have pot holes and dust.
Im proud that I cant see my next
neighbor. Or that some people dont even
have neighbors.
Im proud that I know everybody on my
road and many, many more.
Im so proud of the family farms. That
our cows get to see daylight and have a
comfortable life, unlike cows from factory
farms.
That I know almost every cow on my
grandfathers farm.
Im proud of our sugaring business.
That our golden syrup is known worldwide.
That we make the most and the best in the
U.S.
I`m proud that we can hunt and fsh in
our backyards.
Im proud that we can grow our own
food and know exactly where it comes
from. That we can have chickens for eggs
and meat.
That we can have gardens.
That we can hunt and actually use the
meat.
Im proud that we can just be driving
around and see deer and turkey and so
many other animals and be able to call it
normal.
Im proud that along with a car, almost
everybody owns a four-wheeler or snow-
mobile.
That roads arent even the beginning of
where we travel.
Im so proud that I call this place home.
That I will always live here, in Fairfeld,
Vermont.
What I like most
about Vermont
BY SATHVIK KANUPARTHI
Grade 6, Albert D. Lawton School

I am proud of my hometown and my
state for the food, maple products, ski
resorts and fall colors.
I am proud of my moms curries,
chicken, turkey and many more.
I am also proud of ski resorts like
Stowe, Smuggs, Killington, Sugarbush,
Bolton Valley, Okemo!
I think the reason so many people come
here in the fall is because of the fall colors.
They might come here and see colors of
leaves they have never seen before! That
would be exciting, in my opinion.
VERMONT WRITES DAY
THE DAY WHEN EVERYONE STOPS
WHAT THEYRE DOING FOR
SEVEN MINUTES AND WRITES!
Go to youngwritersproject.org for
more details.
Coldest
BY REBECCA WHITE
Right as those painful words slipped out of
my mouth,
I knew.
Wanting to take back every syllable,
hating the way my mouth moved smoothly
to form the words.
My heart felt ice cold;
it was a terrible mistake
and whats done is done.
I could say sorry,
though it would not take away what we
remember.
I shouldnt have even thought it;
I shouldnt have let it in my head.
But I did,
I let all the rage and anger into my head.
And it had nothing else to do but burst.
And I hate myself for that,
I hate myself for not being strong enough
to stop it.
I never wanted to hurt someone.
But unfortunately that damage has already
been done.
I am just another cold-hearted, worthless
jerk.
Thats the coldest Ive ever felt.
Perseverance
BY ALDEN RANDALL
I was on the chair lift with an inch of
snow on my lap. My fngers were numb,
and my toes felt like they were on fre. But
I wasnt going to quit.
I hopped off the chair lift, barely able
to ski. I was so cold. I unclipped out of
my skis and did some jumping jacks. I felt
slightly better. I reclipped back into my skis
and off I went.
The snow came slicing into my face
like little blades. I took a tight turn and
dropped into the woods. It was much
warmer and there was tons of snow.
I launched off a little cliff with the snow
foating like white smoke right behind my
skis. I gained a sudden surge of joy and
started to forget that I was cold. I started to
fy down the mountain going what felt like
100 miles per hour.
Then the line of people came into view.
I saw the chair lift and got into line. I
thought to myself, Oh, here we go again.
But I persevered.
NEXT PROMPTS
Contrast. Develop the theme of
contrast, using hope versus despair,
in poetry or prose. Alternate: Senses.
Describe entering a room full of
people using every sense except sight.
Due Feb. 7
Sunrise in Stowe
BY SAM CLARK
Grade 8, Stowe Middle School
The thing about my hometown that
Im most proud of is the beautiful sunrise
you can see every morning from almost
anywhere you live. I always try to fnd time
every morning to look out the window and
appreciate the beautiful landscape.
The sun peeking just over the top of the
mountains and through the clouds creates
a glow that illuminates the horizon and
shines warm orange beams of light onto
land while making the sky look heavenly.
The valley at the foot of the mountains
flls up with a low and heavy fog that
makes the mountain seem to foat, like an
island on a sea of fog. The warm sunlight
flters past the leaves on the trees, casting
elegant shadows through the window and
on the ground. Everything is silent and still,
and theres a slight chill outside.
Sunrises in Stowe are one of the rea-
sons that I love to live here and I think they
make waking up early really worth it.
THIS WEEK: Fairytale & General
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
newspapers around the state. This week, we present
responses to the prompts, Fairytale: Create an eighth
dwarf for the Snow White story; and General writing.
Shadow face (acrylic painting) Erin Bundock/Champlain Valley Union High School
Shadow face
BY ERIN BUNDOCK
Grade 10, Champlain Valley Union
High School
I see in shapes
of orange and blue
and they fall down my face
in violent hues
that leak to my limbs
through frail fngers and
palms
and in to my heart
where I store all my
psalms.
NEXT PROMPTS
Trapped. You are trapped in an
elevator with the most annoying
person in the world. Tell us what
happens. Do not name anyone
or describe someone who can
be identifed. Alternates: Comic
strip. Design a comic strip and
submit it as a picture; or General
writing in any genre. Due Jan. 31
Contrast. Develop the theme
of contrast, using hope versus de-
spair, in poetry or prose. Alternate:
Senses. Describe entering a room
full of people using every sense
except sight. Due Feb. 7
The eighth one
Sleepy and Sneezy snored softly as the
wind blew around their wooden home.
Grumpy lay snoring loudly and groan-
ing in his sleep.
Dopey and Happy lay perfectly in the
center of their warm beds.
Bashful and Doc were up still playing
cards.
Their glasses of rum were halfway
flled, and their wetted beards suggested
that the empty bottle that lay on its side on
the table had recently been full.
Bashful and Doc began to snooze off
in their seats; the cards slipped from their
hands.
Two watchful eyes the color of artifcial
blue peered into the home. Yellow hair
hung short on her head and her hands were
sticky.
The dwarf snuck into the quietly sleep-
ing house and sat down.
Happy was awakened to a very loud
slurping noise.
He groaned and sat up. He blinked his
eyes and then jumped out of his bed, tum-
bling off the other end and landing on the
ground with a muffed thump.
He heard giggling near him and he
caught a whiff of licorice.
Hi! Im Candy! said the smaller
dwarf.
She was sucking on a bright red lollipop
and giggling at Happys clumsy stare.
She helped Happy up and stared at him.
Hmmm ... she said, looking him over.
You need to be happier!
She reached into her green bag and
pulled out a long piece of licorice.
She wrapped it around Happys head
like a crown.
He-he, thats better, she said sin-
cerely.
Happy stared at her, still sleepy, and
then bounced up!
Hi! Im Happy! Lets be friends!
Candy stared at him in wonder and then
bounced up, too.
The rest of the dwarves woke to:
Were friends! Were friends!
Meany
BY LUCI YOUNG
My name is Meany I am always very
rude, angry, and usually very mean.
My favorite food is chili peppers. They
are very spicy and hot, and remind me of
myself sometimes, how they burn as you
swallow them. Theyre delicious.
Snow White and I are the worst of
friends. She is too nice to be a part of the
family! Always helping my siblings out,
extremely too willing.
Why, if she were like me, rude, unhelp-
ful, angry, then, just like me, the other
dwarves would be scared of her, and she
would always get what she wanted!
VERMONT WRITES DAY
The day when everyone stops
what theyre doing for just
seven minutes and writes!
Go to youngwritersproject.org for
more details.
To young poets
BY ZEKE BENSHIRIM
Grade 12, Homeschool, Williston
O Poet! on your poets soul, do not write
with ease!
Write in blood with gritted teeth; write
from on your knees.
Earn a Muses visit on a dim-lit, toiling
night
by memorizing ffty poems for every poem
you write.
Yon a dancer stumbles, clad in bloody
shoes and sweat,
From her thirtieth rehearsalthe most
demanding yet
Of sixty to prepare her for some secondary
part.
Can you look her in the face and claim you
work to make your art?
Dont write so casually, I say! Take a little
care!
A million lives were sacrifced upon the
altar where
you toss a bite of candy bar, and fancy that
you pay
such homage as did Sappho, Shelley, Cum-
mings, or Millay.
Only, on your poets life, do not write with
ease!
Write in blood and spare your words!
Do not write to please!
Learn your poem is bad, and try to see that
its absurd,
and weep - but under every tear stain, fnd
a better word.
Ice encasement
BY AVERY MCLEAN
Im caught in a web of coldness that
freezes like a lonely child.
It appears Ive left my courage behind,
though Ive lost track of the path Im fol-
lowing.
In a sky of grey, I sing to the darkness,
embrace the feverish hope that I may see
again.
Its a sad day when my eyes are blind
enough that I cant see your face.
I want to drown out the happiness and wal-
low in misery.
I know I am at fault here, dont bother try-
ing to comfort me.
But, like the fower I am,
Ill reach for the sky,
break through the encasement of ice that
muffes my mind and smothers my sen-
tences.
Im beginning the thaw, I suppose.
THIS WEEK: Inspiration & Photo 3
AMY E. TARRANT FOUNDATION
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
newspapers across Vermont, on vtdigger.org and vpr.
net. This week, we present responses to the prompts,
Inspiration: Describe your muse; and Photo 3. Read
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Somewhere else. Vermont to New York. Aliya Schneider/Rutland High School
VERMONT WRITES DAY
IS COMING ...
ARE YOU READY TO WRITE?
Thursday, February 13
Join YWP and writers across
Vermont for a 7-minute pause
to just write.
Watch this newspaper and
youngwritersproject.org for
more details.
Photo 3 (Collage fag) Mister Blick
Winters war
BY CHARLOTTE KHAMNEI
The queen! Shes coming! says my
partner, Codiac, as he ducks down, block-
ing a gale of frost.
Her army is too strong! Well never
make it, I say, losing all hope.
I look around and realize that Codiac
and I are the last ones.
Her army of frost is attacking harder
and harder by the second.
Codiac and I do our routines that Ser-
geant Johnny Jump-up taught us in order to
fght Queen Hiver.
Codiac just barely misses a gun shot
of ice. The ice bullet destroys the fower
of his gun, causing it to freeze and shatter
on the cold, hard ground. He falls to the
ground from the force of the bullet, drops
his stem, and stares into my eyes. The way
he looks into my eyes as he lays on the
frosted ground covered in broken trees and
crisp white snow makes me feel like theres
a grenade in my stomach, getting ready to
explode.
I turn to the harsh winds, squint trying
to see through the iced wind; I spy Queen
Hivers face that looks like its made out of
crystals. Its carved like an ice sculpture.
It is carved with such angles. Her eyes are
like turquoise jewels that are complement-
ed with snowfake eyelashes.
Codiac starts to get up, shielding
himself with his stem. I am running out
of time. She is getting ready to fre. I aim,
squinting with one eye, locking her gaze
with the other.
All I can hear are the thoughts in my
head and the screams of winter.
Its up to me now. I can feel Codiac
giving me one last look. Out of the corner
of my eye, I can tell his mouth is slightly
open as if he is trying to say something as
he blocks harsh winds.
I focus my eyes one more time. I take
my shot. The winds stop. The snow starts
to melt and the fowers start to pop up.
Its spring, ending the once never-end-
ing winter.
Garden gnomes
BY KAT TURNBULL
The soldiers aim and fre their weapons,
cringing at the backfre.
Someone goes down on the other side,
and the ones behind the barricade share a
smile as they reload their guns.
Petals tiptoe to the ground as the trigger
bounces back and forth.
Gentle tug
BY DUNCAN SHEFFER
I feel a gentle tap, tap-tapping at my shoul-
der,
a showing of things unknown, pointing
onward
to new horizons, and places to go and see.
Turning, I walk onward to the new places
unseen,
untouched by the likes of people like me.
I feel a gentle tug, a turning towards the
tug,
a beckoning to go and see, to watch and
feel,
to be shown what is wondrous and what
cannot be compared to the wonderful and
fantastic.
I, who walk, see the world of wonder.
I notice a soft pushing, an urgent summons,
sending me towards a new path to follow.
New passions take hold and wonder sinks
in,
making a want and thirst for a newfound
obsession,
carving a new memory, a new store of
knowledge.
Swiftly forever
BY MORGAN LISKA
My inspiration is Taylor Swift. People
ask me all the time why I love Taylor Swift
so much, and until recently I didnt know
the answer either.
Then I thought that when I was going
through rough, confusing, and hate-flled
times, I always listened to her music. Never
once has it not gotten my spirits up, her
blissful, sweet, amazing songs, all written
by herself.
The way that Taylor Swift treats people
is inspirational; she is the most selfess
person I have heard of.
She didnt get treated like that, yet she
loves to share her warm, graceful, nice
personality with every person she meets.
She never gave up on her dream, and
that, in itself, is inspiring. When she was
frst getting into the music industry she was
rejected, spit at, and shunned, but she never
gave up. Taylor Swift is fearless, sassy, and
witty ...
org.
The little things
BY CHANDLER BRANDES
Its the little things in life that inspire
me. Its the friendly wave hello, the laugh
of a friend, and the encouragement from a
teammate that make me aspire to be a bet-
ter person, a better student, a better athlete.
Simply enjoying the small things in life
makes you realize how lucky you truly are.
Inspiration, no matter where it comes
from, allows new doors to be opened, to
break down barriers into a world of endless
possibilities. Its amazing the implausible
things we can fnd in something so simple.
Inspiration is all around us, everywhere
we look. All we have to do is open our eyes
and let the wonder seep in.
NEXT PROMPTS
Elements. What do you think is
the strongest and/or most beautiful
force in nature? Tell a story about
it. Alternate: Disappointed. Look-
ing forward to something is often
the best part. Write about a time
where your expectations werent
quite met. Due Jan. 24
THIS WEEK: Magic & General
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
to the prompts, Magic: Describe a magical moment
or feeling youve experienced; and General writing.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Paper cranes Kevin Huang/Burlington High School
In the evening
BY AUDREY DAWSON
In the evening
the sun stretches
and opens his mouth wide,
allowing the last breadth of light
to blanket the land.
His arms reach out
to tuck in the felds,
to tuck in the multicolored houses
with dining families,
and they retreat again.
Then the land is covered in shadows;
with one last energetic leap,
the sun throws to Earth
a satin pillow
with which to rest on ...
until ...
the sun peeks over the horizon,
jolts the Earth to life,
and wrenches its pillow away
like an impatient puppy.
THE CALVIN
Go to youngwritersproject.org to read
the winning submissions by Abigail
Millard, a junior at Windsor High
School, and Robin Vincent, a senior
at St. Johnsbury Academy for this
new writing award sponsored by the
Calvin Coolidge Foundation. Con-
gratulations to the writers!
Calvin Coolidge
HAPPY HOLIDAYS
Young Writers Project will resume pub-
lishing student work on these pages during
the week of Jan. 6, 2014. Until then,
happy holidays from all of us at YWP!
The hidden key
BY CEILIDH KIEGLE
The hidden key
you fnally found last year
holds magic.
Since then, you fnd
that all is well.
Since you worked to fnd the hidden key
you fnally found last year holds magic.
Mason jars and
heart lines
BY ERIN BUNDOCK
Grade10, Champlain Valley High School
One morning,
we collected stars in mason jars
before dawn.
Your palms pressed against the
thick glass as you held a
galaxy to my face and
told me their countenance
was of coal dust beside
mine.
And one evening,
my arms were wrapped and
trapped by yours so that
I couldnt keep my
stride.
And in one moonless moment,
you slipped your hands to my
cheeks as you whispered,
Darling, youre much too
sweet for this sky.
The universe spun a
web by the
strings in our
chests.
And I am enraptured,
I would say,
in a way which I spent
my day with you in
my head.
And in one faultless beat,
you pulled me close to you,
and a web formed between
us
as our heart lines
spun away.
Flying
BY ABIGAIL FAIRHURST
The cool breeze of magical leaves lifted
me off my feet. I soared through the air. I
saw my teacher giving me the evil eye.
Hello Mrs. Myette, I yelled. Im
fying!
I felt like I had no gravity. Goosebumps
covered my back. It was freezing in this
beautiful blue crystal sky. I looked down
and saw my house; I looked closer and saw
my mother sprawled on the green grass
sobbing because she thought I was lost and
would never come back.
I realized family is more important
than having outstanding magical powers
because I would rather lose magical powers
than family, so I swooped from the sky to
my mother and father.
All my magic is gone now, but my fam-
ily isnt.
A gust of wind
BY ZORA STEWART
The mystery of magic will never be
known to the people of this place, obtuse
and thickly minded as we are, caught up
in lifes murderous fruition and her leering
lies of love and loss and languidly locking
away the fears that could be good for us.
The tingling sensation felt in a gust of
wind might be pushed away to the farthest
corner of the mind, without a second, or
even a frst, glance, forgotten; the possibil-
ity in a gesture so easily dismissed, left
forlorn and broken in a distant world of
maybes; the what ifs left behind and
lost, a waste of time and effort to all who
consider such a useless thing as wonder.
Facts are facts and fction forgotten.
Belief in what can be manifested and sum-
moned up by hatred and fear are merely a
piece of possibility and false intuition at its
worst.
Underwater
I am surrounded by crackling dry
weeds, a feld of them, with only a couple
green patches, each one swarmed by an as-
sortment of bumblebees and butterfies.
Straying away from those patches (I do
not like the idea of being stung), I wallow
my feet in the itchy grass, assuring my toes
and legs that relief will soon embrace them.
My fip-fops hang absentmindedly on
my fngertips, playing with my legs, and
sometimes hitting my fngers in a rhythm.
A naive smile is placed on all our faces
as we trudge through the meadow. As we
near the steep, roughly cut wooden steps,
we begin to hear a roaring and the drag of
gravelly sand under our feet. Hanging on
to the rail and daintily stepping down, I
shimmy down the steps, eager for what is
ahead.
As I round the bend I come to the river.
Ah! The cool sparkling river. Without
hesitating, I pull off my skirt and reveal my
pink bathing suit. Swinging my hair into
a messy ponytail, I step in. Snapping my
goggles on, I take a deep breath and dive.
This, this is the instant, when time
stands still and we open our eyes underwa-
ter, relieving ourselves to a different world,
time and space. This is the magic. The tiny
amount of time that we take no notice to,
the shimmer, glimmer, or even slight intake
of bubbles where you believe that all is
possible.
NEXT PROMPT
Wonder. Write a piece that focuses on
the idea of I wonder...Alternates: Gift.
Have you ever received something that
you cherish more than anything? Describe
it; or Photo 5 (see youngwritersproject.
org). Due Jan. 17
THIS WEEK: Excerpt & General
LANGWATER FAMILY
FOUNDATION
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Hampshire and we publish the best here and in other
newspapers around the state and on vpr.net. This week,
we present responses to the prompts, Excerpt: Open a
book and include a line in a story or poem; and Gen-
eral writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Shepherds prayer
BY LYDIA SMITH
As I lay me down to sleep,
I pray that Thee protect my sheep.
Keep them safe from wild beasts;
Let them not become coyote feast.
Huddled in their little bands,
Guard them with Thy strong hands.
Hold tight to my tiny fock,
And wild scavengers block.
Amen.
Born from the
mountains
BY ABHI DODGSON
Grade 6, Mater Christi School
Born from the monsoon rain that falls like a
wall of water onto the dirty streets
washing the roadsides, cleansing them until
they look brand new
I am from the juice of coconuts that tastes
so sweet
I am from the lily pads that foat on the
water
I am from spices and favors that fll this
land with their magnifcent smells
I am from the hot sweet-tasting tea
I am from the dark brown earth in the tea
leaf beds
I am from the highest mountains
Where the oxygen is thin and harder to
breathe
Valerie, a crossbred yearling ewe Lydia Smith
Abandoned
BY KAT TURNBULL
The wind whistles through smoking trees
and races over the barren land.
A fre burned here, hot and steady.
Everyone left this place, but a few
still gather at a small bonfre,
either too weak or unwilling to leave.
But soon, none will live here.
A faded and singed fag hangs
on a pole stuck in the frozen ground.
The red is not very bright anymore,
and the words,
Long Live the Romanovs sing a
sad and lonely song.
NEXT PROMPTS
Myth. Create the new urban myth. Make it
eerie, funny or outrageous.
Alternates: Funny. Write a poem or story
that makes your reader smile - and then
laugh out loud. Its harder than it sounds.
Try it for fun. See what happens; or Gen-
eral writing in any genre. Due Dec. 20
Alive
BY JEREMY BROTZ
He had been paralyzed for his whole
life. Numb. Not being able to move, speak,
feel.
But inside, things were always moving.
His thoughts were like rays of light, for
they lit up the world for him.
Even though he couldnt move his
mouth, he knew how to talk, just from
listening to others speak to him.
He couldnt feel or move his legs, but
he knew they were there, so he had fgured
out how to walk.
For 20 years he lived like this, dormant
and unknowing on the outside, active and
brilliant in his head.
But when he turned 21, something
changed.
He started to realize that he could move
his left index fnger. Soon his whole arm
was free.
Then, all at once, he was alive, and he
was sitting up straighter, moving his body
in ways he knew he could but hadn`t been
able to before.
Soon he was sobbing deeply and, at
the same time, laughing and saying how
great it felt to be crying. (FromYour Sixth
Sense by Belleruth Naparstek)
And he marveled at his own voice as
his family crowded around him, crying and
laughing, too.
And for the frst time in his life, he
knew what it felt like to be fully alive.
CHECK IT OUT!
Bailey Kimball/Essex High School, 2013
Powerful horse
BY SAMMIE BLACKMORE
He appeared to be a giant rider
mounted on a powerful horse.
My heart almost stopped. Just last
night, my grandma told me about the Black
Rider. I still picture her ferocious, gleaming
eyes as she glared into the fre, shadows
dancing on her usually serene features.
The stomping of metal-tipped boots
on the ground startled me back to real-
ity. An eerie breeze seemed to come from
the Black Rider; his gaunt features lacked
emotion. I didn`t think, I just ran. Branches
scraped over my face and snakelike vines
twisted around my arms.
I could almost feel the Black Rider`s
cold breath on the back of my neck.
The last thing I remembered was trip-
ping over the root of a Paulownia tree root
and falling into darkness.
The deserted road
BY CATIE MCCAULEY
I stood alone on the deserted road.
All was quiet. All was dark. I felt as if the
world was sleeping, and I was the only be-
ing awake.
The silence seemed to have its own
calling, breathing softly into the night.
Just then, the monstrous shadow
moved to the middle of the road, as I was
calm and still.
It was slowly but surely approaching.
And then it was gone, as quickly as it had
come. And I stood alone on the deserted
road.
BHS STUDENTS REPORT
ON RACIAL JUSTICE
Read Burlington High School stu-
dents account of a public discussion
on racial justice, Working Together,
We Can Do Better, sponsored by the
City of Burlington and Partnership for
Change. The students worked with
YWP and teacher David Lamberti to
cover the event at the ECHO Center.
See their stories and photos at young-
writersproject.org.
Spooky forest
BY CHARLIE HARDER
The twisted limbs of the tulip tree
groaned and swayed in the wind, as I
walked into the dark, spooky forest.
I was very scared.
I kept thinking that I saw a ghost
shadow.
I heard rustling amongst the leaves. I
turned around and saw a huge black crea-
ture with large sharp teeth.
I began sprinting for my life and soon I
was out of the forest. I was safe.
Mount Mansheld
BY ANDERS KLINKENBERG
I, Mount Mansfeld, am skied every
day. People say that I was a giant who lay
down one day and was covered by an even
layer of earth.
I have a forehead, a nose, shoulders,
lips, a chin, and an Adams apple, all of
which have been skied on.
I have many trails running down me. I
am big, skiable and lovable.
THIS WEEK: Winter Tales
TURRELL FUND
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
we present local pieces that were selected for Winter
Tales to be performed by the Vermont Stage Company
until Sunday at FlynnSpace.
NEXT PROMPTS
Perspective. Tell a story from the
perspective or viewpoint of some-
thing unconventional: a dog, a fower,
a mountain, etc.
Alternate: Rant. Send us your best
rant, something that ticks you off.
Note: No real names or situations
where someone can be identifed.
Make it a slam poem if youd like.
And feel free to create a podcast. Due
Dec. 13
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Sam Robinson/Essex High School, 2013
VERMONT STAGE COMPANY
PRESENTS
WINTER TALES
DEC. 4-8
FLYNNSPACE, BURLINGTON
www.vtstage.org
This years holiday show features
16 YWP writers, including the
local students on this page.
Late autumn
BY KAT TURNBULL
The apple falls with a quiet thud onto
frost-ridden ground.
A hand, old and wrinkled, picks it up
and turns it over. The grey mans eyes
crinkle with delight as he takes a bite of
late fall.
He smiles as he gingerly places his cane
on the trunk of the fruit tree, apple still in
hand.
Slowly, he lowers himself down onto
the frozen grass, beaming. He loves late
autumn.
On the ice
BY ANAYA MORALES
Grade 5, Thomas Fleming School
At the rink,
I lace up my skates
and I almost fall over
with the new feeling
of walking around
with ice skates.
My ankles are wobbly
and I almost fall.
My eyes are wide
and I am preparing myself
because for the frst time ever,
Im actually going in that
accident waiting to happen
they call a rink.
I start w-a-d-d-l-i-n-g
slowly.
I`m flled with terror
Am I sure I can do this?
I step out onto the ice,
feeling minuscule.
I instantly grab the wall
and almost slip on that
cold, hard, scary-looking ice.
And then I realize,
I FORGOT A CRATE!
I try to edge my hand away
from the wall holding me
and before I know it,
THUMP!
Im on my butt.
But I get up
and try again.
Shoveling
BY CAMERON GUNTULIS
I look out the window.
Another snowstorm
has come.
I go outside
with my shovel.
My dog Lucy
is behind
me,
poking my leg
with her nose,
telling me
to shovel faster.
I scoop up a big pile of snow.
Looking at Lucy,
I throw it
to the side.
I look at Lucy and say,
Happy?
She nudges me
again.
Impatient,
she dodges around me,
running for the woods.
I look at her jumping in the snow;
her ears are fapping
up and down.
I laugh so hard.
I keep on shoveling until
my back and arms hurt.
I fall to the ground,
looking at the sky.
Lucy bounds back
and licks my face
with her slimy slobber.
I smile and
we go for a walk.
Icicles
BY ISHA GURUNG
One cold icicle
falls,
shatters.
The icicle next to it
looks sad
as if
the other one
was its friend.
But one month later,
another one
appears
and they are
very happy,
as if that was his
true friend.
First sign of winter
BY SIMRAN PADGETT
The way the snow falls upon my eyelashes,
the way the cold tickles my nose,
that is the frst sign of winter.
The wind may nip at my neck or the sun
may start to hide,
but that is not winter yet;
winter may be cold, windy, and snowy but
that is just its outer shell;
lots of people think that winter is gruesome
and horrendous,
but once it shows its power, it turns kind,
quiet.
Winter is cold but it also gives me warmth
in my heart.
The way the snow falls upon my eyelashes,
the way the cold tickles my nose,
that is the frst sign of winter.
Winters majesty
BY ZORA STEWART
He sails in upon a furry
His ship made from ice and hale
Slow yet strong and in no hurry
Caught within a gale
He watches as the birds take wing
Across the frosted sky
This is the time when he is king
Though quickly will his time go by
Crystal fog and downy gauze
He lays on top the ground
He tears the wind with frozen claws
Singing with a ghostly sound
A dark mysterious ruler
Who reigns with majesty
No man could be much crueler
No man could be as free
The winter fairy
BY ANI KRAMER
As I glance over my shoulder
and hear tiny cries for help,
I see the perfect snowfake
falling to the ground.
But wait,
what`s in the snowfake
that glistens in the shy sun?
For the voice that I hear
is coming from within the snowfake!
As it falls to the ground, the voice becomes
clearer.
I see a beautiful fairy
dressed all in white, her voice like a bell,
saying simply, Help! For I have fallen to
the ground!
I pick her up carefully, not to crush her
wings.
I see some other fairies fying to greet her
with a sling.
Some carry hopeful faces, while some look
horribly grim.
They pick up the tiny fairy and carry her
away
to wherever their path takes them.
But here I will have to stay.
Winter haiku
BY HAJI HAJI
Ice-cold snowy wind
My African blood freezes
Dreams of Kenyan sun
THIS WEEK: Thanks
VERMONT COUNTRY STORE
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
responses to the prompt, Thanks: What are you most
grateful for? Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a
safe, civil online community of writers.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
XXXXX/XXX High School
Dismantling
BY GABRIELLO LEWIS
One Thursday, when I was volunteer-
ing at Outreach For Earth Stewardship, my
mentor Craig and I had to remove a faulty
perch from the red-tailed hawk aviary.
When we entered the small clearing in
the middle of the woods where the aviar-
ies are, we walked directly to the red tails
aviary.
Once inside the aviary, we started to
undo the bolts that held the 300-pound
piece of wood and cast iron that made up
the perch on the walls of the aviary, but we
soon found out that we needed a ladder.
So Craig climbed a rickety ladder, on a
slope, on a bed of gravel. It was like some-
thing out of an Abbott and Costello comedy
routine, because every time he leaned, even
slightly, the ladder would almost tip over.
As Craig was undoing the last bolt, I
walked to the far side of the aviary to be
away from the perch when it fell, but in-
stead I found that one of the male red tailed
hawks thought that I was encroaching on
his territory. The hawk few at me, and I
backed away and decided it would be better
to stand closer to the perch.
When Craig got the last bolt out, we
waited for the perch to come crashing
down. But instead it stayed there as if sus-
pended. Craig inspected it and found that
two screws were still holding it in place.
Ten minutes later we were back in the
aviary with a drill. As Craig was reaching
over to take the correct bit from me, the
ladder almost fell over (again), and I was so
worried that he would fall off and break his
neck that I rushed over there and grabbed
the ladder to hold it still, even though Craig
had told me to stay away from the perch.
When the last screw came out, we again
waited for the perch to come crashing
down. Instead, like before, it stayed in the
same position.
After another check, we discovered that
there was a smaller bolt, right in the center,
holding it up.
Both of us searched our pockets for the
ratchet, but we had left it in the building
when we got the drill. So after another 10
minutes we returned to the aviary.
As soon as Craig was again on the lad-
der, I moved to the far side of the aviary,
forgetting what had happened with the
one red tail. I suddenly heard a whooshing
sound behind me and turned around.
The red tail`s body flled all of my
vision as he came swooping toward me,
talons outstretched.
I fnally knew what it was like to be the
mouse, frozen in terror and awe, when a
bird is after you. I suddenly remembered to
duck, but I could still feel the wind, gener-
ated by the hawks wings, as it sailed only
inches above my head.
Just after I stood up, a crash shook the
aviary and startled me, Craig, and the fve
hawks in the aviary.
I was so thankful that Craig didnt fall
off the ladder and break his neck and that
we were able to remove the perch.
As Craig and I walked up the hill, I
looked back to see one of the red tails look-
ing at me regally out of the corner of its
golden eye.
My cello
BY ZANIPOLO LEWIS
I love music. Ever since I was born,
Ive loved music. Almost nine years ago,
when I was still a baby, my brother started
on the violin. As soon as I heard music, I
wanted to play an instrument; I wanted to
play the violin, too. But my mom said she
wanted me to play a different instrument.
When I was 3, she said I only had to
take cello lessons for a few months, and I
reluctantly gave in. A few months went by.
Then a year. I realized I couldnt stop I
loved the cello, and I knew it was the right
instrument for me.
In the frst year of my cello lessons,
I thought my teacher, Anne Brown (we
called her Mrs. Brown), was a grumpy
grouch, but by the third year I knew I loved
her as my teacher. Seven years went by. I
learned one piece of music after another.
Then I heard Mrs. Brown and my mom
talking about moving on to another teacher.
I only had a few months left with Mrs.
Brown so I prepared a good-bye present,
because that is what we do when we leave
our music teachers. I wrote a cello duet
called Farewell. I made her an origami
cat face and bought her a bag of dark mint
crunch chocolates from Lake Champlain
Chocolates (because those are her favorite).
Mrs. Brown took us to dinner and then it
was time to leave her.
A week later I was going to my new
teacher, John Dunlop. Now I am with him
and having a wonderful music experience.
I have been playing the cello for seven
years and hope there is a good future for
me in music. I love my cello and I am so,
so grateful for it.
Thanks for my mom
BY MYKALA OFARRELL
I have many things that I am thankful
for. I am thankful for my house, for food
and many more things. But if I could pick
one thing that I am most thankful for, it
would be my mom.
I am thankful for my mom for so many
reasons. She puts a smile on my face all the
time. My mom makes me laugh so much
that I cant stop laughing. I am also thank-
ful for her because she helps me with many
things. She helps me with my homework
and other things, too. She also teaches me
right from wrong. I honestly do not know
where I would be without my mom. My
mom makes me see the good in everything
even when sometimes it is hard to.
My mom is kind, generous, loving,
funny and much more. I am also thankful
for my mom because she has taught me to
give 110 percent no matter what.
I am so very thankful for my mom
because, like I said, I do not know where I
would be without her in my life!
Laura Cavazos/Essex High School
Thankful
BY ABIGAIL FAIRHURST
Can you please pass the potatoes,
Uncle Allen?
Our Thanksgiving dinner looked like
a dream: there were mashed potatoes as
white as snow; there was perfectly cooked
turkey; and there was sweet-as-sugar apple
pie.
Before everyone starts chowing down
on this glory, we must say what we are
thankful for, my dad said.
Now this was hard. The mothers said
they were thankful for this family. The
fathers said they were thankful for our
community.
And then everyone stared at me. It was
my turn to say what I was thankful for and
I said it. I, as in Abigail Fairhurst, am
thankful for our world.
Happiness flled the dining room.
Cheers and a round of applause flled the
whole house. Quieting everyone down, my
dad said, Lets eat!
My food tasted much better with me
telling what I was thankful for.
NEXT PROMPTS
Cold. What is the coldest youve ever
felt? Describe it. Alternates: Optimist.
Think of your worst memory. Tell us the
story; however, write about it in a way that
turns it into a positive; or Photo 4 (see
youngwritersproject.org). Due Dec. 6
YOUNG WRITERS PROJECT
HAS A FEATURED WRITER
NEXT PROMPTS
Magic. There is magic all around
us, but people often dont recognize
it. Sometimes it comes in the form of
a coincidence or two paths that cross.
Describe a magical moment or feeling
that you have experienced. Alternate:
Home. What is it about your home-
town or your state that you are most
proud of? Due Nov. 29
Cold. What is the coldest youve
ever felt? Describe it. Alternates:
Optimist. Think of your worst sad-
dest, scariest or most embarrassing
memory. Tell the story; however,
write about it in a way that turns it
into a positive; or Photo 4 (below).
Due Dec. 6
Photo 4 Liu Brenna/Essex High
School
THIS WEEK: Secret lives
05401.
MAIN STREET LANDING
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students,
we select the best for publication here and in other
newspapers around the state and vpr.net. This week we
publish work in response to the prompt, Secret lives:
You have another life that must remain hidden. Tell the
story. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Julie Pearce/Essex High School
The secret agent
BY OLIVER HALBERG
Bob Smith was striding confdently
along the dirt road when fve men jumped
out from the woods on the side of the road
and grabbed him. They all had masks that
hid their faces.
Youre a little early for Halloween,
joked Bob. The men pulled him into the
woods and tied him up. Then they dragged
him through the woods behind them. His
head struck a rock and he lost conscious-
ness. Bob Smith was an agent for the
CIA. These men must have found out his
identity, but why had they captured him?
He soon found out. When he woke up, he
was in a cell.
Youre awake, said a cold and chill-
ing voice from behind him. He turned
around and saw ... Beep! Beep! Beep! His
alarm clock shattered his dream and he
woke up. He realized sadly that he wasnt
a CIA agent after all. He got out of bed and
got dressed.
Ding-dong! The doorbell rang. Two
men were standing there. Were from
the CIA, said one. Have you considered
working for us?
Cowboy hats and spies in Vermont
BY ISABEL VIVANCO
I walked around town with a smile on my face and nothing to worry about. Except for
one thing: I was being followed.
Now I am going to trust you with my greatest secret. You must keep this confdential
until you lie dead in your grave. I am a spy. I work for the U.S. government, tracking
spies from Russia and East Germany or other countries that might want knowledge on the
atomic bomb project.
On this particular day I was on no secret missions except that I needed to discretely
tell my contact about a meeting we were having at HQ. The only problem was that I was
being followed. Now, when I was in spy training, the skill I was most adept at was the art
of disappearing. Every once in a while I would use one of my tricks, like immersing my-
self in the crowd, or suddenly receding into a shop. But no matter how hard I tried today,
I couldn`t get those men off my trail. I had to continue on with my duty. I just had to talk
to my contact in code so it didnt sound like I was giving out extremely important infor-
mation. I quickly merged into the candy store where I would meet my contact, the owner.
(Her code name was Mrs. Sweet.)
I turned around and saw two young men conversing in rapid Russian behind me. They
were each wearing a cowboy hat as if that would help them ft into Vermont. When I saw
this, it partially worried me. Had they been in the state where the bomb project was going
on? They both had on tight skinny jeans and Converse All Stars. They would never ft into
this environment, even if they tried ...
Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.org/node/ 85986.
Two lives
BY CHARLES CUSSON-DUCHARME
I had a perfect life a wife, a son and
a dog named Mr. Waffes. Then something
happened and my life was ruined.
Now I am doing something that I truly
loved as a kid football. But I dont know
anybody, and when I fnally tracked down
my old family, they were in Japan and they
said that Charlie Cusson-Ducharme (me)
died in a bad car crash.
I tried to tell them that I was right in
front of them, but before I knew it, I was
back in Florida playing football for the Mi-
ami Dolphins. I was playing quarterback.
The second the game was over I was back
in Japan trying to tell my wife that I was
still alive. Then, she actually sat down and
let me explain what had happened to me.
But before I was done telling her what
was going on, I got zapped back to Florida
and I left the stadium and got in my car
and drove away to my penthouse and sat
down to think about what was happen-
ing. I fnally fgured it out and I ran to the
bathroom and looked at the refection in the
mirror and I was the famous quarterback
Colin Kaepernick. I thought about it more
and I realized that I had two lives...
org/node/86011.
I snuck out again
BY SOPHIA ST. JOHN-LOCKRIDGE
The beach was calmer than most nights,
the smell of seawater in the air. I was used
to the smell, the burning sensation of salt
water against my throat, the stinging in my
eyes, the sand clinging onto my jeans as I
leaned back next to the reeds.
I knew I wasnt supposed to be out
here. I am not allowed to even leave the
house after 8 p.m., but something makes
me sneak out every night to watch the last
fve minutes of the sunset. But what comes
after the sunset is the best. Pitch dark sets
in, and the only noise is the sound of the
waves. The sand gets cool, and it gives me
goose bumps even though Im in a sweater.
I saw a boy running down the beach.
Sam? I yelled, recognizing the way
he moved, his baggy clothes. Its funny
how after so long you know someone so
well that their silhouette seems more famil-
iar than the house you live in.
Yeah. Its me. I saw you out here from
the window. Nobody came home again, he
replied.
That sucks. You have Livvey with you,
right? Livvey was his little sister. Her real
name was Olivia, but she couldnt say it
yet.
I put her down for a nap, he sighed.
I could tell it was hard for Sam; he was
always the only one home, and basically
a father to Livvey. She called him daddy
sometimes by mistake.
He sat next to me drawing faces in
the sand. These were the moments when
I knew I would be with him forever. We
could sneak off and have secret lives on an
island somewhere in the middle of no-
where, where we could run to once Livvey
was old enough to live on her own.
Rain started pouring down on us. It
soaked our clothes, and we ran to my back
porch. All the lights in our house were off,
so everyone was asleep except for me. It
was freezing and I shivered.
Bye! Sam yelled, running towards his
house, tripping over the reeds like a dork,
smiling at me and waving. Yep, well never
be apart.
THIS WEEK: Elder stories
NATIONAL LIFE GROUP
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Hampshire and we publish the best here, in other news-
papers and on vpr.net. This week, we present responses
to the prompts, Elder: Interview an older relative or
friend and tell their story. More at youngwritersproj-
ect.org, a safe, civil, online community of writers.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Kevin Huang/Burlington High School
Nana
BY CATIE MACAULEY
Theres always a story behind every
person in this world. For instance, if you
saw my Nana in the street, you would
merely see a kind looking, elderly lady.
You would probably not think this was a
woman who has changed lives. Well, guess
what? You would be wrong.
My Nanas name is Alma Jane Macau-
ley, though she goes by Leila. She is 91
years old, which is amazing in itself, but
what makes it even more remarkable is that
she was lucky to even make it through her
frst hour.
This is where our story begins, in a
simple farmhouse in South Florida, 1921,
with no hospital nearby. This was a time
when many babies died, even with a doctor
on hand.
Early baby Alma Jane enters the world
on Dec. 23, 1921. While her mother rests,
she is very weak, weighing four pounds.
Her grandmother puts her near a mildly
heated wood stove just to keep her warm
from the winter cold. She is very near
death, but extraordinarily, she survives, and
not only that, lives healthily without dis-
abilities or diseases.
Flash forward to 1929 and the Great
Depression. Almas family is bearing the
brunt of it and is very poor. Still, cheer is in
the air. A good example of this is that Alma
and her brother Buddy cherish their one
grape soda of the week and have contests to
see who can make it last.
Straight after college, my Nana mar-
ried her college sweetheart Bart Scharen-
bak. But tragically, he was called to be a
fghter pilot in World War I, and within
three months, he passed away in a crash.
My Nana met my grandpa in 1945 when
she was in her third year of teaching high
school English and they were wed. One
year later, they had my dad. Together, they
started two charities: Friends for Children
and AmeriCares.
My grandparents have done amazing
things. They once saved several hundred
Vietnamese children from the war in Viet-
nam, because most were almost dead or
severely injured. They risked their money
and home for some young people they had
never met. After my grandpa passed away
in 2010, Nana got lots of letters from these
now adults, expressing their thanks.
Friends for Children is a wonderful
charity, helping kids in need. My Nana
didnt have any workers when she started,
but got some volunteers, and it took off. I
love my Nana as a grandma, but I love her
as a person, too. She is amazing.
Life is an adventure
BY TAEGEN YARDLEY
Life is an adventure ... partake
This is one of the sayings that is engraved on the mirror in our living room.
We always look at that mirror before we leave the house. It is a helpful encouragement
when we are going to hike a mountain, going on a long bike ride, ski racing, or just going
to school.
When I look at this mirror, I am reminded of the stories my mom told me when she
used to do adventure races.
Before my parents were married, they used to participate in adventure races.
One of the races was over 300 miles long. It was very challenging but they tell me that
if you put your mind to it, you can do anything.
There were seven events in the adventure race, which included mountain biking, run-
ning, kayaking, climbing, horseback riding, hiking and orienteering.
It was a daunting course, lasting through the night and day.
During the race, they experienced a lot of sleep deprivation. They only slept for a few
hours on a couple of days during the eight-day race.
The temperatures varied from 85 degrees to 24 degrees at night.
Roads and trails would just disappear, and they had to navigate through the very re-
mote and isolated areas. Their patience was challenged.
My parents tell me that the race was as mentally challenging as it was physically.
However, by working as a team, my parents overcame obstacles and they had a fun
time doing it.
Life is an adventure, partake.
NEXT PROMPTS
Inspiration. Describe your muse. What
form does it take; when does it appear;
how do you interact with it? Alternate:
Fairytale. Create an 8th dwarf for the
Snow White story. Who is it and how does
he or she interact with the others? Due
Nov. 22
Magic. There is magic all around us,
but people often dont recognize it. Some-
times it comes in the form of a coinci-
dence or two paths that cross. Describe a
magical moment or feeling that you have
experienced. Alternate: Home. What is it
about your hometown or your state that
you are most proud of? Due Nov. 29
Moms wild,
wild kingdom
BY GABRIELLO LEWIS
One time my mother was in a small
village in Zaire, and she was waiting in line
to get on the boat that would take her down
the Zaire River.
If you didn`t pay for a cabin, you had to
fnd a spot to sleep on the deck of the boat.
So my mother and her friend and
traveling partner, Chris, had, earlier that
day, gone to the local customs offce to get
their tickets for the boat.
At the offce, the offcial had to be
bribed to return their passports to them.
When the boat got to the dock, the
gates were opened, and the crowd surged
forward, all vying for a good spot on the
boat, so that my mom wasnt even walking
on her own; she was being carried along by
the throng.
When my mom and Chris fnally got on
the boat, they realized that it was actually
two steamships and three barges tied
together with ropes.
Sometimes the boats and barges would
drift apart, and then they would come back
together with a clang.
When my mom and Chris found a spot,
it was on the second level of one of the
boats and was near an albino man with a
large growth on the top of his head.
No one else would get near him, so my
mom and Chris set their sleeping bags near
him and started talking to him. It turned out
that this man was really nice.
Every day mom and Chris would
explore the fve boats, and then they would
sit on top of the roof on the steamship and
look over the Zaire River, which was as
wide as Lake Champlain and surrounded
by thick rain forest. Small native villages of
thatch huts dotted the shores.
On the boats there were crocodiles
tied by the snout and legs to the railings,
bamboo cages of monkeys, dead and alive,
and mounds of pineapples and bananas.
In short, it was a foating, moving island
market.
The electricity on the boat was used
only to keep the beer cold. Nothing else
could be refrigerated; not even the Coca-
Cola.
When the natives saw the boat coming,
the men would put barter items in their
dugout canoes and paddle furiously to the
foating island where they would come
alongside and attempt to tie onto the boat.
They all looked like they would capsize,
and some did.
The trip was supposed to take about
three days, but instead it took one week.
And every second of it was wild.
CHECK IT OUT!
THIS WEEK: Moon
05401.
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students,
we select the best for publication here and in other
we publish work in response to the prompt, Moon:
Whats on the dark side of the moon?
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Friends: Left to right, Tyler McKee, Nathan Cozzens and Wyatt Martin, sophomores at Rutland High
School. Aliya Schneider/Grade 10, Rutland High School
NEXT PROMPTS
Winter Tales. Tell a
narrative about win-
ter in short, fresh
descriptive poetry or
prose. Please avoid
clichs. The best
will be selected for
presentation by the
Vermont Stage Company at its annual Win-
ter Tales production at FlynnSpace in Burl-
ington. Alternates: General writing in any
genre; or Photo 3. Due Nov. 15
Photo 3 (Collage fag) Mister Blick
On the dark side
BY PAIGE HAUKE
Grade 11, Rice Memorial High School
The teddy bear
you lost at the skating rink
and didn`t bother to go back for.
The nursery rhymes
you could sing in your sleep
but now fade to whispers in the back of
your head.
The favorite winter hat
you abandoned in the snow
after a bad sledding wipeout.
The clumps of dandelion wishes
you blew away with the last of the seeds
many summers ago.
The high pigtails
you took out of your hair
and cut into layers or replaced with high-
lights.
The many treasures
you took to the moon
riding in your refrigerator box rocket.
The many treasures
you took to the moon
and left there in shadow,
the very same treasures
you leave on the moon
for the next astronaut to fnd.
Do you wonder?
BY ELLA FISHMAN
Have you ever wondered where the
pictures go that you see in your head, when
you think of something, imagine things, or
when you read a story?
Well, they go to the dark side of the
moon.
If you were to go up there, you would
see pictures, pictures of stories you have
read or heard.
You would see memories, memories of
things you have seen or done.
You would also see other peoples
memories and pictures.
However, these pictures cannot be
viewed by doctors if they examined your
brain.
They are only in your mind and on the
dark side of the moon.
The next time someone reads you a
story and you imagine the scenes, where
are they? The dark side of the moon.
There may be hope
BY JEREMY BROTZ
From my vantage point out of what the
humans think is a crater called Copernicus,
I can see the whole Earth, magnifed as it is
by the high-tech lenses I designed. It looks
so peaceful. Nothing like what I remember
it being like.
What I remember is we velociraptors,
as the humans call us, were getting smarter
and smarter, building things, doing science,
creating societies. And we made weapons
for our many simultaneous wars. Eventu-
ally we had killed off most other dinosaurs
by accident or because of our greed, and
the whole Earth was engaged in our third
world war.
By this time, every group of dinosaurs
on the planet had enough weaponry to
kill the entire planet twice over. On an
international peace holiday, something
malfunctioned, and in the midst of all the
celebration, one of the biggest bombs in the
world went off, and in one day, our entire
civilization was destroyed. At the time, I
was in space taking a break from operating
a military surveillance satellite, and I got
to watch the whole dreadful spectacle from
above.
I came back to a dead planet. No ve-
lociraptors, or any other dinosaur for that
matter, now roamed the Earth. The ground
was cracked, the sky was clouded with ash,
the water was practically undrinkable, the
air all but unbreathable.
I salvaged all that I could, and over the
next few years I made the greatest space-
ship ever built. I packed it with everything
I would ever need and parked it permanent-
ly out in space in orbit around the Earth. I
watched my home planet slowly heal itself,
slowly evolve new animals and plants, and
slowly hide all evidence of our once great
society. And I watched as one race split off
from the monkeys and began to get smarter.
I watched them do everything that we
did, saw them learn science, make tools,
and build societies. I watched in horror as
they mauled each other in two devastat-
ing world wars. I saw them make enough
bombs to kill everyone on the planet. I am
still here, watching.
And I think that there may still be hope.
Giraffes with wings
BY FAITH HAMMOND
I believe
on the dark side
of the moon
pink fuffy giraffes
with wings
roam around lakes
with foating cherries
the size of meatballs
and peanut-butter-covered
monkeys
use telephones
shaped like toucans
as they drink pineapple
juice out of
pencil sharpeners.
Away from the sun
BY OLIVER HALBERG
The robot probe H227 rolled across the
surface of the moon. It had been sent up by
NASA to fnd out more about the moon,
especially what it was like when the moon
was facing away from the sun.
It had been sending information back
to Earth for six weeks as it explored the
moon. It was currently rolling around on
the side of the moon that was facing away
from the sun, or, if you prefer, the dark side
of the moon.
A NASA scientist named Bob Nad-
amork was working late watching H227`s
sensor readings. He aspired to be a fight
director, but was stuck at sensor reading. It
was a boring job, especially at night when
his eyes were already tired, even if he slept
all day in preparation. He always brought a
thermos of coffee and a mug to keep him-
self awake. Currently, a half-empty cup of
cold coffee was beside him on the desk. He
picked up the cup and took a sip.
As I mentioned, it was cold. He hated
cold coffee. He spat it out. It sprayed over
the power generator that supplied power for
all the computers tracking H227`s moves
and for the lights in the room where he
was. BZAT! The room went dark. 'Mr.
Nadamork! He turned around, bracing
himself for his bosss wrath.
On the moon, H227`s sensors spotted
movement. It extended its video camera
and began to record. Six months after
the coffee incident, H227 splashed down
in the Atlantic Ocean. It was examined
thoroughly by technicians and its videos
were reviewed. Bob Nadamork watched the
splashdown on television at his house. He
had been fred after the coffee incident and
was plotting to get revenge on NASA. But
thats another story.
Back at NASA, researchers and sci-
entists were reviewing H227s video. It
showed mostly darkness, with pale forms
moving around the screen...
org/node/85298
Waiting for light
BY CEILIDH KIEGLE
Primitive.
Cold.
No sunshine to brighten
whoever goes there.
Facing the asteroids
but still all alone.
Waiting for light,
waiting.
THIS WEEK: Spooky
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
New Hampshire and we publish the best here and in 19
other newspapers and on vpr.net. This week, we pres-
ent responses to the prompt, Spooky: Write a story that
makes our skin crawl! Read more great student writing
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Madison Moore/Woodstock High School
Dance of the
shadow puppets
BY MARIA CHURCH
Good night. The words that sparked
her fear every night. Gripping the sheets
tightly, she lay on her back, letting the dark
envelop her. There was no light under the
crack of her door even though her mom
usually stayed up late. There never was. It
made sure of that.
Her breaths were quick and sharp. She
fipped over onto her stomach, her fngers
groping around in the dark. They felt the
rough box of matches resting underneath
her pillow. There were no noises even
though her little brother was just next door
and made little squeaks while he slept.
There never was. It made sure of that.
She swiped the match across the box
hard. A fame fared up, spilling around the
red tip greedily. She used the small bit of
light to navigate through the clutter of the
bedside table. The fre waved and snapped,
trying to bite things as they moved by.
With a little sigh of relief she found the
white candle and pushed the little fame at
the wick. Within seconds the fre had been
transferred and she was cupping her light
to her chest. It fung shadows carelessly
around her room, chasing away the dark.
It was a small room yet at night it felt
like an entire universe, where only mon-
sters and beasts lurked.
The shadow of a hand foated, incom-
plete and without an owner, blown up to
the size of her body. It couldnt be her
hand, though. Her hand was on her chest
out of reach of the light.
Experimentally she wiggled her fngers
on the left hand and then the right. The
hand on the wall didnt move. She kicked
her legs underneath the sheet, seeing if a
wrinkle had mimicked the shape. The hand
still didnt move.
She failed around a bit longer, hop-
ing to kick something that was making the
shape but it still didnt move. She sat there
quietly peering at it. Then it twitched its
fngers experimentally. She let out a little
squeak and straightened up.
The hand moved its fngers again,
drumming them on her wall like it was a
piano. Then it moved the fngers into the
shape of a unicorn. The shadowy hand on
her bedroom wall was making shadow
puppets. She cocked her head and watched
it curiously as the unicorn reared its head,
prancing across the wall. Then the unicorn
disappeared and was replaced by a wolf,
with two longs ears. Next, a spider. And
then a butterfy. Only then did she realize
that the hand had been getting bigger with
each shape.
The hand moved slowly towards her,
frivolous puppets aside, the hand of a giant,
stretching out. She screamed loudly as it
got bigger and nearer, her desperate wails
slowly fading. The little fame in the candle
fickered wildly as it fell, trying to stay
lit. The shadow hand lunged forward and
cupped it gently. Then with a soft breath,
the shadow blew the candle out.
The grandfathers clock
BY CHARLOTTE KHAMNEI
Playful, light footsteps, snapping through the ivy and ungroomed branches, identify
that its not the grandfather. The footsteps sound how mine did when I was curious and
stumbled upon his clock.
I remember the frst time the strict ticking created a beat of the sweetest song. It was
like candy or drugs: addicting. But now that sweet candy song is bland and gives me the
feeling of disgust. We hear it every time someone new comes.
Its a little girl. Her pale pink dress, powdered with dirt, covers her small knees as she
is hypnotized by the melody of the clock.
She reminds me of myself when I was little. I havent seen what I look like now. There
are no mirrors or refections in the clock. We can only see out at the other children that
will come and be trapped with us as souls.
As her eyes follow the smallest hand of the clock, the grandfather appears behind her.
The clock strikes its royal melody, sounding midnight. The little girl opens the door that
holds the hands, gears, and us victims. I feel her stare into my eyes. He pushes her in and
she falls into the bottomless pit of darkness, in the middle of the woods, inside the grand-
fathers clock.
Blue sky rain
BY JEREMY BROTZ
As the bright autumn sun glimmers
brightly off a decorative pond, I walk
happily through the city streets, greeting
people as I go. It seems like I know every-
one I walk past. They all smile at me and
nod, like theyre happy to see me.
Turning a corner, I come across my
favorite bakery. The smells coming out of it
are absolutely heavenly; I go in.
The cashier, who Ive known for years,
fnishes serving a customer, and then sees
me standing there. He winks slyly at me
and slips a warm chocolate croissant into
my hands. Then he looks away and starts
innocently polishing the counter top.
I smile and continue on, past a small
garden where a little girl is picking fowers.
She sees me and scampers over, handing
me a beautiful little carnation. She smiles
and runs away. I shrug and walk on, into
a crowded square. Every person there
is someone I recognize but I cant quite
remember their names. They are all faintly
smiling as they go about their business.
I feel so good; its a beautiful day in a
beautiful place with a fower in one hand
and a croissant in the other. Hey, my crois-
sant! I look down at my hand, in which the
treat lies, waiting to be eaten.
Suddenly I notice that all the city
noises, the traffc, the shuffe of feet, the
distant sirens, all have fallen silent. They
are just gone. I hear nothing at all. Even the
light fall breeze is gone. I slowly look up,
expecting to see the large crowd standing
still, looking around and wondering why
the traffc has stopped.
But instead what I see is ... nothing. The
square is absolutely deserted. Not a soul is
in sight. Not only that, but the streets sur-
rounding the square, which had moments
before been flled with cars and trucks,
school buses and motorcycles, are now
utterly empty. I stand there in shock, not
believing what my senses are telling me...
org/node/83720
NEXT PROMPTS
Thanks. What are you most grateful
for? Tell a story about how you gained
appreciation for this thing or opportunity
or person. Alternate: Unique. Whats
something unique or special that you can
do? Tell us how you do it. Due Nov. 8
CELEBRATION OF WRITING
SIGN UP TODAY!
Join Young Writers Project on Saturday,
Nov. 9 as we celebrate the writers and
photographers published in our new
Anthology 5! All ages are invited to sign
up now for a full day of free workshops,
a keynote address by National Book
Award author M.T. Anderson, readings
by Millennial Writers on Stage and a
special reception at the Vermont College
of Fine Arts in Montpelier. Register at
youngwritersproject.org/celebration2013.
Fingerprints
BY JOYCE KE
Im in my car, waiting for someone,
when all of a sudden the car is all smoked
up. I see fngerprints on the windshield
and I look outside, but there is no one.
I turn back in my seat and see more and
more fngerprints on the windshield, and
all of a sudden the car is pulled down the
hill. When the car stops, I get out and turn
around and see nothing behind and nothing
in front of me.
THIS WEEK: Mona Lisa
FAIRPOINT COMMUNICATIONS
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
papers around the state and on vpr.net. This week, we
present responses to the prompt, Mona Lisa: Imagine
you are the subject of a famous painting. What is your
story? Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Elizah French/Spaulding High School
Water lilies
BY CHARLOTTE VINCENT
Plaid shirt, striped shirt, polka-dotted
shirt, white shirt, rainbow shirt. This is how
I spend my day, looking out into the ex-
hibits of the Met. People come and stare at
me, take pictures of me, and occasionally a
toddler comes along and tries to touch me.
I am Water Lilies, and my painter is
Monet. His brush strokes made my body,
and his signature is my accessory.
My eyes are hidden, and my mouth is
invisible. Sometimes I talk, and sometimes
I dont. Wondering who I talk to? My
friends, of course, my fellow paintings. We
talk about whos coming to our exhibit, and
what painter is the best.
The thing is, the public cant hear us
talking, questioning, critiquing our world.
Our secret world.
Museum portrait
BY ADA CASE
Empty eyes and half-broken smile/Blond
pigtails and little hands entwined with
larger ones.
A wind blows about the marsh behind me
and straight through my heavy gown; it is
not unpleasant, but simply there/The cor-
ners of her eyes crinkle as her father lifts
her up... the better to see, my dear.
I miss him, the smoothness of my hands
and the roughness of his/She giggles, pig-
tails bouncing around her ears.
My smile fades with the day, the thought
tugging down one corner its been days
that melt into weeks upon weeks since I
last saw him/She pulls gently on his beard;
Smiling, he playfully swats her away.
Evening is fast approaching/The museum
lights dim, and slowly, they leave me.
A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La
Grande Jatte by George Seurat
Madeleine
BY LILYANNA MENK
Madeleine woke up to the smell of croissants baking on the fre. She sprang out of bed
and galloped to the balcony looking over the River Seine, the wind blowing wisps of her
soft blonde hair out of her face. Then she remembered what today was. She squealed and
jumped for joy. Today, she was going to the park.
She skipped to the kitchen, her blue eyes glisten-
ing with excitement. She saw her mother already
dressed in a silk dress and hat with her butler,
Georgio, at her side, and the cook, Maria, tending to
the delicate pastries. Just as she sat down, her father
walked in wearing his top hat and long suit. Ready
for the park?
The park was beautiful, her favorite place in the
world. The sun glistened over the crystal clear water
and the birds chirped in the trees overhead.
Suddenly, a beautiful bird soared over the trees
and into view. Its feathers glistened in the afternoon sunlight. She sprang towards it and
continued to chase it through the trees. She got so wrapped up in following the beautiful
bird that when it soared over to the water and out of sight, she realized she had lost her
parents. She looked around frantically, but there was no one she knew in sight. She started
to panic, running around people and jumping up to get a better view. All of a sudden her
foot caught on a raised root and she tumbled to the ground. When she opened her eyes
again she realized that she had fallen into the small forest that surrounded the park. She
rose to her feet and looked around. All she saw was a dim light and muted voices coming
from where she stumbled into the forest...
Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.org/node/84551
The scream
BY GABRIELLO LEWIS
I liked it better when I was an idea
in my old friend Edvards numb skull.
It took forever (but I thought I would like it
even better) to be on a canvas.
Now hanging on this wall for all to see,
when people look
at me,
they think, Oh,
boy, the one and
only Scream!
Then they won-
der, Is it a man
or a woman?
When I myself
dont know what
I am.
Am I pain, or am
I love?
Does my despair
come from loving
too much, or no
love at all?
Behind a glass so I cant be touched.
Stuck in this eternal twisted position.
My body is as tortured as my soul.
I wish I was stained glass light, brilliant,
fowing.
As the months go by, I am so bored, trans-
fxed.
The only consolation is all the funny
people walking past.
The Scream by Edvard Munch
NEXT PROMPTS
Somewhere. You wake up in a
strange place and dont know how
you got there. Describe it. What hap-
pens? Alternates: Style. Write in the
style of an author you admire. Name
the author; or General writing in any
genre. Due Nov. 1
Thanks. What are you most grate-
ful for? Tell a story about how you
gained appreciation for this thing
or opportunity or person. Alternate:
Unique. Whats something unique or
special that you do? Tell us how you
do it. Due Nov. 8
SIGN UP TODAY!
Join Young Writers Project on Saturday,
Nov. 9 as we celebrate the writers and
photographers published in our new
Anthology 5! All ages are invited to sign
up now for a full day of free workshops,
a keynote address by National Book
Award author M.T. Anderson, readings
by Millennial Writers on Stage and a
special reception to honor the published
writers and photographers! Its all
happening at the Vermont College of
Fine Arts in Montpelier, 9:30 a.m. to 6
p.m., Saturday, Nov. 9. Register today at
youngwritersproject.org/celebration2013.
YWP NEWS
Starry night
BY ZANIPOLO LEWIS
I was out fshing a little late this night.
When I got to shore, I saw my wife Tonia
waiting for me. She had a relieved expres-
sion on her face.
Why were you out so late, John? I
was so worried. I thought you drowned or
something.
Tonia, youve got to see what hap-
pened.
Oh no, John. What happened?
No, Tonia, its a miracle. Not anything
bad. Look what I caught!
I ran with delight over to my fshing
boat, almost dragging Tonia with me.
As soon as my wife saw what was in
the boat she gasped. For in the boat were
nets full of fsh. There were so many fsh
that they almost flled the boat, and shoved
in the corner was one lobster trap. It had
four lobsters in it.
I waited for 10 minutes for this lobster
trap. And then I pulled it out and suddenly
there were four lobsters in it! Then for all
of these fsh nets, I waited 15 minutes for
each net and when I pulled them out, there
were so many fsh! I said.
Then we danced around in joy under
the stars and before the lights of the town.
Dear God, thank you so much for
this food. It will last the whole year, and
probably even some of next year, too. We
will love you and adore you all our lives
together, we said. Then we walked home
arm in arm. I am so glad this joy was
trapped in this painting along with all the
other things van Gogh put in.
THIS WEEK: Photo 1 & Mystery
JANE B. COOK
CHARITABLE TRUSTS
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
New Hampshire and we publish the best here and
in other newspapers around the state. This week,
we present responses to the prompts, Photo 1; and
Mystery: Write the opening to a mystery story. Read
more great writing at youngwritersproject.org.
Intro to a mystery
BY ELAH SPENCE
Have you ever seen or heard some-
thing that you cant explain? Like a pinch
on your arm when no one is there, or that
feeling that someone is watching you, even
a cold chill that doesnt feel right like it is
out of place or wrong?
Have you ever thought that there may
be people or things that are not meant to be
here like they have already left?
I have felt all of these and I have come
to the suspicion that there are some people
in this world that are different or special...
A shiver, a shudder,
a uorescent wonder
BY LILLIAN KOLBENSON
The skeletons of leaves shade into darker
hues of the core
Covering in a feece coat
Grass is free of moisture
The skys jewel coated in a smooth gust of
gray
Beneath the fngers that glide across the
wooden fence, shutters
Pieces piercing through the glands
Sweet light embers, cover the crisp foor
Decaying rust rakes, buried beneath a shelter
A coven of warm little blankets
Under the shading branches, the leaves form
in fuorescent wonder
Sides of roads create beads of art, coated in
water and dust
Hold my breath, it turns to muck
A wash of frost and cold covers
Roll of hills taper off into chilling fog
The frozen air has shriveled into nothing
Leaves shudder in the wind
Squash vines shriveled and small
Tangled and tugged into overgrown mulch
rubble
The pumpkin sets in the sky, uncontrollable
tufts of bright star light
There she dances
BY LYDIA SMITH
She skips down the gravel road,
her thin dress rustling in the wind. She
whistles and the trees take up the merry
chorus.
Everything she touches turns to red
and gold.
She inhales. She exhales. The fallen
leaves join her dance. The old barn shiv-
ers, shielding his precious cargo from her
impish ways.
None can see her, but they all know
shes there. She tickles the old cows ear
and laughs as it vainly tries to swish her
away.
Suddenly tender, she foxtrots through
the felds, tucking the grass to bed, kissing
them goodnight, singing them a lullaby.
Then shes back to her wild romp.
The farmers broken fence cant hold her;
the air wont stop her.
She skims up the hill, her bare feet
leaving no imprint on the cold ground.
And there she dances, there she turns,
and there shell spin til mother comes
home.
PHOTO PROMPT 1
Photo 1 (Sleepy Hollow, South Pomfret, VT) crgimages
Join Young Writers Project on
Saturday, Nov. 9 as we toast the
publication of our Anthology 5 with
a day of celebration and writing
workshops at the Vermont College
of Fine Arts in Montpelier, 9:30
a.m. to 6 p.m. Keynote speaker:
National Book Award winner M.T.
Anderson. More information at
youngwritersproject.org.
YWP NEWS
The voice
BY HAMARA MUBARAK
How did it all start? It was a long,
windy, lonely weekend. I was at home
alone and I heard something coming from
the back door.
Mom, is that you? Is that you? I
yelled. No one answered.
Smash! came from the kitchen.
Whos there? I walked up to see who it
was. No one was there.
Kaboom! came from upstairs. I ran
to see what was going on. Still no one was
there.
As I searched upstairs, the power went
out. Whos there?
I saw something glowing, coming from
my room. I went closer.
Come here, hold my hand, a voice
said.
Who are you? What do you want from
me? I said as my legs started to shiver.
I moved in closer and closer and the
bright green light moved closer and closer.
A green creatures hand tried to take my
hand.
I thought I was dreaming so I said to
myself, Maybe if I close my eyes three
times this whole thing will go away.
I blinked once, twice, and fnally three
times ... and when I opened my eyes the
green thing was gone.
Boom! came from downstairs.
I have a water gun and I am not afraid
to use it! I yelled as my heart was beating
so fast it could come out of my chest.
I ran downstairs and looked to where
the sound came from.
Living room? Nope. Bathroom? Nope.
Kitchen?
And then I saw ...
Strange thing
BY KATHERINE HAWKO
I crawl along through the endless hall-
way, inching my way to the strange thing.
I reach out and touch it. Its a box.
Keeping my hand on the box, I move for-
ward until I am hovering over it.
My heart is pounding as my fngers
wrap around a cool metal handle. 1, 2,
3. I pull the handle, and brace myself for
whats inside.
It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust
to the sudden darkness, and when they do,
I scream ...
Barbed wire
BY CARA DAVIS
Im not too sure about this, Deet.
Oh Sally, why are you always so high-
strung?
Im not high-strung!
Well, quit worrying then. Jeez.
Sally sighed at that last statement. It
was more like an order, but she wasnt
going to take it like that. She peered over
Deets shoulder at what shed been worry-
ing over the most.
If shed only ignored him! Stupid,
stupid Deet and his stupid, stupid ways
always got both of them in trouble. Sally
had always tried to push him away and not
get caught up in his schemes, but that never
worked.
This was probably the worst thing that
she could be doing. Of course, Sally always
said that to herself each time Deet took her
out for some sneaky business, but this was
the worst so far.
Sally watched as the worst-so-far was
getting closer and closer with each step.
She tugged the cream-colored sleeves of
her shirt over her hands.
She wished she was home. She wished
that she was curled up on the oval cross-
stitch rug next to the freplace. She wished
that she wasnt there, with him, about to
commence the most dangerous and idiotic
plan that Deet had ever dreamt up...
Ghost of a rich man
BY TESS DRURY
Grade 3, Richmond Elementary School
We saw it! We saw it! Carson and
Timmy yelled as they ran down the dock to
Ashley.
You saw what? she asked.
The ghost of Mr. Tuddle! shouted
Carson.
You dont need to yell, said Maddie
who had just appeared. Besides, you dont
know what Mr. Tuddle looks like. He died
ages ago.
They say he never went to heaven,
said Ashley, and that he has zombie body-
guards.
Those are just stories, said Maddie.
No way, said Timmy. I know I saw
him.
Well, Im going to prove you are just
trying to scare us. Maddie walked down
the dock and walked back. See? Nothing,
she said.
Ashley looked up in the sky. Clouds
that had once been white were turning
black...
org/node/84734
THIS WEEK: Mystery & Inspired
YWP is supported by the generosity
of foundations, businesses and
individuals who recognize the power
and value of writing. If you would
like to contribute, please go to
youngwritersproject.org/support, or
mail your donation to YWP, 12 North
St., Suite 8, Burlington, VT 05401.
AMY E. TARRANT FOUNDATION
with authentic audiences. YWP runs
youngwritersproject.org and the
Schools Project, an online classroom
and training program that works with
teachers to help students develop their
writing and digital literacy skills. To
learn more, go to ywpschools.net or
contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
responses to the prompt, Mystery: Write the opening to
a mystery story; and Inspired: A new YWP series. Read
Editors Note: Autumn Eastman, a
senior at Champlain Valley Union High
School, is one of the premiere distance
runners in the state and is part of one of the
most successful Vermont school running
teams ever. The CVU girls cross country
team has won the State Championships,
won a New England Championship and had
several runners in the Nationals in the last
few years. Last fall, YWP asked Autumn to
begin journaling about her running, to show
us what it was like and explain why she does
what she does so hard and so well. Au-
tumns story sparked the idea for a special
YWP project, in which young people write
about what inspires them to succeed. This
is an excerpt oI Autumn`s frst piece called,
Discovery, which appears in its entirety on
youngwritersproject.org. We will publish
additional pieces later this year, and you can
follow Autumns blog at youngwritersproj-
ect.org/blog/7838.
Discovery
BY AUTUMN EASTMAN
School
Journal Entry, before a recent high
school race: I wake up to that familiar feel-
ing in my gut, a turmoil that reminds me of
the challenge that I am about to face. Its
race day. I didnt sleep very well last night.
I tossed and turned, and when I did sleep,
I dreamt about running and racing and
outcomes good and bad.
I get up and unfold the red, black and
white uniform that represents me as a
runner, my accomplishments, the teams
accomplishments and the races to come. I
dress in my 'luckyoutft - we runners are
quite a superstitious bunch - which means
the same socks, same sports bra, same hair
ties and includes the same breakfast, same
routine every race day so we can reassure
ourselves that this race day will be a good
race day. All of this is mental, I know, but
racing is a huge mental game. And what-
ever helps me cope with that stress of not
knowing the outcome of the race before I
race, I go for it.
It`s been a long time since I frst started
to run, since I discovered that this is some-
thing that could drive me so. When I was
really young, I remember on bright, cool,
fall days, watching my Dad tie up his man-
gled sneakers and head out the front door
for the occasional run. When I turned 8, I
told him I wanted to tag along with him.
His face lit up. We jogged down the road a
little ways and came back. My stride was
three times as short as his, so I struggled to
keep up. But we kept at it.
I went through the same generic sports
most young girls go through: ballet, soccer,
horseback riding, the occasional tag and
hide-and-go-seek.
It wasnt until middle school that I dis-
covered cross country running. Hayley, my
best friend then, told me to do it with her.
At frst, I was in the same mix as every-
body else, but then I grew, seasons passed
and my reasons for running changed. I was
no longer running for friends, I began real-
izing I was good at it.
In eighth grade, when I ran with my
Dad, I was no longer slowing him down; I
was right with him, and I felt good doing
it. And during races I started
developing my own little
methods for coping with the
stress; every runner I passed
or was with, I would either
talk to or exchange a 'good
job. I was a one-girl cheer-
ing squad roving through the
woods, and, for some odd
reason, each time I offered
a word of encouragement
to another runner, a burst of
energy entered my body, and
I kept furthering my strides to
the next runner.
And then there was this
one race. As we were milling
around in the open feld, we
spied tables covered with
trays of cookies and other
sweets - prizes, we learned,
for the winning runners. I de-
cided. Hinesburg Community
School was going to win one
of those plates.
I strode to the front of the
pack and soon led the team
and then the race. And as I
sprinted toward the fnish-
ing stretch, I began lapping a
couple of the boys in the back.
Crossing the fnish line, a gray-
haired woman ripped the tag
from my bib and sent me on my way.
A short time later, at the awards cer-
emony, they called my name to receive a
huge plate of cookies. I was overjoyed.
And grabbed a couple.
Arent you going to share those with
your team? my Dad asked.
I admit to just a twinge of reluctance,
but agreed. Within moments they were
gone. But the sweet taste of victory made
the wheels turn in my head; I wanted more,
I wanted the feeling of another win.
Autumn Eastman of Champlain Valley Union High Schools cross
country team recently won a 5K race in 17:50, her best yet.
Photo courtesy of Autumn Eastman
INSPIRED: YOUNG PEOPLE WRITE ABOUT WHAT INSPIRES THEM TO SUCCEED
Join YWP on Nov. 9 as we toast
the publication of Anthology 5 with
a day of celebration and writing
workshops at the Vermont College of
Fine Arts in Montpelier, 10 a.m. to 5
p.m. Keynote speaker: National Book
Award winner M.T. Anderson. More
info at youngwritersproject.org.
POETRY 180 WORKSHOP
Poet Reuben Jackson leads a one-
hour workshop on poetry, Nov. 16,
10 a.m., at YWPs North by North
Center, 12 North St., Burlington.
All participants receive a copy of
the anthology, Poetry 180. Email
kstein@youngwritersproject.org to
sign up.
YWP NEWS
Bianca LaLune
BY ADDISON WHITE
It had always been there, that house
on the hill. Its gates had rusted long ago
and there was a certain eeriness about it
that scared most away. And yet some still
ventured past the gates; past the strange
gardens to the rundown mansion that had
once been beautiful. They were the brave
ones, the stupidly adventurous ones, the
bored ones who had nothing better to do.
And they never came back.
Long ago the house had hosted many a
soul for it was famed for its luxury and the
family was loved for their hospitality. The
LaLunes were the talk of the town - Cas-
sandra for her beauty and charisma, Kathan
for his artistic eye and talent for giving, and
their daughter Bianca, who was the perfect
mixture of both.
Yet beneath their charm and dexter-
ity the family had a certain mysterious air
about them, and even a stranger could tell
that they were guarding secrets.
Murder on the Cape
BY MANNY DODSON
It was a pleasant night, maybe 60 or
70 degrees, warm enough for a midnight
swim. There was a full moon, and I could
see all the way along the beach. The sand
felt amazing on my bare feet, so cool, so
fne, it was almost like water.
My friends were all laughing around
me, and it seemed like a perfect night. We
walked together to the waters edge, avoid-
ing any sharp rocks or broken glass, of
which there were plenty on Nauset beach.
We dipped our toes into the surf, testing the
temperature. It felt refreshing, not numb-
ing, but defnitely nothing like Jimmy`s
heated pool back in Dorchester. Everyone
but me dove into the water, shouting and
laughing and having a good time. As I was
removing my shirt, I noticed something
foating about 50 yards out in the deep...
Read the rest of this story at youngwritersproject.org.
Cabin
BY MARIA CHURCH
They say bad memories are easier to re-
member than good ones, that the bad ones
stick in your mind and you can never, ever
forget them; and I agree.
I vividly remember each detail of that
lone cabin in the woods; perched atop the
hill like a hat upon a head. How the clouds
seemed to gather around it, enveloping it in
shadows.
Inside was drafty and smelled of damp
pine needles and something rusty that made
you gag. It always seemed dark, even when
all the lights were lit. The long shadows
refusing to leave their corners would sit
there watching you, fickering in time with
the dancing fame, cupped inside a dripping
candle.
And, of course, youll never forget that
last night spent without the comforting
candle glow, and you cowering in those
jagged corners with the shadows, those
always present shadows.
ARE YOU INSPIRED?
Write about it on
youngwritersproject.org
NOT A WRITER?
Contact us for help
sreid@youngwritersproject.org
THIS WEEK: Place
UNITED WAY
OF CHITTENDEN COUNTY
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
New Hampshire and we publish the best here and
in newspapers around the state and on vpr.net. This
week, we present responses to the prompt, Place: What
is your favorite place? Read more great writing at
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
House of memories
BY LOY PRUSSACK
There is a room, a room that reminds
me of candy and laughter, set in Northern
California. This is my special place.
My best friend Eva and I have always
been very attached, so I always feel secure
in her room. Her room looks warm and
comfortable. There are stuffed animals
strewn across the foor, with about twenty
more cuddling on the snowy white bed.
Most of these stuffed animals are soft,
silky rabbits, Evas favorite animal. This
place feels carefree and welcoming. There
is a green chair to sit on, a big bed to lay
on, and a computer to play on.
This place smells fresh, with a hint
of chlorine from the two of us swimming
often in the pool outside, and then returning
to the room.
This place puts the taste of candy in my
mouth. The candy is just a memory from
when Eva and I were little and would steal
sweets from the drawer in the kitchen.
It also tastes of bubble gum, from when
we would split an entire six-foot roll. This
place sounds joyful, because laughter is
usually there and is always soon to come.
Sometimes, there is screaming and
crying, when Evas older brother decides to
bother us, but always, after eyes have been
cried dry, there is more laughter, more joy.
This room will forever remain in my brain,
and will always be my special place.
Home
BY LAYLA JAE MORRIS
Grade 5, Homeschool, Hinesburg
The silver outline of the ferry appears
out from the mist, the words Island Run-
ner not yet visible.
Excitement and joy fll me up like a bal-
loon threatening to explode with screaming
of happiness.
Finally, after one long year, we are
again catching the ferry to Burton Island.
The Runner pulls into its dock looking
sleek and graceful, about to take me to my
favorite place the best place on Earth.
We leave the cars and fll up the wagons
at hand with camping equipment and load
them on to a section of the ferry.
The boat is now ready to go. The park
rangers have almost untied the rope con-
necting the ferry to the dock, when a silver
Volvo pulls up to the pier. The door opens.
Its Alya! She runs up to the ferry and yells,
Can we make it?
If you hurry, the rangers shout.
The entire population of the Runner
helps Alya and her mom load their belong-
ings.
Once again, we all step aboard the
Island Runner. I race up to the bow of the
boat and listen to the chug-chug of the
Runners engine, its prow cutting through
the waters of Lake Champlain.
On the way! Were almost there!
An entire year of waiting for this mo-
ment and now we are fnally racing across
the waves, heading toward the Isle of
Burton.
The island is now in sight, its white
sailboats foating in the water like clouds.
The Island Runner is docking on the
Burton Island landing stage. The ropes
are tied. The gates swing open and just
like that, before you could say Welcome
home, I leap off the boat, run down the
dock onto the island and kiss the ground
beneath my feet.
I grasp Alyas hand and we start waltz-
ing with happiness. We grab our bikes and
as fast as we can go, pedal to our campsite,
the place where, for the next 10 blissful
days, we will call home.
The barn
BY SYDNEY STAMMELMAN
In the barn I stand,
looking into his eyes
the big, black horse
standing there in the stall,
loving the attention,
watching me.
He snorts his nose and
swishes his tail
as the birds chirp.
I see the stone name plates on the stalls,
the hay stacked up like giant bricks
near the wooden wall,
peaceful,
safe,
cozy.
Every year, YWP publishes an
anthology of the years best student
writing and photos. On Nov. 9, we will
toast the publication of Anthology 5
with a day of celebration and writing
Fine Arts in Montpelier. 10 a.m. to 5
YWP EVENTS
POETRY 180 WORKSHOP
Join Poet Reuben Jackson for a
one-hour workshop on poetry, Nov.
16, 10 a.m., at YWPs North by
North Center, 12 North St., Burling-
ton. All participants receive a copy
of the anthology, Poetry 180.
Tree top
BY KENDALL MUZZY
My favorite place in the world is when I
climb a rope to the top of a tree,
where I can just sit, and be me.
Reading up there,
thinking up there,
all my worries go away.
In my yard
at my house,
not like any place, anywhere else.
I cant wait to see what it has in store for
me,
when I climb a rope to the top of the tree.
NEXT PROMPTS
Spooky. Write a story that makes our
skin crawl! Can be real or imagined. Alter-
nates: Moon: Whats on the dark side of
the moon? Go exploring and report back;
or General writing in any genre. Due Oct.
11
Tennis court
BY HENRY WOOL
My favorite place is the tennis court.
Everything about it gives me a joyful
sensation.
Running, my shoes squeaking and skit-
tering as I run to hit the ball. Pop! The ball
striking off my racquet, the strands of the
ball now stuck to it.
Playing the point, trying to execute
every shot and place the ball in the cor-
ners; then the happiness - being satisfed
with myself or if not, trying to pick out the
things I did wrong and correct them.
The game of tennis gives me happiness,
pleasure and joy. I feel the sun beaming on
my face, the ball bouncing; I am alive and
free.
My favorite place
BY LUKE MCKENZIE FITZGERALD
Grade 4, Orchard Elementary School
Whoosh! The cool, fresh breeze of
spring blows into my pale face.
It feels a little cold. I hear the wing
beats of the swans. I hear crows, caw,
caw. I hear the honk, honk of geese.
I go over to a tree stump. I eat some
trout lily. It tastes sweet and sugary.
I look across Lake Champlain. I see the
partially snow-covered Adirondack Moun-
tains. I hear the trickle, drip, splash of
melting snow and ice running down rocks.
I feel satisfed, at peace, and calm.
On the boat
BY ADELINE DEMING
On the bow of my boat,
the warm air blowing in my face
as my hair fans back,
I close my eyes and relax.
I feel safe there, like no one can
tell me what to do
or hurt me in any way.
I see the water, sparkling in the distance.
I hear the seagulls crying
and the waves crashing onto land.
Finally we slow down and anchor
as I dive in and cool down.
THIS WEEK: General writing
GREEN MOUNTAIN
COFFEE ROASTERS
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
New Hampshire and we publish the best in this and
other newspapers and on vpr.net. This week, we pres-
ent responses to the prompt for General writing. Read
more great student writing at youngwritersproject.org,
a safe, civil online community of writers.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Ethan Powell, Essex High School
Artist statement
Ethan Powell, an Essex High School freshman in Keri-Anne Lesures class
last year, writes this statement about his photo: I wanted my viewers response
to see the details in my pictures but also the beauty in nature. I think I succeeded
in taking the pictures of my theme and showing nature.
The tools I used were Photoshop to bring out the colors and brightness
of my photos to help me express my theme more; I also used birds eye view,
worms eye view and rule of thirds.
Thanks Ethan! Students and teachers: send YWP your photos and have them
featured in the Free Press and other newspapers around the state each week.
Autumn girl
BY MADELINE BESSO
Grade 11, Mount Mansfeld Union High
School
Her voice is the thick smoke rising from
half-extinguished embers,
sparks darting upward to vanish in the
stars;
my love, she is the cool breeze between the
bare
branches, dancing through faming leaves;
the sweet warmth of cinnamon and fresh-
brewed tea.
She lives for the lightning fashes,
the pelting rain and crash of thunder
she catches the light between her teeth and
her words sparkle with
trapped electricity.
My love, she is the space between the stars,
wispy clouds twisting between points of
light,
she is the sweet smell of dewy grass under
the blanket,
the cold earth under my back as I watch the
stars.
She holds the silhouettes of tree branches
in her palms,
blue veins in white skin splitting into thin
capillaries,
delicate black outlines of twigs on grey
sky;
she cups the earth between her ribs,
brings new air to us with each breath;
my love, she is my comfort,
my warmth in cool nights,
the soft fannel bedsheets and warm wood
fres;
she is my autumn.
Fine Arts in Montpelier. 10 a.m. to 5
YWP EVENTS
MILLENNIAL WRITERS
(BRATTLEBORO)
Join YWP at the Brattleboro
Literary Festival on Saturday, Oct. 5
for the southern Vermont edition of
Millennial Writers on Stage! Noon
to 1 p.m. at the New England Youth
Theatre, 100 Flat St., Brattleboro.
NEXT PROMPTS
Writers block
BY LYDIA SMITH
I want to write, but the words wont
come. Theyre all tangled up in my brain.
That could take a while to unwind.
Too much trouble, I suppose. Perhaps this
weekend, when I have more time?
But Im wandering. Where was I? Oh
yes, I want to write. I want to tell the world
exactly how I feel.
But the words just tripped and fell.
I think Ive lost them again. I wish they
werent so clumsy. Or maybe its me. You
never know.
This paper is taunting me. Teasing me.
It wants the words. It wants the cover. Its
shivering. Maybe it should get a coat. At
least thats what they tell me.
But arent coats just an admission that
youre cold? Wont that just encourage
the weather to torture us more? But Im
wandering again.
Back to the point. What was the point?
Ah, yes, I want to write.
I want to fy through other worlds. On
my pen. Which just broke, blotting out my
words. Those silly words. Just out of reach.
Oh well. Perhaps I should take a
broom.
Mona Lisa. Imagine you are
the subject of a famous painting
or a photograph. Whats your
back story and how do you see the
world and the people who have
come to stare at you? Include the
image or tell us the painting/photo
you are writing about. Alternate:
Lyrics. Write song lyrics or cre-
ate new lyrics to a favorite song
(include a podcast!) Any genre,
including rap. Due Oct. 4
Sustenance
BY OLIVIA PINTAIR
I live in the wake of every persons death.
I trail behind them
lapping up their sorrow like a mutt by a
stream
whose ripples are leaping.
I drink in the hatred spat out by the sinner,
by the shadow spinners,
by the music makers muse,
by the lit end of a fuse,
and I bleed them
like theyre mine.
I like to hold the mist that rises from the
depths of people.
I can feel them in me,
moving within me
and then outward like a raven-starbound,
starbound but tethered like rooftop shingles
and sound that lingers
in the light of the sun
in the fame of the moon
in the hands of something
whose hands hold our nothing
because nothing is everything
when its what keeps you alive.
Suitcase
BY KALSANG DOLKAR
I dedicate this
to an old friend,
still sleeping:
a gray suitcase on the basement foor.
I dedicate this
to the buried feeling
of getting lost
in a beautiful city
and
to the pain of distance:
something which will be closed
soon enough.
I dedicate this
to the mornings
spent playing checkers
and drinking sunlight,
and to a love
so incomprehensibly true:
Shakespeare would be silenced.
Darling,
I dedicate this
to you.
POETRY 180 WORKSHOP
Join Poet Reuben Jackson for a
one-hour workshop on poetry, Nov.
16, 10 a.m., at YWPs North by
North Center, 12 North St., Burling-
ton. All participants receive a copy
of the anthology, Poetry 180.
THIS WEEK: General writing
tact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
newspapers around the state as well as on vpr.net. This
week, we present responses to the prompt for General
writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Kevin Huang/Burlington High School
17 years old
BY KALSANG DOLKAR
(Sister)
Ive never been to the fair,
she says,
and at her words
my heart does that painful twist
its been known to do
during moments
of inconceivable sorrow.
17 years old
and shes excited
for the cotton candy
the stuffed prizes
and the memories
that will be made
with someone
who loves her
more than shed believe.
Finally,
she must be thinking,
(one hand is covering my mouth
to muffe the sounds
of my crying)
fnally,
someone cares about me.

Its moments like these,
when I get glimpses
of the childhood
she never had,
that bring me
crashing down,
not unlike
the hands of the jailer,
who forgot he was a father,
and not unlike
her body
hitting the kitchen foor;
her legs curling forward
to keep her ribs
from snapping
into two.
Ive never been to the fair,
she says.
If only
you had told me
sooner.
MILLENNIAL WRITERS
ON STAGE
Hear YWP writers present their
work today at the Burlington Book
Festival at 2 p.m. at the Film House,
Main Street Landing Performing Arts
Center on the Burlington waterfront!
If you cant make it, vpr.net and RETN
will be recording the performance
for later broadcast. Find out more at
Fine Arts in Montpelier. More details
YWP EVENTS
MILLENNIAL WRITERS
(BRATTLEBORO)
Join YWP at the Brattleboro
Literary Festival on Saturday, Oct. 5
for the southern Vermont edition of
Millennial Writers on Stage! Noon
to 1 p.m. at the New England Youth
Theatre, 100 Flat St., Brattleboro.
I wish I had you back
BY ERIN BUNDOCK
Grade 10, Champlain Valley High School
Im shutting down
because I pressed the button before
the tears could short out my wires.
But just because Im shutting down
doesnt mean Im self-destructing,
because those are two different buttons;
and the other ones not worth pushing.
And even though it was self-defense,
it doesnt make much difference,
because when the salty tears fall from
other eyes,
theyre just as corrosive.
And all it takes is a heavy drop
to land on my side,
And even when I tried so hard,
I start to move inside.
And when I wake,
Its like Im fasting
from the life I used to know;
Because with fried circuitry
it`s hard for me to fgure
why you had to go.
And I still love you,
with a heart that`s faking ash;
And I still feel you
deep in my crippled soul.
But I wish I had you back.
Ode to summer
BY MADDIE HUBER
Its when you can run outside without
shoes on,
but beware of your mother telling you to
wash your feet after!
Melted popsicles drip down your hand,
and your skin is stained artifcial cherry
red.
You can fip your long hair over on your
head, so you look like George Washington
in the pool,
but that should be the only way you should
think of school subjects.
Summer is no time to be stressed out;
people should save that for the 180 days
that they are in school!
The best part is,
that it gets so hot, with the perfect breeze,
that it makes people happy;
even the sun seems to be smiling!
NEXT PROMPTS
Mystery. All good short stories start
with a mysterious idea that often is the
opening, the beginning. Whats yours?
Write your opening paragraphs to a
mystery story, something that will draw
the reader in. (Finish it if you`d like;
we may not be able to publish it all,
but well highlight it on youngwriter-
sproject.org.) Alternate: Photo 1. Due
Sept. 27
Photo 1 (Sleepy Hollow) crgimages
Whispering dome
BY OLIVIA PINTAIR
She tries only to hide it this voice that she
has,
for fear of it leaving and falling too fast.
But the language it stutters then falls
from her lips.
It crawls from the gutter where gladly it
sits.
And warned by the watchman and feared
by the priest,
her hands have been folded, her gown
gently creased.
Now she must wait for her voice to come
home,
for nothing frees words like a whispering
dome.
Footprints
BY JAMES RAY
Staring at a dusty road
Nothing to do but walk or look at what
Youve done and cry, for you cant go back
To erase your footsteps or
Change the path of your wanderings
And when you turn your head
To the trail ahead
You see the hard-packed road
Riddled with the footprints of those before
you
And wonder if your footprint will be seen
And remembered by those yet to come

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