Burlington Free Press index 2012-13

THIS WEEK: Wishes, Vacation, General

YWP is supported by the gen-

erosity 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. Special thanks this week toBAY AND PAUL FOUNDATIONS

THANKS FROM YWPABOUT THE PROJECT YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps

them improve and connects them

with authentic audiences. YWP

runs youngwritersproject.org and

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

hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New

Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select

the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompts,

Three wishes; Best vacation and General writing. Read

more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil online

community of writers.

MORE GREAT STUDENT WRITING AT

YOUNGWRITERSPROJECT.ORG

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Melissa Stewart/Essex High School

Letter to my dadBY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS-MONTESANOGrade 6, Edmunds Middle School

I love you,

I love you so much.

The thing is it’s blind love.

I love you, but I might not trust you fully.

I might be a bit shy when I see you,

but that is because I never get to see you.

Really the only time I get to see you is once

a year.

I’m sorry,

I’m sorry that I might not respond to your

email or your phone calls,

but sometimes my mind is a little off.

I’m scared,

I admit it.

I’m scared because I don’t know you,

because I love you,

and because whenever I finally begin to warm to you,

you have to leave.

And go back.

And I cry because of guilt.

I could be a much better daughter.

And I miss you.

Three wishes

BY KLARA MARTONE Grade 5, Champlain Elementary

I wish I had the skills of the greatest soccer

player in the world and the skills of the best

goalie ever.

I wish I had all the superpowers of all the

superheroes ever created.

This wish I can’t say because it’s a secret!

BY MAGGIE SCARPA Grade 4, Chamberlin School

My first wish would be to become a professional hurdler with my uncle as my

personal trainer.

My second wish would be that people

wouldn’t make a lot of garbage and would

recycle, make compost for fertilizer and for

gardens and collect rain in rain barrels for

nutrients in our soil.

I wish people would respect your personal-

ity, your likes and dislikes, instead of mak-

ing fun of others.

BY ETHAN LACROSS Grade 4, Chamberlin School

If I had three wishes, I would wish for

the power of words to change the lives of

people to overcome problems that they may

face.

I would wish for the power of peace on

Earth so we would never ever fight, but use our hands for helping.

For my last wish, I would wish for the

power of fairness so no one would be

greedy or judge others so we could just

play if sometimes we just want to play.

Vacation is hereBY KATE HENRYGrade 4, Integrated Arts Academy

As soon as I walk

out of the

musty, sticky, sweaty

classroom, I feel relief.

Vacation. At last.

Vacation is finally here.I am free.

Summer is the best time of the year.

No school. No rules.

Freedom.

Freedom!

Summer sanctity BY MALIN HILLEMANNGrade 8, Edmunds Middle School

Seashells, sand, some smiling sun.

Splash! Swimming, sinking, sharp, short

stun.

Striking, stinging, Siberian shiver,

Slowly subsiding, screaming sliver.

Snorkeling, sharing spotted surprises.

Smelling soft, sweet

Starfruit, small, sizable sizes.

Sinking sea stars, sand sheathed shoes,

Silky Sundays, sneaking some snooze.

Sleeping sheltered, stories spun,

Seashells, sand, some smiling sun.

BY CATHERINE GILWEE Grade 4, Shelburne Community School

I wish everything went my way.

I wish it could stay this way.

I wish it could go back to normal.

BY SADIE VINCENTGrade 6, Christ the King School

I wish I had superpowers.

To know what to do, to know what to say.

I wish I had superpowers, to lead me, to

show me the way.

BY ZANIPOLO LEWIS Grade 4, Homeschool, Burlington

Three sentences, that’s all I have to tell you

my wish. My wish is that there is no such

thing as violence. To save the world from

destroying itself.

RaftingBY LENA ASHOOHGrade 4, Shelburne Community School

Rafting on a vacation,

The salty breeze hits my face.

I know I’m going to win this race.

My sister starts squealing again

as the crystal blue waterfall turns a bend.

I run my tan hand into the water,

feeling the sand run through my fingers.This is the vacation I’m going to remember.

I wish I could stay here forever.

I have my family right next to me;

they’re the ones who bring glee to me.

BY TAYLOR MATHIESON Grade 4, Chamberlin School

My first wish is to bring back the ones that I love because I miss my family and pets

who loved me and cared for me so much.

My second wish is world peace because I

am sick of all the wars we have and losing

friends and family.

Lastly, I wish for no more bullying because

bullying scares all of us and your feelings

get hurt and you feel sad.

Dear ReadersThis is the final week of Young Writers

Project’s student writing in this space for

the 2012-13 school year. Thanks for being

with us. We hope you enjoyed it.We’ll be back with more in September,

but in the meantime, you can continue to

see great writing on youngwritersproject.org and on Vermont Public Radio at vpr.net through the summer.

YWP has many to thank for this Newspaper Series, including the editors

and publishers of Vermont’s newspapers

who value the importance of writing and

affirming students’ best efforts. Please support your local newspaper!

YWP also salutes the young writers and photographers, who consistently amaze

and inspire us with their work, and the

teachers and parents who encourage them.

And young writers, YWP has mentors and readers who are eager to read your

summertime submissions on youngwrit-ersproject.org, so don’t stop writing just

because the sun is shining!

— GEOFFREY GEVALT, YWP FOUNDER AND DIRECTOR, AND SUSAN REID, PUBLICATIONS COORDINATOR

THIS WEEK: Fairy tale & Technology

YWP is supported by the gen-erosity 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.

Special thanks this week to

BIRDSEYE FOUNDATION

THANKS FROM YWPABOUT THE PROJECT

YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences. YWP runs youngwritersproject.org and 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.


hundred submissions from students in Vermont and

New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students,

we select the best for publication here and in 21 other

newspapers. This week we publish work in response to

the prompts, Fairy tale: Write a fairy tale that includes

the phrase, “one thousand peas;” and Technology:

Your cell phone breaks. What happens?

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Kevin Huang/Burlington High School

See more photos by Kevin Huang, a freshman at Burlington High School, at youngwriterproject.org.

Tradition BY MEGHAN CLEARY

Grade 11, South Burlington High School

Princess was always abeautiful girl.Eyes sparkling green, she exemplified the valuesof her people.She lived in the Valley of One Thousand Peas, andnever once questioned the lore of the land, storiesof the evil dragonat the top of the hill, traditionsof marriageto a neighboring prince.She did not worryover love.Charming wasaware of his fate from the moment awareness was an ability. Forprince to wed princesswas the wayof his world.It was his prophesied fateto slay the mighty dragonand earn his placeat the throne.His heartwas not taken into consideration.Dragonlived a life of pain.He was, by nature, a gentle creature.He looked upon Princesswith a soft and aching heart.He watched her fallin lovewith her prince, as princesses were prone to do, so when the man, coveredhead to footin shining metal, climbed his hill,Dragon reared his headbut watched the swordpierce his heartall the same.

Death by the mourning dove BY LYDIA MOREMAN

Grade 9, Champlain Valley High School

A glass crown rimmed with gold Filled with cur-sed pow’r of old 1000 peas of onyx set withinCut the lifespan of royal kinEach heir chose power And died at an early hourSentenced from the divine aboveSung to death by the mourning doveIn this way the years passed onUntil the present king had a sonAs his father’s last breath gave wayA mourning dove’s song did playOn his way to his coronationThe heir came to his decisionHe would not sacrifice life for deathIt was time he lay this greed to restHe rejected the crown and threw it to the floorThe power it possessed was not worth dy-ing for 1000 peas of onyx embedded in the crown1000 peas of onyx shattered on the ground

Gossip BY JEREMY BROTZ

Grade 8, Homeschool, Burlington

“So I was like talking to her, and all of a sudden Mia walks up behind me, and she’s like, ‘Take this, you idiot,’ and she slaps me, and I’m all, ‘What the heck?’ but she just like walks away, and ….”

My text conversation goes on and on, blissfully pointless, but strangely satisfying.

I always say that friends are better through a phone, and I live like it. I hardly ever see my best friend anymore because I don’t need to. She’s right there in my pocket.

Today my mom said I should get out-side, so now I’m walking around downtown with my eyes glued to the mesmerizing glow of my phone, which I hold reverently, as if it’s a holy artifact.

My thumbs hammer away, sending every little thought I have out to my BFF. Actually, I can’t even quite remember what she looks like. I think she’s blonde… no, wait, maybe she has brown hair…whatever, I don’t really care. As long as she keeps up the texts, it doesn’t matter.

I find myself wandering up Main Street and crossing it without looking up. In the background, I hear some honking and the screech of tires. Whatever.

I walk into the mall, and wander through the crowds. They all get out of the way so as not to hit me. OK, that works.

Then, I suddenly remember some really good gossip that I just HAVE to text my friend about. My fingers are a blur and I unconsciously speed up my pace in my excitement.

Just as I’m about to send it, I come to a corner and start to turn, but some other person is there at the same time, and wham, we collide. My phone is knocked out of my grip and falls to the floor with a horrid, crunching sound.

I scream and dive after it. The screen is shattered, and the battery is broken. I choke back a sob and look at the dummy that crashed into me.

It’s a girl, about my age, glaring at me and holding her (also broken) cell phone in her hands. Then her expression changes a bit into something a little more like curios-ity.

Just as I’m about to tell her that she’d better buy me a new phone, she says, “Do I know you?”

I’m about to say, “of course not,” but then she suddenly looks familiar.

“Maybe….” I say. Then, bam, I notice her hair. It’s blonde, just like I originally thought.

“Hey!” I shout, jumping up and drop-ping my phone. “I was just about to text you!”

She looks at me funny. “Wait, but I was just about to text…. wait, that was you, wasn’t it?! So this is what you look like. I knew you had blue eyes.”

Then she jumps up and puts her arm around me.

I grin and start telling her about that gossip I so desperately wanted to share. When I have finished, I find that it is even more satisfying in person than texting! No way!

We walk off through the store, yammer-ing non-stop. On the floor behind us lie two forgotten, busted phones.

Waiting in a castle BY MOHAMED JAFFER MERALI


I dream of a world,rolling hills met by the fiery red sun,casting a long shadowon a faraway kingdom.Free of hatred and evil,harmonious people would live,smiles stretched across their rosy facesas they would gallantly wander,searching the world for the unknown.Scaly dragons,the weak planks of the rickety bridges,testing the mightiest of the mighty.From atop a high tower,I gaze out the broken window,dreaming of this mystical world,staring at the fiery ballsrising from the sweltering lava,hoping to see that white luminous knightwho would whisk me awaymy gold locks secure in his strong arms.But all I can do is wait,sitting here in this rat-infested room,a bat in one hand, a jar of peas in the other,counting the days that have passed999 peas... One thousand peas

Fairy princess

BY KELLY MALONE-WOLFSUN

Grade 3, Richmond Elementary School

One day there was a little fairy who was not just a fairy, but a fairy princess. Her favorite thing to do was to curl up with a very good book and one thousand peas.

This particular day she was on a mis-sion to win the Pea Eating Contest, so she had to find a way to be hungry enough to eat one thousand peas in three minutes or less. Her solution was to not eat for four days, so she would be hungry enough to eat one thousand peas.

Four days later… I am so hungry but I don’t want to eat peas, thought the princess, but I have to win the contest. So off she went. When she got there, she saw prin-cesses, fairies, and even frogs that looked starving. The princess took a seat at the end of a table next to a frog. “So,” said the frog, “have you ever done a contest before?”

“No,” the princess answered. “This is my first time.”

“Well then, you’re in for a treat...” Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/ 80712.



THIS WEEK: Music & Long ago

YWP is supported by the gen-erosity 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, Burl-

ington, VT 05401.


GREEN MOUNTAIN COFFEE ROASTERS



Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred

submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire.

With the help of a team of students, we select the best for

publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week we

publish work in response to the prompts, Music: Choose a

piece of music and write a story that flows from it; and Long

ago: Write a diary entry of someone from a different time.

Read more at youngwritersproject.org.



Ben Wood-Lewis is a 7th grade student on the Renaissance team at Edmunds Middle

School. He writes using an alternative communication system because he has cerebral palsy,

which limits his ability to speak and type on his own. For this piece, Ben listened to Gersh-

win’s “Rhapsody in Blue” and identified words he felt describe the piece.

Rhapsody in Blue (An interpretation)BY BEN WOOD-LEWIS

Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School

What you call faultsBY ISAIAH LAWLOR

Grade 6, Williston Central School

You say I’ll never reach the moon. I know this by listening to that tune inside of you.I look at you without a clue to see in you the hatred in your eyes with magic falling from the sky.The thing I want to do is ride the wind with you again.Pull away for a little while to try and push out a little smile.I see the boy that sees the stars differently than the girl who watches the moon.As they learn to walk and talk, they talk to show the greatness in the world around them.They shine without ego like I did long ago.

SanyaBY EVA CUNNINGHAM FIRKEY

Grade 6, Albert D. Lawton School March 31,1901

I am headed to California to meet the rest of my family who have been there for a whole year. There, they have waited for the people back in Russia to approve my travel.

I have long awaited this day, dreamed about what I would do when I first saw my mother, father, two sisters and brother.

My ship is now landing at the dock and I see my family.

When I get off the boat I scan the crowd for my mother and find her instantly. She is unmistakable in her bright orange dress and white overcoat.

I run to her and hug her and we burst out crying.

“Anastasia,” my mother says. “... I have dreamed of this day for many days...”Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/79556.

Prison boy’s excerptBY GRACE LU

Grade 6, Albert D. Lawton School

Before I begin the long and arduous task of recording my stay here in this mo-notonous, desolate place, there is one thing that I must explain. I am calling today “day one” because when I woke up this morning, something was different.

It felt as if today was going to be the start of a new, better and brighter era, even though I am still trapped here. I have been here a long time, yet I cannot fully fathom that period of time.

My hope is that one day, somewhere in the future, another person will find this journal and read it and that they will pro-ceed to change our society for the greater good...Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/81210.

The new ageBY ISAAC DODSON


The silver skyscrapers shine in the light,stretching to the heavens.Hovercrafts zoom across the skyright above me.On the road, the silent Smart cars purr,making little noise.Trees dot the sidewalks,their green splendor visible.The smells from many different food cartswaft into my nose,making my mouth water.People walk next to me,chatting and laughing.I feel wind brushing my hair.I glance upand see the silent plane pass,traveling at the speed of sound.Bright-colored hairfills the corners of my vision,purples, greens and pinks.Everyone is different, unique.This is our new world.Welcome to the future.

193 years agoBY ISABELLE VANSUCH


June 20, 1820I woke up this morning to the sound

of a rooster calling and the smell of maple syrup. I looked outside to see the first ray of sun come over the mountains.

I wanted to stay in my warm bed all day and soak up the sun, but Mother called my name, and I had to get up.

I rose out of bed like a bear coming out of hibernation...Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/81337.

Long ago (a Haiku)BY KATE HENRY

Grade 4, Integrated Arts Academy

I wish I lived whenEverything cost less thanA stinkin’ dollar.

My dayBY OLIVIA HUNT


The rumbling wheels roll pastThe windmill turns round and round and round, making flourThe birds chirp, chirp, chirp away in the treesThe wooden house I live in creaks as people move about downstairsI run outsideI look up at the clear blue skyI lay back in the soft grass and look at the dirt road and the house trotting past meI head down to the bubbling stream and dip my feet inI feel the cold crisp blue water flow over themI watch as the fish swim past nibbling at my toesI head into town and go into the shop to buy penny candyI smile as I eat it on my way homeThen I go back upstairsTo my roomTo the windmill that still turns relentlessly around and around and aroundTo the birds as they chirp away, away, awayI sigh and lay back on my palette and look up at the shifting light on my bedroom ceilingShifting, ever changing lightI sleep

Loss and sorrowBY ABHI DODGSON

Grade 5, Homeschool, South Hero

A light drizzle falls as a bird sings softlyPeople in black walk the streets slowly dragging their feetTheir eyes heavy and downcastShoes make hollow sounds on the cobble-stonesThey enter an empty churchwhere the statues sing to the deadA sanctuary that saved hundredsfrom war, from sickness, from death

Tears flow into a rivermourningsoldiers returning from war disfigured and crazedAdults and children lying on their death-beds slowly fading awayThe continuous sound of hammering as coffins are made every dayNo one has been in the church for yearsCobwebs fill the cornersA ray of sunlight illuminatesthe dustpiling on windowsillsThe music I was listening to when I wrote this was Symphony no.3, II Lento E Largo -Tranquillissimo by Henryk Gorecki

THIS WEEK: Dislike & White lie




CHAMPLAIN INVESTMENT PARTNERS







newspapers. This week we publish work in response

to the prompts, Dislike: Write about something that

disgusts you; and White lie: Write about a lie that

grows and grows. More at youngwritersproject.org.

MILLENNIAL WRITERS ON STAGE

PRESENTED BY YOUNG WRITERS PROJECT AND VERMONT PUBLIC RADIO

Send your best poetry or prose for performance at the Burlington Book Festival

on Sept. 21, 2013. Submit as a blog on your youngwritersproject.org account (If

you don’t have one, it’s easy to sign up); click Newspaper Series and the prompt, Millennial. Or email your submission to [email protected].

Little white lieBY MARIA CHURCH


There once was a little white liethat grew and grew and grewuntil it wasn’t so little anymoreit was big and redkeeping you awake at nightwith guilt-wracked gutsyou biting your nailsworrying about what would happenwhen they found outit coiling in your stomachevery time you spoke“Tell the truth”it would screamand you would open your mouthand then close itbecause you knew if you toldyour would-be friends would become your wouldn’t-ever-be friendsit would only be you and your shadowand that little white lie that grew and grew and grew

My dislikesBY ABHI DODGSON


I dislike cleaning up after the dogs (it’s disgusting!) BUT anything to make a better environment!I dislike it when our ewes have difficult births. It makes me worry and they can become very sick.I dislike loud drummers, sometimes they are OVER THE TOP!I dislike math, I guess it’s not my “thing.”I dislike bad things always being on the news instead of positive stories.Mushrooms are squishy and gross.In my opinion, Britney Spears is not a talented singer.Snakes just creep me out.I dislike friends being late. I like to be on time.I don’t like when friends text instead of interacting.

School lunchesBY MATTHEW CATOZZI


The bell ringsand my stomach churns.I head toward the boisterous cafeteria,dreading it all the waydown the hallway.The smell, such a disgusting smell,drifts up from my tray.I stare at my “food”,Horrified by what I see.I hear my stomach growl.Not because I’m hungry,but because I hate school lunches.I sit, refusing to touchthis glob of mushsquirming on my tray.I kick and complainwatching my friends eat suchtoxic sludge.Every meal has some aspectthat makes me avoid it.Its smell, its sight, or the way it tastes.I get my tray and the food’s a waste.“The pizza’s too greasy!”“The soup is warm paste!”“The nuggets are so hardthat my teeth will break!”I don’t know what to dowhen lunch comes each day.The bell rings and I cringe.Hoping that this lunchwill be at least edible.Maybe I should get lunch,not from the school, but from home.Because then I will knowthat my food will be safe.

A poignant curseBY MICHAEL DICKHAUT


There are many repulsive and disgusting foodsBut none compare to Limburger cheeseA poignant curse upon the world1 cup spoiled skunk juice3/4 cup dead fish pureeSauteed in week-old milkPoured over horrid hockey socksAnd served with a sprinkle of mouse drop-pingsFlavors mix and mingle in your mouthReacting like ammonia and bleachBut worse for your healthIt slowly does its workAssaulting the defenseless noseThe taste buds face the next onslaught of putrid flavorSlowly it worms its way down the throatSearching for its next victimDiscovers the stomachThe Limburger cheese corrodes from withinIt needs to be removedBut it will do more damage if it is expelledSo it must be kept withinUntil the pain and taste subside

Squishy and mushyBY RYANN GIUMMO

Grade 5, Thomas Fleming School

Red, small, roundWish they weren’t foundTaste disgustingAlso like they’re rustingWay too squishySometimes really mushyI hate tomatoesI prefer potatoes

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Josh Kenyon/Essex High School

YWP PERFORMANCE NIGHT

THURSDAY, MAY 30

NORTH BY NORTH CENTER

12 NORTH STREET, BURLINGTON

Performance poet Lizzy Fox will lead a writ-

ing and perfor-

mance work-

shop, Rhythm

of Change,

from 5 p.m. -

6:30 p.m. Stick

around for open

mic and pizza,

from 7 p.m. -

8:30 p.m.

More details at

youngwritersproject.org or call

(802) 324-9538.

FREE AND OPEN TO ALL AGES

THIS WEEK: Farm Project winners




VERMONT COMMUNITY

FOUNDATION



Congratulations to the six winners of the Farm Project

writing challenge, whose work is published on this page

today. The Vermont Community Foundation, sponsor

of the challenge, will award the writers $50 with an ad-

ditional $50 donation to a local food or farm nonprofit

of the winners’ choice. Seventy-seven writers partici-

pated in the challenge, showing that farming and local

food matter to young Vermonters. Read all of the Farm

Project submissions at youngwritersproject.org.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

Shatter

BY CALLISTA BUSHEE

Grade 8, Home School, East Wallingford

On the second Friday in January, a calf was born at Seward Farm in East Walling-ford, just 10 minutes from my home. She wasn’t out of the ordinary; in fact, she was anything but different.

The heifer, the first female calf in several months of bulls, had a thick-headed temper to her, like her mother, and boasted her rudeness from day one.

But that Monday, one of the two days I spend volunteering at Seward’s each week, she caught my eye.

We usually only name registered or special calves, and she was neither. A bit smaller than most, her size was the only unusual trait about her, with regular mark-ings and, of course, her tough disposition. However, the calf’s strong will was much

like my own, and she grew on me. With permission from Art and Dave

Seward, the two wonderful guys who own and operate the farm, I named her Shat-ter for her white markings, which in some places looked like shattered glass.

With time, Shatter became more even-tempered, and her affection for me grew. After I’d trained her to give me her hooves upon request and a few other useful tricks, I began working with her on a halter, walk-ing her any chance I got. Bit by bit, Shatter worked her way into my heart, funny little nose first.

Working at Seward’s is by far the high-light of my week, not only because of Shat-ter but because no matter how grim things look, Art and Dave always find a way to laugh. One way or another, they cheer you up, and they have showed me that even in the toughest situations, you can always find a way to smile.

Carley Malloy, here with 1-year-old Lola, is the 9th generation on the family farm in North Thetford

Sheep poem BY EVA ROCHELEAU


The lambs born in February and March leap togetherIn May when the fields are green The visitors comeAnd they ask us questions like “when” and “why” and “where”June, July rotate the pasturesShifting the fence, one, two, three, lift!Then comes AugustWhen we load up the trailersAnd off to the fairFull of top-notch churros and freshly ironed pantsThe days of blocking and fittingShowing and ribbonsAre long, tense, and sweatyAnd the sheep are loud and “fitted” their bestOnce Addison County and Champlain Expo are simply joyful memoriesWe pack up our lambs, all tuckered out, and head back to the farmWhere the shepherds are eagerly waitingSeptember, lambs are nearly forgotten Only photographs

The chicken coopBY DAVID AMOURETTI


I open the coop’s squeaky door.I pass the rooster sleeping in a feathery mass.He opens one eye, then closes it,Deciding that I’m not a threat.At the laying area, I reach inThe tiny room with the mother hens,White, brown, spotted,Sleeping on the side,Waiting for a peck,But nothing happens.I count 1...2…3…4…Four eggs.My trembling hands gently pick them up.They feel cold, chilling my fingersIn the already freezing winter.Careful not to drop them,I walk inside,Ready for omelets.

Summer on the farm

BY CARLEY MALLOY

Grade 7, Thetford Academy

I’ve decided that a family farm is a lot

like a barbed wire fence; running smooth for a little while, and then running into a twist or barb that slows things down. My last year and a half has been spent working on my grandparents’ farm. Each day has been a new adventure, and I often catch myself looking back and saying, “remem-ber the day…”

I like summer on the farm the most; the weather has warmed so the barn can be left open and I can hear the jingling of chains as the cows turn their heads to look when I come in. Summer on the farm means hay-ing, fencing, cleaning up the winter’s mess, and letting the cows outside to stretch their long legs. Kittens and calves are born and you have the fun of tracking them down every morning to see where their mothers have decided to move them...Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/ 80476

Dusty Creek Farm

BY KELSEY EDDY

Grade 9, Mill River High School

I turned the doorknob and walked into the milk house. The milk container was cold, as expected, and the family had not started without me.

I walked through the milk house and went into the barn. I walked down the aisle, looking for my grandpa.

“Hey Sprout, you here to help out or talk to the old lady?” he asked.

We both laughed. My grandpa had a great sense of humor, and always called me Sprout.

“Go clean off the calves,” he said, all business-like...

Unlike me, who can be scared of cows at times, my grandpa was tough and fearless, even though he had his limits...Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/79906

Living by a farm

BY SASKIA KIELY

Grade 7, Vergennes Union High School

The drive down the luminous dirt road when I was moving away from my child-hood home was torturous. I knew it was going to be a big change, moving to West Addison, and not necessarily a good one.

Gone was my lush yard and surround-ing mountains that were the backdrop of my childhood. I arrived to see a bland town, no trees, and fields flatter than a pan-cake. The only thing I could smell for the first week was manure. My parents told me it would be a great experience and change, but I wasn’t convinced.

My new home is surrounded by farm all around; there is no escape. My first encoun-ter with the farm was with the cows. One day I had some extra cake that I normally would have discarded, but I decided to give it to the cows. I went outside, walked over and cautiously dropped the cake over the electric fence. The excited cows came forward and licked it a couple times.

The next day I went back out and came a little closer, allowing them to suck on my fingers. Day after day I would walk to the barn and interact with the animals, and Rob and Suzie, the farmers. I could see when the pigs got out from my living room win-dow, and would rush over to chase them back in. The place had started to grow on me, and I wanted to be of help in any way I could.

Prior to moving, my stereotype of dairy farmers was strong. I thought that farmers were gruff middle-aged men who didn’t care about anything — they just had the jobs for the tractors. But I realized how in-correct this stereotype was when I met my neighbor farmers who are kind, generous, and always helpful — and their kids are also creative and engaging.

Amazed by how much effort and time they give to producing milk, I started think-ing differently about the farming lifestyle and the passion and dedication it requires. These people sacrifice so much time to wake up in the morning at 5 o’clock and take care of the calves or milk the cows. They don’t just do it because it’s their job, they do it because it’s what they love to do...

Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/80618

THIS WEEK: Promise & News story


ington, VT 05401.


FAIRPOINT COMMUNICATIONS



Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hun-

dred submissions from students in Vermont and New


the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers.

This week we publish work in response to the prompts,

Promise: Write about a promise you made but couldn’t

keep; and News story: Write an opinion based on a cur-

rent news story. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.

NEXT PROMPT

Vacation. Recall a specific moment on a favorite vacation and describe it. Or imagine your perfect vacation. Alternate: General writing. Due May 17

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Margaret Slate/Peoples Academy

Your little girlBY ANNA HULSE

Grade 8, Vermont Commons School

I promised you I would always be your little girlWith a flaming imagination and excitement for life,But you feel me slipping away into the world,I know you do.So you open your arms for an embrace,Hoping I will look back over my shoulderAnd run to the safety of your love.You try to hide your tears as I struggle,Life shoving me off a cliff, barely holding on.But you smile at my successes, Knowing it will all make sense in the end.All you can do is watch from the nestAs I fly away free, but still frightened.And when it seems like I’m not good enough,I will always know I’m perfect to you.It kills you to think about the horrors of life,The judgmental critics commenting on everything you love about me.But I have to learn myself,experience, feel.You’ve spent your life protecting me.It’s time to let go.The makeup I smear on my facecovering up the special features only you know are there,the freckles shaped like the big dipper,the birthmark on my chinand my smaller left eye.You hate it, trust me, I know.Life isn’t easy anymore.I wish I were little again, and could cuddle up against you,Listening to your heart pound against your chest.So thank you for being my safety netas I jump out into the world.I’m not your little girl anymore,But when life scares me away from my dreamsI will always come running homeTo your warm embrace.

About my sisterBY ELIZA WAITE


I made a promise but just could not keep it. I tried so hard to keep it but couldn’t. So I told my friend that my sister was a…monkey and gorilla at the same time.

I told her never to tell but then she could not keep it, so it went on forever and ever until some random person told my sister, and then it was a long year after that.

Hidden shellsBY ELLA CAUSER


I have secrets in my head,A nest of promises and dread,A spinning orb of words and thoughts.Tell a single soul I’ll not.A story’s whispered, a tale is told,Truth unravels, pure as gold.A pinky promise, an “I won’t tell,”Yet promises can break like shells.But I won’t be the one to break,A slipped word, a clever mistake.For secrets are not to be shared,I’ll zip my lips, pretend I cared. And tell anyone? I’ve never dared,For broken shells are to be spared.

Hard to keepBY FRANKIE KARNEDY

Grade 7, Frederick H. Tuttle School

Promises are one thing in life you can hardly keepThey slip between your fingers They slide around your feetYou can’t see them be brokenBut you can see when your secret has been spokenEven though they promised They made a promise they couldn’t keep

The promise of hope BY SARA AHLERS

Grade 12, Mount Mansfield High School

I always said it would mean something. I held this word in my heart above all others. It meant stability, it meant I could let go, let the world hold me and take care of me. It meant I could close my eyes and stop screaming, endlessly screaming and scrambling to make everything be so, to make it be okay.

The word was invented as a way for frightened, insecure humans to know that they could relax, that, regardless, this is what would be. Promises made things safe, stable, secure.

I pinky-swore my way through child-hood, linked my small pinky through other children’s fingers, showing that I would be sure to honor my word.

I never pinky-swore to anything if I knew I couldn’t follow up. That would be deplorable, and would break the boundaries that we set for ourselves, the ones we fol-lowed to keep ourselves safe and know that we could be trusted. And then I watched as opinions tore and fell flat, as the world faded to gray and stabbed me between the shoulder blades. As life promised to be the utmost treasure while refusing to remove the knife from its new residence between my bones. As people writhed and babbled their way out of being what I wanted them to be, as they fell from the pedestals upon which I had held them for so long.

To put it in short terms, I was a self-made storybook child who grew up into real life and watched text and pages tear up around her and drift to the ground like snow. So what meaning has that word to me now?

Only this – hope. Life’s ultimate prom-ise, the one I clutch to my chest, the salve I apply to all my stinging, bloody cuts. My grotesque, mottled bruises coloring in sickly shades. The promise I whisper to myself on late nights to the background noise of TV static, on days when I stumble alone through miles of cold muddy slush and know that I will never reach where I want to go, but I keep walking anyway.

No human word has meaning unless it resonates within you as well, but this is a promise from the omnipresent power of life itself, an incomprehensible force – the promise of potential, of possibility, of won-der, of better days.

THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE

Watch this newspaper and youngwritersproject.org

for the six winners to be announced next week!

Sponsored by The Vermont Community

Foundation’s Food and Farm Initiative

GunsBY CALEB MOREHOUSE

Grade 7, The Renaissance School

As some of you may know, after the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School, there was a smaller incident in which a teenager was arrested for pointing a firearm towards his high school.

My opinion on rising gun violence is that gun ammo capacity for gun clips per magazine is dangerous. Picture the Con-necticut shooting, many students and some teachers dead. Now imagine it differently. The shooter is forced to reload his rifle; the teachers are able to stop the shooting and up to 20 children are saved. The limita-tion of high capacity magazines could save so many lives that the change is vital to people’s safety.

I understand there is a culture behind the ownership of guns, and it is treated like a religion. However, it must be limited in its power so that non-believers are not killed as heretics. These things simply have to be limited.

THIS WEEK: Climate change




VERMONTIVATE



This week, Young Writers Project publishes some of

the winning entries in the YWP Climate Change Writ-

ing Challenge. Seven writers were honored and given

$50 awards by Vermontivate (the community sustain-

ability game) at an Earth Day celebration in Burlington

on April 20. To read all the winning submissions, go to

youngwritersproject.org/vermontivate.



PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Nate Ertle/Essex High School

Stronger than we seem

BY MARGARET SLATE

Grade 11, Peoples Academy

Sometimes the world is not as it should be,And it’s something that we all can readily see.We sit and sigh and cry about it all,But none of us stand up to fight against the wall.But that’s not really fair, because they do exist,The ones that fight for our further exis-tence.Humans are stronger than we give them credit for,And I believe that our strength can give us so much more.I believe that we can change the world,Speaking speeches and shouting words;Though alone, it’s not enough to get us through.What we really need is me and you.Humans are incredible, expanding their lives,They’ve outfitted Earth so that they can thrive.Some say they’re greedy, I say they’re grandBut it’s not something that everyone can understand.Our future isn’t about keeping the Earth the same,But adapting for changes like the old ones that came.We know the Earth shifts beneath our feet,And its creatures are moving to an un-known beat,But we really can tune in, you see,Because technology expands exponentially.So dear, please, don’t cry about it so,Because all it takes is a seed to grow.And the human race is made of seeds,Handcrafted and designed to suit our needs.They’re a lot braver than we’ve come to know,And someday soon, I believe it’ll show.Because the world is falling, that’s the truth,But we can change it, me and you.

Atlantis: The second world

BY CECILIA GIORDANO

Grade 11, Big Picture South Burlington

I remember my grandmother telling me stories of the surface. When I was younger, without my own children, I would sit by her side for hours watching the fish swim past my biofield helmet and listen to her talk.

She told me that Mother Earth had begun heating, and that it was irreversible. I re-member not understanding why that was.

It didn’t make sense that my ancestors were incapable of reversing their mistakes, if they could create such wonderful technology. She explained to me that Homo sapiens had damaged our planet to the point of no return, because they were selfish, and had discon-nected themselves from nature.

When my generation came along, the title of “human” began to mean different things than it once did. I remember looking at her toes and wondering if sometimes she felt unnatural down here. She belonged to the land and I, one of the first Homo ichthyoids, belonged to the sea. My toes were webbed to match my hands. At times I wished for gills, and other times I thought about cutting my webbings.

No matter how many times I asked her about the start of our new world, she’d always retell it. The story never changed, and when she’d come to the end, I’d ask her something about the beginning to make our time stretch on. She would tell me that Mother Earth had grown tired of human resilience, and put us to the test for the last time.

She told me that Homo sapiens saw the change and damage escalating but let it worsen, they knew what would come of it, and before Earth could cleanse herself of the parasitic nature of humans, they found a route around her ways. They created the biofield helmets that allowed oxygen to be endlessly filtered from water, and made cities out of material that was insoluble and could not be corroded. She explained that the oceans we now inhabit rose and swallowed up all the land...Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.org/vermontivate.

Is it going to be us? BY TAYLOR GARNER


Is it going to be us?That watches our planet die away?To watch our oceans poisoned,our valleys burned,and my soulleft to deteriorate?Is it going to be us?That watches our mountains cut down,our atmosphere, toxic,and the rains turned black?Is it going to be us?That have to tell our grandkidsthat our governments didn’t help their planetwhen it needed it the most?That that’s the reason they wear gas masks to school,and need to be inside during the acid rain storms?That we murdered the planet?Is it going to be us?

THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE

Watch youngwritersproject.org for the six winners

to be announced soon!



The global hope

BY LEAH KELLEHER


We are selfish, energy-hogging crea-tures. Humans are contributing to the destruction of our Earth. We know that.

It is folly for people to believe climate change is a myth. From the factories that make our car parts to the production of po-tato chips, all of our companies use chemi-cals and materials that impact our Earth.

We need to accept the fact that our care-lessness and recklessness is showing. The Earth is not going to last forever. Scientists know it, astronomers know it, we know it.

So why don’t we do anything about it? Human beings have a bad habit of waiting to do something until the last minute. Until it is too late. Many people, including scien-tists, do believe it is already too late.

I believe if we start now we can change the outcome. We can save our mother planet. I know what you’re thinking: How? When humans wanted to reach the moon, we got there. When we want to accomplish something or make a difference, we find a way to do it. If we want to heal our Earth we can. We need to have hope, not only in the future, but in ourselves.

We may be selfish, but we are also the smartest creature on this planet. That being said, that gives us the opportunity to protect the beauty around us.

We are not doing anything at the mo-ment, but if we just started small, we could give this planet a chance. We can all fix climate change if we try. We all need to try because this is not a national issue with politics. This is a global issue with us.

PLAY VERMONTIVATE!

The community sustainability

game that ends with a huge

Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream Party!

Find out more at vermontivate.com

THIS WEEK: Six words & General

YWP is supported by the gener-osity 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, Burl-

ington, VT 05401.


BAY AND PAUL FOUNDATIONS








the prompts, Six words: Write as many six-word stories

as you can; and General writing. To read more, go to

youngwritersproject.org.



PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Andrea Marie Neville/Chelsea Public School

Waiting for springBY OLIVIA PINTAIR

Grade 7, Lake Champlain Waldorf SchoolHometown: Williston

The sun is coming, my love.It’s on its way. Any day now. So we must prepare now, darling, for when the light dawns on our worn limbs.We have wilted, but if the world tilts just a little, we will start to make breath for the beings.It will be bright, my love.Do you remember how bright it used to be? How warm it will seem when we thaw.How beautiful this world will be when we can see again.So stay with me, love. For we are rooted here until the light comes back.Don’t leave just yet, for the shadows seem warmer when you are with me.Imagine how it will disappear, this beastly thing called the dark.It will leave us to make way for the bril-liance that is to come.You can trust me, my love, for trust is the meaning of our existence.We feed the lungs of those who walk,For those who walk need our strength.And when the sun comes back to us, we will lift our faces for herAs she gives up her power for all the little ones.And when the sun has given all she has to give, We will wait once more,For she will come again.

BY EMILY URISH


Birds chirping, always chirping, never stopping. Dark, still, black, silent, starless night. Sunset disappearing into darkness, only blackness. Never seen, never hugged, never loved. Door between life and death, opening.

BY CHRISTOPHER BARKER


A painter. A painting. Undiscovered history.Simple sea foam contains beautiful god. 24 hours, average American, million bid-ders.A tight grip, hospital, and silence. A quiet mansion. One man alone.

BY OLIVIA HUNT


Water, sand, swish, swash, the ocean.Wind crazy, roaring through my ears.Humming, humming devices, the 21st century!Words everywhere, but none for me.

BY ZANIPOLO LEWIS


We used to, now we’re not.I have luck but need more.They finally, actually believe in me!Sit, I will read to you.

Six-word stories BY FERN SULLIVAN

Grade 5, Champlain Elementary

I saved the world with magic.I flew on a dragon everywhere.

BY JAMES BERNICKE

Grade 5, Shelburne Community School

Morning breeze gently moves calm water.The moon disappears; the sun rises.I wish to explore the wild.

BY SARA AHLERS


Homesick, but I am at home.Published; they spelled my name wrong.

She and Friend BY ARIEL SALMON

Grade 9, Essex High School

She was born, lived, and died.Friend was born, lived, and died.She and Friend grew up together.She and Friend loved being friends.Friend and She were crazy together.She and Friend cried as one.Friend helped She. She helped Friend.If Friend hurt, She was there.If She hurt, Friend was there. They were inseparable, Friend and She. Friend and She went different ways.She and Friend both grew up. One day, Friend and She met.She missed Friend. Friend missed She.Neither had forgotten their childhood friendship.They were born, lived, died: Friends.

NEXT PROMPT

Long ago. Write a journal/diary entry of someone from a different time period, past or future. Alternate: Being right. Describe a time when you were sure that you were right, but someone else refused to see your view. Due May 3.

BY COURTNEY VINCENT


Goose chasing shark, imagination gone wild.Colors dripping down the white paper.

BY EMILIE MCCORMACK

Grade 7, Browns River Middle School

First full game. Full of tears.

BY YOSEPH BORSYKOWSKY


Grocery market, child lost, intercom, found!

BY GRACE CASWELL


More world peace, less violent wars.

BY MARIA CHURCH


Holding home-made signs, without a home.

BY GABRIELLO LEWIS


It was the sound of heartbreak.It was twilight when they came.They came to take me home.They danced through all the night.They walked among the everlasting stars.He walked along the path whistling.

BY MALIN HILLEMANN


He then painted the broken sky.The people’s deep wounds need healing.Beautiful green leaves hold her touch.Raw, working hands have hidden secrets.All that’s left are healing scars.We can learn to love again.Sharp pain rises from her fingertips. Dying inside, unwilling to show outside.

BY AHMED ADAN

Grade 5, Champlain Elementary School

I like trains because they whistle.

BY DOMINIC BEGUE


I love to read all day.

THIS WEEK: Rhyming & General


ington, VT 05401.


GREEN MOUNTAIN COFFEE

ROASTERS








the prompts for Rhyming poetry and General writing.

To read more, go to youngwritersproject.org.



PHOTO OF THE WEEK


City eyesBY ELIZA GILES


My eyes long for the city yet my heart yearns for the sea. Its freedom is enticing, yet its rush beckons me. I shut my eyes to light, and open them to darkness. I walk toward the wind, and falter at the arches. I have city eyes And a heart of waves.

Charred tick-tockBY OLIVIA V. HERN


In an all-season cabin, filled with lightAnd clean-cut smoke, a clean-cut fam-

ily went about their lives. They could see mountains from every view, and some-times, when they were lucky, the sky lit up with fire. Such a quiet, stagnant life, for a clan well used to jumble-packed voyages from shore to shore.

There was a Planner, a Thinker, a Laugher and a Dreamer. Side by side with the small soft companions that panted side by side by side.

Blustery winters were kept at bay, and years went by. Too slow, the sunset burned across the newspaper strips dreamers would stick into the stove to watch burn.

Time charred the edges of their sto-ries, eating at soccer games and small town scandals, plodding on and on and on through the endless tick-tock of life. Laughter laughed, brightening dull days and cold nights, leaving them all to wonder.

Slowly, coals ticked out, one by one, and the felted fibers pulled and loosened, and drifted on the wind from corner to corner.

The Planner went on trips, and the Thinker sat and thought, and the Laugher’s mood grew blue, and the Dreamer grew up. She grew strong and tall, cool and quiet, and ventured out into the deep blue night. She left a trail of candles hidden under icy gales, and didn’t look back to see if they’d stayed aglow.

She faded to purple amidst the chilly blue, and summer brought empty roses to her cheeks. She dreamed less and less and less.

Lungs forgot the flavor of woods and mountains, learning the tang of street and shadow. The sullen tar slopes did not know the word forgive, and the breadcrumb trail of candles sulked, and dimmed and dimmed and held their heat tightly clasped in burning threads.

Dreams were geometric, and floated on a continuum of bright blacks and even greys, and mellow, soft eggshell whites. Deep oven lilacs lost their pulsing hot tones, and settled into a nighttime wintery shade of musky blue.

Time kept ticking, and the cold kept sticking and the silk of spider’s sentiments froze.

The china-doll Dreamer had broken, and Scotch-taped cracks rubbed and ached. Pallid cold feet devoid of heat, ran from nothing. She slept, thin fingers clutched the notches in her hands.

She slept all through the ride, on the wax-lit road to a year-round cabin, too small and too tight, but held its own in a sea of trees. She dreamed in bitter blue, she cried. The chimes of laughing bells and neatly planned rows, and the cerebral chor-tle of bad jokes and sameness, the sweetest sound a missing piece had ever heard.

Red curtains and well-worn floors glossed over her soles. Sluggish blood snailed into her skin. Now nights were warm.

Song of the lostBY OLIVIA PINTAIR

Grade 7, Lake Champlain Waldorf SchoolHometown: Williston

The stars that hung from your ceiling are gone,You took them down and sent them on,Dreams you gave away or pawned,Slowly saddened with the dawn.So when the glassy tide came near,The stars marched on to disappear,And seabound were the last few years.They went away in spite of fear.The precious hope among your faces,Slept while you dreamed of lost relations,And by default of being hastened,Those stars became imagination.So when the maelstrom in the skiesTore away at the beautiful liesAnd reminded you that life will still die Amidst your will, and absent eyes.

A queen and a kingBY JULIA PELL


Once upon a time,In a faraway land,There was a queenWho met a man.“It was love at first sight,”The queen had said,Until the next day when she screamed,“Off with his head!”The kingdom was sadBecause of the queen,And that was just the startOf her being mean.She ordered her servantsTo get her a man,A man that’s nice enoughFor her to withstand.When the servants came back,There was a man with a beard.“I am King William,You have nothing to fear.”“Prove it to me!For I recallThe last man I lovedDidn’t love me at all!”King William shook his head,And after a while,They looked up at each otherAnd smiled.Once again,The queen said,“It was love at first sight,”But finally, this time she was right.

Hey, little birdieBY LYDIA SMITH

Grade 9, Homeschool, Charlotte

Hey, little birdie, sitting in a tree,What’s that secret you’re whisper-ing to me?“Spring is in the air,There are lambs everywhere,The grass is awakening from win-ter’s deep sleep,And the chicks will soon begin to peep.”Thanks, little birdieFor being so wordy,But the snow’s still knee deepAnd the sheep still must leap.I feel it must meltAnd leave its brown welt,But spring seems ever so far away.

Winter will receive her rightful pay.But oh, little birdie, sitting in a tree,I do like that secret you’re whispering to me.

NEXT PROMPT

Scared. What really scares you? Why? Tell a story about when you confronted it. Alternate: White lie. Write about a little white lie that grows and turns into a bigger lie un-til you can’t keep up. Due April 19

THIS WEEK: Lesson

YWP is supported by the generos-ity of foundations, business and in-dividuals 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.


MAIN STREET LANDING








the prompt, Lesson: An old man sits down beside you

on a park bench and teaches you something you had no

idea you could do. What is it? Read more great writing

at youngwritersproject.org.

NEXT PROMPTS

Dislike. Write about something that disgusts you, no matter how wrong, distasteful or awkward it is. Alternate: Fairy tale. Write a fairy tale that includes the phrase, “one thousand peas.” Due April 12

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Alia Jenkins/South Burlington High School

THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE

WIN $50 FOR YOU

AND $50 FOR A FOOD OR FARM

NONPROFIT OF YOUR CHOICE

WRITING PROMPTS

AND CONTEST DETAILS AT

youngwritersproject.org/farm13

DUE FRIDAY, APRIL 12

Sponsored by the Vermont Community


The artistBY MERRICK MENDENHALL

Grade 9, Burlington High School

A girl. Her hair is long and straight. She is pretty, but she wears too much make-up. She walks over to me. She sits down. I can hear her sigh quietly to herself. I look past the girl and turn my attention elsewhere.

From where I sit, nailed to the ground, I can look out over the ocean. It is a beauti-ful view: the ocean glittering in the dying sunlight and the waves crashing soothingly against the rocks lining the beach. I lose myself in the scenery for awhile.

Now a man walks over to me. He sits down next to the girl. He leans forward, elbows resting on his bony knees. This man is old with white hair and wrinkles.

The girl glares at him. He ignores her. She flips her hair and huffs, wanting him to leave. When he doesn’t move, she crosses her legs tightly and begins inspecting her nails, ignoring the old man.

The old man leans back. “So,” he says, “Why are you so angry?”

“Excuse me?”“Angry. I said why are you so angry?”“I don’t know what the hell you’re talk-

ing about.”“If you don’t want to talk about it,

fine. But it will just hurt more to keep it to yourself.”

Silence.The old man begins to get up to go.“Wait.”“Yes?”“It’s my parents.” The girl then begins

explaining how her parents always pres-sure her to be who she isn’t. She says that she loves art. She wants to be an artist. But when her parents found out, they laughed at her, telling her it was a stupid goal and that nothing good would ever come of being an artist. When the girl continued to chase her goal, her dream, the parents pulled her out of all her art classes.

“I feel so empty inside. It’s like there’s nothing left. I’ve stopped trying. My grades have dropped, I got kicked off my soccer team because I stopped going to practices. Nothing matters anymore. Nothing.”

The two sit for a moment.“How old are you?”“I’m 17.”“Then why do you let your parents rule

your life?”“They don’t rule my life!”“Really? Then why have you stopped

your art? Why haven’t you stood up to them?”

“What’s the use? They never listen.”“How do you know?”“Because they laughed when I told

them I wanted to be an artist in the first place.”

“Well, of course they did. You show no ambition. No love of art. You haven’t proven to them that you’re serious about doing what you love. When they took away your art classes, you didn’t fight back. To everyone who’s watching, you have no drive; you have no guts.”

“Well then, how do I stand up to them?”“Show them how much you love art.

How much you love being an artist.”“How?”“I don’t know. I’m not an artist.”And with that, the man is gone.The young girl sits for a while longer,

looking at the ocean. Then she pulls a note-book from her bag and fishes around for something else. She pulls a pencil from the depths of her bag. She begins to draw.

Life lesson BY BELLA MOSCA


Have you ever had a stranger, who re-ally taught you the best lesson ever, sit by you? Well, I have.

It all started when I had a fight with my best friend Lorie; we argued and argued about who had won a game in tetherball. It was just a silly fight that I should have never gotten into, but I was really furious, so I decided to get my anger out at the park.

I sat down at one of the benches. You’ll never guess who sat right by my side! An old man who butted into my business sec-onds after he sat down.

He said, “My name is Harold, and you little girl, look furious; do you want me to calm you down?”

“No thanks,” I said, thinking to myself, wow, this guy is really annoying; can he go away, already? But the more I said no, the more he kept trying.

I finally told him, “Me and my best friend got into a fight. I don’t know if we will ever be friends again.”

“Look, little girl,” he said, “Sometimes it would be best if you took the first step and apologized first.”

“But Lorie does not deserve it, and I want to make her feel bad.”

“You’re only hurting yourself being away from your best friend. Is it worth losing a friendship that could last forever, letting it break up because of a silly game of tetherball? And everyone has her flaws. Have you ever heard the saying, nobody is perfect?”

What Harold was trying to say was to be the big person and save a friendship. So, to this very day, Lorie and I are still best friends and know to not let something little get in between our friendship.

Money is moneyBY ESPEN PETERSON

Grade 8, Homeschool, Jericho

It was going to be an especially pleasant weekend. Well it would have been perfect if I hadn’t stopped to sit on that bench outside the Yellow Wallaby Café, but then there probably wouldn’t be a story to tell, and I wouldn’t have learned my lesson.

My bike screeched to a halt in front of the café, and I walked over to a bench. I sat down with a relieved sigh. I had biked to the Yellow Wallaby Café with 20 dollars in my pocket to pick up sandwiches for my

family. We were planning a lovely lunch at the beach. The bench was warmed by the sunlight. I was beginning to think that maybe I should use the extra money to buy myself something, instead of giving it back, when my daydreaming was interrupted.

“Not planning on keeping all of that dough for yourself, are you?” said a voice that sounded similar to a choking crow. “Because If I am right, you were planning to do just that.”

I looked around, surprised, and saw no one. Then I looked down and saw a little old man sitting on the bench next to me...Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/79316.


ington, VT 05401.


THE TURRELL FUND

THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE

WIN $50 FOR YOUAND $50 FOR A FOOD OR FARM


PROMPTS:

1. FARM: Share a story about a farm or farmer that you know. Write about an experience you’ve had on a farm, or, if you live on a farm, the daily joys and challenges your family faces. Tell a specific story or anecdote to bring it alive and to show why farming is important in Vermont.

2. FOOD: There’s so much great food that’s grown or made in Vermont. Your family may have a farm, garden or buy food that comes from the area. Share some of the wonderful and challenging things about getting, growing, cook-ing or eating local food. Tell about a specific experience you’ve had or hope to have with local food.

SUBMIT: Write on your YWP account, click prompt “Farm13,” or email [email protected].


Contest details at youngwritersproject.org/farm13



NEXT PROMPT

Mystery. Something very strange just hap-pened, and you don’t know how or why. Write a story. Be suc-cinct. Alternate: Photo 10. Write about this photo. Due April 5

Photo 10 © Katy Trahan/

Essex High School

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Ashley Warren/Essex High School

Eggs everywhereBY JEREMY BROTZ


I tripped on the steps on the way out to feed the chickens. I had just woken up and I was still a little sleepy. And yes, we do have chickens, and no, we don’t live on a farm. We just have chickens.

Anyway, after the chickens were squawking and fighting each other for the food, I looked up into the sky. Cold, blue, pretty, exactly the way it should be on a day like today, I thought.

Then, when I looked back down, I noticed a shiny purple thing lying in the grass. I picked it up. It looked like an egg. Weird. It hadn’t been there yesterday.

I frowned for a moment, puzzled, and then realized what it was. I grinned and stuck it in the pocket of my pajamas. It was Sunday, so I hadn’t needed to get on real clothes yet.

I started to open the back door, but then stopped. I had thought of something. Maybe there was more. I ran back into the yard.

At first I didn’t see anything, but then I began noticing things. In the bushes. In the trees. Under leaves. Hiding behind bits of grass. Perched precariously on a garden gnome’s prominent nose. They were everywhere.

I ran excitedly through the yard, grabbing them from wherever they were hiding and stuffing them into my pockets. Some were red, some green, some blue, but most were purple.

When I thought I’d found them all, I went inside with my shoes soaked from the dew. I put all my finds on the kitchen table in a shining heap. Then I counted them. There were 20. I grinned happily. Twenty. That’s a lot, I thought.

Then I reached into the pile and grabbed one of the purple ones. I unwrapped it, and popped it in my mouth.“Tasty,” I said to myself. Then I remarked to the empty kitchen, “I love Easter.”

A friend hatchesBY BEN MAKSYM


Squashing my flowers,Destroying the dandelions,And being generally rude,Was a large purple egg.Why was it here?And why right now?And why was it purple?And it got here how?I carried it to my kitchen,And then turned on the stoves.I was gonna eat this thing,It could feed people in droves.I got ready to crack it open,But just as I tried,It began shaking,And I ran to hide.Something had hatched.It was purple too.But it was very small,And covered in egg goo.Nonetheless it was cute,And it made quite a sight.But what it did,Gave me quite a fright.It jumped on the table,And started talking to me.“Hey thanks mate!”His voice was full of glee.“I’ve been in there for ages!And you saved me!Now hurry up,And make me some tea.”After that, we were friends.The purple man and I.We will stay friends,Until the day I die.

Beautiful birdBY NOORTO MOHAMED


My egg is purple.Why is my egg purple?Well, ask the magic colored mother bird.She’s big and friendly and can grant your wishes for a bag of seeds.My egg just hatched.Want to know what came out?Well, I’ll tell you what came out.What came out was the most beautiful bird you will ever see in your life.This bird will make you end world hunger.This bird will make you stop the war and crime.That’s how beautiful the bird from the purple egg was.

Can we keep it?BY KATE SLEEPER


As I was eating my cereal one morning, something felt strange. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew something was wrong. I knew what was different – no school! But, that wasn’t all.

I went in the backyard to water the flowers and right before my eyes was a big purple egg. What was that doing here? I de-cided to bury it in with the flowers and tell no one what had happened. The next day, I found myself sleeping with some creature! It was holding onto my head! What was I going to do with it?

It had a birthmark on it that said zaz. I figured that was its name – zaz. I put it in my closet and left to take a walk. When I came back, my mom was holding it and petting it. The first thing she said was, “Can we keep it? Please?”

Of course I had to say yes.

THIS WEEK: Purple egg







newspapers. This week, we publish work in response to

the prompt, Egg: You go outside one day and find a big,

purple egg. You keep the egg and it hatches. What hap-

pens? Read more at youngwritersproject.org.



THIS WEEK: Photo 9 & General

YWP is supported by the generosity of foundations, businesses and in-dividuals 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.


VERMONT BUSINESS ROUNDTABLE







newspapers. This week, we publish work in response

to the prompts, Photo 9; and General writing. To read

more, go to youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil online

community of writers.



NEXT PROMPT

Promise. Write about a promise you made but couldn’t keep. Alternate: Strength. Write about a time when you had to be strong, physically or mentally. Due March 29

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Eve Pomazi/Brattleboro Area Middle School

THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE

WIN $50 FOR YOUAND $50 FOR A FOOD OR FARM


PROMPTS:1. FARM: Share a story about a farm or farmer that you know. Write about an experience you’ve had on a farm, or, if you live on a farm, the daily joys and challenges your family faces. Tell a specific story or anecdote to bring it alive and to show why farming is important in Vermont.


SUBMIT: Write on your YWP account, click prompt “Farm13,” or email [email protected].

DUE FRIDAY, APRIL 12Contest details at youngwritersproject.org/farm13



Fantasy hopeBY AVERY MCLEAN

Grade 7, Lake Champlain Waldorf School

In my mind, there’s a worldWhere everything’s right,Where love is free and never breaks orDies.And when the lightning comes, It’s beautiful.Fear is never there.I’m lonely only when I want to be.I can be an artist with my eyes.In my world, witches ride mops andFate and happiness mean the same thing.And maybe somewhere there’s a worldLike that but when the Thunder comes, it comesSilently until it’s right there andToo late for precautions.And you’re not strong enough for it.Because fearless, painless,Doesn’t mean right.Because disaster cries of great strength.And maybe being brave means letting Yourself be scared.In a world where witches ride mops andLove doesn’t hurt, (because it’s perfect)You can see through the layers, and Underneath,Underneath is perfection.But here under our years of pain and Love that’s caged,There’s wisdom.

Frozen farm BY JULIA SHANNON-GRILLO

Grade 5, Champlain Elementary

One night, a long time ago, a heat wave swept over the small (now abandoned) village of Bickley. In all of Bickley, there was one house that nobody ever went near, the Haunted House of Hack. Mr. Frederick Hack lived there with his dog, Sherlock, but the house was said to be haunted. Sherlock was another reason that nobody ever went near the house. All day and all night, Sherlock sat on the window ledge of the attic. If you stood even 15 feet away, Sherlock would stare at you. Sherlock’s stare was the kind of piercing stare that made you feel like even the smallest fly was one thousand times bigger than you. It was rumored that Sherlock’s stare could burn you to nothing but ash and smoke.

The heat wave was so hot that it began

melting all the metal things in Bickley, including all of the rusty screws and nails holding together the Haunted House of Hack. The house began falling over, with Frederick still sleeping and Sherlock still at his post on the window ledge. But then, just as quickly as the heat wave started, it stopped and went in the other direction. Bickley was now going through a cold wave and everything in Bickley froze. Every human froze, every animal froze, every piece of furniture froze, every machine froze, every house froze. And the Haunted House of Hack froze mid-fall... Everything in Bickley stayed frozen and will for centuries to come.

And the Haunted House of Hack is now the Frozen Farm of Frederick.

Photo 9 © Carl Mydans

(Library of Congress)

Lose yourselfBY LILY WEISSGOLD


Beauty is scratched on the wallsOf bathroom stallsPlastered on the facesOf people going places.Beauty in the darkIs different from beauty in the lightAs it lends itself to the nightLet your body fallInto the dance of the world.Minds rolling and wandering,And to calculate the pondering,You have to look at beautyEtched on the old,The unfortunate, the bold.The faces staring back,In mirrors that say forever.You, are ugly.Destroy your mind.In the faces of the people unkind.Who stare at you,And rid you of your beauty.

MemoriesBY ABHI DODGSON


I opened the creaky barn door. The windows were shattered. The air was thick with dirt and dust. I coughed and looked around.

Five ribbons hung on a wall in an old stall that still had hay in it. Mice scurried noisily along the dirt floor.

I looked at all the old shovels, hay, ribbons, pictures, and wondered who had been here. I could smell the leather of the saddles.

I could hear the horses munching on their dry, crunchy hay. I could hear sheep crying in their long, loud voices.

I could hear hay being thrown down from the loft, the pshhhhing sound of it landing on the ground.

I saw a ewe pushing a lamb out onto a pile of straw and watched as it slowly and shakily got up.

I watched a mare in pain, drawing slow, deep breaths until she was gone.

I noticed children who used to live here, running around wildly in the empty stalls. I saw their mother milking a cow, her long brown hair pinned up in a bun, her grey dress cut above her ankles.

I saw her husband in his tall black boots, plaid shirt, and blue jeans, shoveling manure.

I saw their dog gazing down from the hayloft into a warm, spring day.

I discovered a world forgotten and aban-doned and felt the memories that came to life through my imagination.

THIS WEEK: Eternal Night & Package

YWP is supported by the generosity of foundations, businesses and in-dividuals 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.


PHYSICIAN’S COMPUTER COMPANY




hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New



This week we publish work in response to the prompts,

Eternal Night: The sun doesn’t rise one day or the next

day. What happens? and Package: A package arrives for

you. What’s inside? Read more at youngwritersproject.org.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Audrey Dawson/Westford Middle School

THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE

WIN $50 WITH A MATCHING $50 FOR A FOOD OR FARM NONPROFIT

OF YOUR CHOICE

PROMPTS:1. FARM: Share a story about a farm or farmer that you know. Write about an experience you’ve had on a farm, or, if you live on a farm, the daily joys and challenges your family faces. Tell a specific story or anecdote to bring it alive and to show why farming is important in Vermont.


HOW TO SUBMIT: Use your YWP account, keyword Farm13, or email your entry to [email protected].


Contest details at youngwritersproject.org



All the day as nightBY LINCOLN PIERCE


I woke up yesterday to find the sky was still dark as night.It seemed strange to me that the world was in such a plight.I thought I was dreaming, or just wanted a midnight snack,But then I looked at my clock and saw 11:30 staring back.How could I have slept the day, and what shall I do for school?Those thoughts ran through my head as I ate my breakfast gruel.I was confused as to how this happened, the sun can’t just go out.I walked outside and it was strangely calm, A warm wind drifted through.The trees rustled in the wind, and I heard a dog bark too.It was rather nice out here, no sun beating down so bright.I guess this wouldn’t be so bad, having all the day as night.

A little calm helpsBY GALEN FASTIE

Grade 9,Vermont Commons School

No one knows where the sun went, and at this rate, no one will ever find out. Everyone is too busy yelling their heads off to ask the question “Why?” It’s a problem with humans. Sometimes a little calm could help. But the sun is a few hours late to show up; no one calls and sees if it’s OK.

Well, the sun is gonna be a lot more than a few hours late, but nobody knows that now. A few frantic calls to Russia brought more panic; the sun isn’t there ei-ther. When the sun wasn’t there at its usual time, what did people do? They flipped on their televisions. And there, they were greeted by grim-faced men sitting above headlines designed to scare you enough to make you not flip the channel, but not enough to scare you away.

And once people finished reading the headlines and not changing the channel, what did they hear? To sum up the hun-dreds of broadcasts which were being seen by billions of people: “Guys! Guys! We can’t find the sun!” Not very helpful, to say the least. Well, after the television failed them, people started rioting...Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/78619

Appreciating black

BY ERIN BUNDOCK


Knowing mankind,Coming up with a false sunWould be done in six seconds flat,If the world came to that,If we were drenched in some eternal black.But just like any otherNight on this Earth,Dirt would be plowed for more streetsSo cars could pass by in red and white streaks,Blocking out the stars that shineAs we speak.If the world turned black now,The press would be glad to scream,“It’s the end of the world as we know it!”Grinning inside, though they try not to show it,As they rush to the factories toGo out and print it.And as we’re looking at tablets,We’re missing the point.The population should just take a step back;Is it really so bad to be surrounded in black?Is it so bad to see stars in the sky?Or is it the appreciation of beauty we seem to lack?

Writing on the wallBY CHELSEA WRIGHT

Grade 8, Frederick H. Tuttle Middle School

I come home from school with white snowflakes in my hairI take the mail out of the mailbox as usual and check it for letters addressed to me. Nothing. Still checking the mail, I come to the front door.That’s when I see it, the package that you sent.Every thought in my head leaves out my ear and all I can think of is happiness.I grab the package in my free hand and rush into the house.Taking the scissors from the drawer I rip the package open.I sort through the wrapping until I find it.You promised you’d send it.You did send it.I take it in my hand and hold it up to the light.The light glows through it and suddenly a pattern looking like an aurora appears on the dark wall across from me.I admire its beauty. I look at the pattern on the wall and smile. I start to dissect it with my eyes, organizing colors, arranging gaps of white, and then suddenly as if by magic I can make out shapes, no, letters.I squint to read them. “I remembered,” the wall says.You remembered, I say to myself.

Cloudy skyBY LILY WEISSGOLD


The call of dawnOf cloudy beginnings Beckon, endlessly The opal sky at which I fawn Blaze of light In the dark To which my senses ignite A fire across granite A pen on slate Words falling on white pages For whom I can’t wait Someday, somedayThe dawn will beckon Igniting and evoking Every last drop of courage Beckon me beginning To your unknown shores

THIS WEEK: Surprising & Photo 8

YWP is supported by the gen-erosity 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.









newspapers. This week, we publish work in response to

the prompts, Surprising: Ask someone you know to tell

a story you’ve never heard; and Photo 8. Read more at




PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Katlyn Schmigel/Essex High School

The tree frogs storyBY ZANIPOLO LEWIS


Once my mom collected tree frogs. Re-ally, really, tiny, weenie tree frogs.

She used her dresser for a habitat by taking out her clean socks, putting grass in her top drawer, and then putting a bowl of water on the grass.

One day, her mom (my nana) went into her room to put clean socks in my mom’s dresser drawer. She opened up my mom’s sock drawer and all the frogs jumped out on her! My nana almost had a heart attack.

She was so mad she called my mom’s school and told them that she needed my mom at home at once. My mom came home and my nana yelled at her. She made my mom take all the frogs (all the ones that hadn’t jumped out already) out of the drawer and put them outside.

My mom was very sad. She took the frogs out, said good-bye and good luck to them, and then set them on the ground. One after the other, the frogs began to hop away. One even looked back before going.

One day, my mom found an old, dead, dried-up tree frog and realized that it was one of the tree frogs that she had had in her dresser and that had jumped out of the sock drawer. She was very sad again and cried a little. So that was that. She just told me that story today, Feb. 7, 2013, for the first time.

I’m freeBY SARAH MONTROLL


I’m free! I run out of the school,down the old brick steps.My feet thud against the damp dirt road,the road that will lead me home.I feel the cool air against my skin.Little drops of rain fall onto my cheek.Five whole days of thinking, working, end-less listening.I finally have a break, a time to rest. I spin around engulfed in happiness.Two days to sleep in, to not think about school, to do whatever I want.I turn around and see my school getting smaller and smaller,just the way it should be.I smile. The wind catches my scarf,blowing it backwards.I laugh as the wind blows my cares away.I am finally free!

Perfect dayBY YOSEF BORSYKOWSKY


I see the picture and remember a perfect end to a perfect day.It was a bright winter dayWhen the sun decided it was time to hit the hay.It started to retreat from up high,Causing beautiful colors to appear in the sky.Then a girl with a woolen scarf started to run down the road.To do what? Nobody knows.Maybe to tell the sun to stayBecause no one wanted the end of this beautiful day,The air clean and crisp,The ground hinting spring,The sun shining through the girl’s scarf making colors within.We were going to stay as long as the sun kept shimmering,But alas it leftTo give others elsewhere the brightness they desired.And the girl hung her head,As she knew she had to go home and sleep in her bed.That was a great end to a perfect day.

WingsBY ELLA STAATS


I had never run so hard in my life. My breathing was heavy, my lungs expand-ing and contracting, fueling me to push onwards. The cloak trailed behind me, and I imagined it was a pair of wings, ready to lift me off the ground and carry me into the flaming sunset.

Where was I going? I wondered as my feet smacked the gravel. What would I do when I got there? I had no answers. My mind was focused only on reaching the horizon, the uncharted land, where I would find solitude, guidance and solace.

My cloak billowed upwards in a pass-ing breeze, as if it were a parachute itching to take off. I closed my eyes and followed my senses, leading me farther down the road. Somewhere far in the wilderness an owl hooted, announcing the coming of night. The sun sank below the trees, leaving only a deep crimson streak across the sky.

I ran onwards.

SmileBY EMMA CHAFFEE


One smile in the night, one smile set free That blazes the dark, and churns the seasEyes that believe, eyes that understandSouls that do wander, forgetting things plannedHair that curls, hair that fliesHair that whirls and then twirls and then cries Hands that hold, hands that let goA voice that talks, a voice that singsA voice unknown but that wanders and rings Forever the eyes and the soul set free Forever the smile that might just be the key

LuminousBY ABHI DODGSON


I chose to interview my friend Jean Luc Dushime. He escaped the Rwandan geno-cide in 1994.

This is the story he told me:He was walking through the woods in

the Democratic Republic of the Congo with his family. It was midnight and they were escaping by moonlight. They were hungry and exhausted.

Suddenly, they came upon a “fluores-cent” forest. Everything was glowing from the ground to the tops of the trees. Every-thing was a cold, bluish-green, glimmering color. The ground was glowing. The bark on the trees was glowing. Maybe it was aliens, they thought, looking at each other.

It was a break from all the misery they had endured. For a brief time, the magical forest helped them forget the horror around them. It’s something he’ll always remem-ber.

“Maybe there’s a reason those trees glow,” he said.

CLIMATE CHANGE

WRITING CHALLENGE

Write about one of the biggest issues of our time. Prizes and recognition

on Earth Day!

See contest details and writing prompts at

youngwritersproject.org

Presented by Young Writers

Project and Vermontivate – the

sustainability game for Vermont

communities

Photo 8 © Kayla Rideout/Essex High School

Miles to goBY MALIN HILLEMANN


Run, she told herself.Slapping the dirt on the hard gravel ground, her feet felt bare and numb.Don’t look back, she told herself. Be strong, she cried.Bursting fire over the dark tree tops, as if someone had painted a beautiful painting upon the canvas sky, the sun set above her golden hair.The rain stained the ground, leading a slip-pery path up the winding road, winding up and up. She had miles to go.As she ran she held her scarf behind her back, and jumped as if she could fly.She touched the moon, the stars, the plan-ets, and then let her scarf cradle her slowly back to the solid ground on earth.And when her legs felt the earth underneath her bare soles, she began to run again.She forgot what she had left behind and saw only what was to come.Chasing the little light that was left, she raced the setting sun.Run, she told herself. Run.

THIS WEEK: Bottle & Photo 7




JANE B. COOK CHARITABLE TRUSTS








to the prompts, Bottle: You find a message in a

bottle. What is it?; and Photo 7. To read more, go to


NEXT PROMPTS

Lesson. You are sitting in a park and an old man sits down beside you. At first you are annoyed, but he teaches you something that you had no idea you could do. What is it? Alternate: Rhyming poetry. Write a poem that follows any strict rhyming scheme. Due March 8

Outrageous. Write a story that begins, This is the funniest story I’ve ever heard… Alternate: Thirty-five. You wake up and you are suddenly 35 years old. What is your life like now? Due March 15

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Lindsey Stuntz/Woodstock Union High School

Reading up highBY KATE HENRY

Grade 4, Integrated Arts Academy

A haiku

I am way up here.This happens when you are reading.My mind’s on fire. © Brady Bessette/Essex High School

Message in a bottleBY DAVID MELKUMOV

Grade 6, Renaissance School

I was walking along the beach, when a bottle washed up on the shore. In the bottle there was a big piece of white crumpled pa-per that looked like it had just been put in.

I unfolded the piece carelessly and in-side it there was a slightly smaller piece of paper that was also crumpled up. I unfolded that one quickly because I was getting annoyed. Sadly, there was even more crumpled up paper. I began to think that this would last forever, and it did – well, at least from my perspective.

I looked behind my shoulder and saw some guys who looked mysteriously at me. They had tall camera-like objects that were covered in sheets of waterproof covering and had advertisements printed all over them. Finally, I got to the last piece of paper and I unfolded it nervously.

It said, “You’ve been scammed! Look behind you!” I looked behind to find the mysterious guys from a local camera crew filming me. Well, at least I made it on the local television station.

Coconut BeachBY KAROLINA SIENKO


One bright sunny day, I was walking on the shore of Coconut Beach. The hot sand got stuck in between my toes. The cool, blue, salty-smelling waves splashed against my feet.

Then suddenly, “Ouch!” I yelped. I picked up an old, dark green bottle that had hit my foot. Inside the glass bottle was a piece of paper with writing on it. I took it out and started to read:

To Whom It May Concern,My name is Jack. I am 11 years old.

My father has told me stories of castaways writing letters, putting them into bottles, and throwing them into the middle of the ocean. Some have succeeded and some have failed. I am trying this experiment right now.

If you found this bottle, then you are ex-tremely lucky. Although, for all I know this bottle could have washed up on the shore of Antarctica.

Now I’ll get to the point of why I’m writing this letter. I am writing this letter because I have a secret that could save the world. The secret is: Everyone is in great dan...

That’s it? I thought to myself. The letter just ends halfway through the paper! Well, I guess it’s a mystery yet to be discovered.

Pequeno amigoBY JEREMY BROTZ


I was once a pet, loved and nurtured and pampered. My dear owner had found me one day, oozing happily along the floor of their kitchen.

She had called her mother, who ran in, screamed, and raised up her foot to stomp me flat. My soon-to-be owner shrieked and pushed her mother sideways so her homi-cidal foot missed me, and then scooped me up and ran to her room. I have loved her ever since.

Her mother thought me revolting, but my owner pretended to throw me out, and then kept me in secrecy. She fed me, petted me, kissed me, and spent long hours talking to me. I loved her.

Then their family came upon hard times, and they decided to move to Amer-ica. It was a magical place, America. The land of plenty, the land of prosperity, the land of freedom. How I hate it. My owner smuggled me into her old tattered suitcase, and on May 5th, 1885, we boarded a boat that would take us from the old country, Spain, to America...

To read the ending of this story, go toyoungwritersproject.org/node/77768

At the sea edgeBY HATTIE BARKER

AND SAMANTHA BABBITT

Grade 3, Underhill Central School

I followed the salty sea edge, picking up shells and rocks on the way. I sat and let the sea’s warm water run over my feet. I glanced up at the clear sky when I felt something brush my foot.

I looked down and saw a green glass bottle. I carefully pulled the water-drenched cork and looked inside. There was a note that read:To whoever finds this note, read quite care-fully.Go to the Isle of Gold,A dragon cave waits for you.Go in there and you’ll findA clue that will change old to new.

I looked out to the sea and saw in the distance a rusty yellow island. I waded into the water and looked around. From the cor-ner of my eye, I saw a chipped canoe. Of course, how could I forget? I got into the old canoe and sailed off to the island...


Walking home aloneBY SARAH AHLERS


Half a mile isn’t really so far to walk. I mean, unless it’s raining and you’re walk-ing uphill and carrying a backpack full of textbooks. Every single day. Then it sucks.

I’ve been counting off the miles of hill I have yet to walk before I graduate high school, and they stretch out endlessly be-fore me, making each afternoon bleak.

The bus system is too lazy to take us all the way home, and since we live in the middle of nowhere, the town doesn’t really care about us, doesn’t care if our backs hurt, if our fingers are frozen in the winter, if we’re dizzy from heat in the hot parts of summer. But half a mile really isn’t so bad.

I jump off the bus and sink ankle-deep into mud. The early spring rain has turned our dirt road into a swamp. Walking in this is going to be fun...

The sun comes out slowly from behind a cloud, lightening the world, and to my right a glint catches my eye. By the edge of the wide, roiling stream, there’s a small clear bottle...


CLIMATE CHANGE

WRITING CHALLENGE

Write about one of the biggest issues of our time. Prizes and recognition

on Earth Day!

Respond to these writing prompts:

1. The year is 2050. Looking back, the climate crisis was solved in the most unexpected ways. You were there for a crucial moment. What happened?Or2. Do you believe the world can solve the climate crisis? Tell us why.

Contest details at youngwritersproject.org

Presented by Young Writers

Project and Vermontivate – the

sustainability game for Vermont

communities

THIS WEEK: Vermont Writes Day



PHOTO OF THE WEEK

When life was funBY SAMUEL SILBERMAN


Before the robots, life was fun. You could play sports and go to school... When the robots came they wanted to conquer everything.

You would spend your days hiding while trying to find food and water...

Then some new robots came. They destroyed all the bad robots. They were very good robots. They printed money and donated it to charities and the government. Life was great when these new robots came. But sadly they died after three years.

Now, you don’t get attacked, but you don’t get lots of money for charities. Life is back to normal and normal is fun!

A peaceful dayBY ALEXANDRE SILBERMAN


It was a peaceful day, and everything was normal. But that all changed when the robots came. The dreaded hour. The looming shadow darkening the front lawn and lifeless flag pole. A big metal ramp sliding and clanging on the ground. A troop of iron-clad intelligence banging on the gangway. Then they took their first steps on our ground. Outside of the school where we were. Pedestrians and cars pulling over and staring at these metallic machines that moved in a lifeless way.

News crews and the newspaper came, taking pictures of the scene. I saw the machines approach our school from the window of Mrs. Gallagher’s language arts class. They came inside, and school sure did change. Teachers’ assistants they became, replacing our regular teachers very slowly. They were very helpful. You could have them find you a library book in seconds, or answer a question.

As our teachers disappeared, I began to miss them. I pondered why they had left. Where had they gone? Before I knew it, our school was full of them. We were being trained to assist them in obtaining human knowledge. There was nothing we could do now. If only I had known, maybe we could have been saved. I still remember that fatal day, the day the robots came. It was a peaceful day, and everything was normal...

Hundreds of students, teachers and school administrators

participated in Young Writers Project’s annual Vermont

Writes Day – taking just 7 minutes on Feb. 7 to write!

This week, we publish writing in response to Vermont

Writes Day prompts, Robots: But that all changed when

the robots came... and Farming: Write about a farm or

farmer you know. Read more at vermontwritesday.org

and at youngwritersproject.org.

YWP is supported by the gen-erosity 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, Burl-ington, VT 05401.


AMY E. TARRANT FOUNDATION

© Alia Jenkins/South Burlington High School

WRITING CONTEST

Vermont students in 7th and 8th grades: Write a short essay about an amazing

school meal experience and win prizes! One winner from each of Vermont’s 14 counties. Find out more at hungerfreevt.org or email [email protected].

NEXT PROMPT

Lesson. You are sitting in a park and an

old man sits down beside you. At first

you are annoyed, but he teaches you

something you had no idea you could do.

Alternate: Rhyming poetry. Follow any

strict rhyming scheme. Due March 8

GrandfatherBY THANE ASSELIN

Grade 12, Winooski High School

My grandfather used to tell me stories about his adventures as a child, many of which I would never forget. I didn’t get to see him much, but when I did, it was always a treat just to hear the zany tales of his life that he would retell for my enter-tainment.

One day he sat me down, and I could tell something was wrong. His usual carefree smile was gone and fear seemed to overcome him.

“I remember. The memories, they are coming back…”

I was frightened as to what he was talking about. He has never had a problem recalling events throughout his life. Why was this time any different? He began recit-ing his story.

“Thomas, there is something I have been keeping secret from you for a long time. As you know, I was a lonely kid with-out many friends and liked to put myself in isolation to relax and get away from the confusion the world brings.

“One day on my solo travels, I came across something, an artifact that seemed to be extremely significant, so I held onto it closely. I had little to worry about, never come into any problems. But that all changed when the robots came. These weren’t normal robots. Not the friendly creations of mankind you would normally think of. They were mechanical savages...”

Our townBY SEAMUS BRENNAN

Grade 6, Lyman C. Hunt Middle School

...Our town was not like any other town; our town was advanced in every way, though that all changed when the robots came... The day we met our first robot was the same day school got out, so as usual my friend Celeb and I headed to the park, but things seemed different.

A house on my street was missing, just gone. We didn’t suspect anything because we’d heard of people moving their house. Our friend Nate moved last year and his parents brought their home with them.

Once we noticed the missing house, Ce-leb made a dumb joke and said, “I bet the aliens are arriving.” I didn’t reply because I’m really gullible and thought it was an ac-tual possibility. Then things started getting really weird...

World is changingBY NOLAN JIMMO


The world is changing. The next thing that is going to happen is the world is going to be taken over by robots. Not in a battle, but man-made robots looking to “help.”

The people who run gas stations will be unemployed because there will be self-checkout. Pilots will be out of jobs because planes will be flown by GPS and auto-pilot. Buses and taxis and trains and all public transportation will be on rails, so we won’t need anyone to drive those. These are just a few of the problems that we will face when

robots take over. The people making these robots have

good intentions, no doubt, but there is a point when their “helping” is actually hurt-ing.

If that happens we are going to have a whole lower- and middle-lower class that is out of luck. They have nowhere to go, nothing to do. Eventually they will flee the country in search of opportunities in other places. That will mean that we are very vulnerable in terms of attacks from other countries, and we can’t do anything about it. The military will be weakened, and we will be squashed like flies.

So please, next time you see a new gadget on TV, think about the future.

At Boyden FarmsBY CARTER SNOW

Grade 11, Milton High School

The summer I got my job at Boyden Farms, my life definitely changed. My summers changed from summer camps to hard work and sweaty, dirty, long days.

I believe it is one of the best things that has happened to me.

I learn more practical skills working every day at the farm than I do at a whole year at school.

It offers me so many skills, and the more skills I gain from working on the farm, the more options I will have to sup-port myself in the future.

I have met a ton of cool people at the farm. It is always an adventure and that’s what I love. You never know what may happen. Farming is one of the greatest things in my life. – Farming is the most repetitive job, that never, ever happens the same way twice.

THIS WEEK: I like...

YWP is supported by the gen-erosity 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.


UNITED WAY

OF CHITTENDEN COUNTY


YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences. YWP runs youngwritersproject.org and the Schools Project, a comprehensive online classroom and training pro-gram 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.




we select the best for publication here and in 21

other newspapers. This week we publish work in

response to the prompt, I like... To read more, go to

youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil online community

of young writers.

NEXT PROMPT

Egg. You go outside one day and find a big, purple egg in your backyard. You keep the egg for a few days and then it hatches. What happens? Alternates:

General writing; or Photo 9. What’s the story? Due March 1

Photo 9. Hyde Park, VT, Aug. 1936 © Carl Mydans

(Library of Congress)

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Jenna Rice/The Sharon Academy

Love is complicated

BY MALIN HILLEMANN


I like when you sit next to me and ruffle my don’t-even-think-about-combing-out-the-tangles hair.I like how you smile at me with that crooked smile and laugh at my ridiculous jokes.I like how when you get mad, you start smiling, and start to laugh.And I like how you carry me across the sand when the beach is hot and the waves are silent.I like how you whisper of worlds we will travel to when we grow old and frail.I like how you hold me when I’ve cried and how you comfort me with your welcome-I’m-open-for-hugs arms.I like how even though I have done things normal people would not forgive, you did.I like that you notice when my smile is fake.I like that even though you might not have, you pretended to forget.I do not like what I have done in the past –Those things a normal person would never forgive or forget.I hate the way you cried, when I cried.I hate the way you felt because of me.I never deserved forgiveness.But...I like that you forgave.I like that you forgot.I like that you love me, and for that,I like you.No, I don’t like you...I love you.

All the things I likeBY LEAH KELLEHER


I like it when you smile at meand tell me I am right. I like it when the words of love flow from your mouthto my ears.I like it when you take my hand in yoursand never let go.I like it when you talk to me,voice hushed,tone low. I like it when you stare off into spaceand make me wonder if you are thinking of me.But what I like most of all is when you tell me,you are mineand that will always be the case.

Ornithologist’s listBY CHARLIE HARDER


1. Osprey2. Ring-necked Pheasant3. Eastern Blue Bird4. Rough-legged Hawk5. Bald Eagle6. Golden Eagle7. Northern Flicker8. Hermit Thrush9. Northern Cardinal10. Common Loon

When I grow up, I want to be an ornitholo-gist.

Singing in the fieldBY ABHI DODGSON


I like dancing to Indian and modern music and moving to the rhythm of the beat. I like spending time with my family, being together, doing art projects, playing games, and taking care of our animals.I like singing outside in the field behind my house (where no one can hear me). I sing for hours in the summer and watch the sun until it moves behind the trees.I like the taste of chocolate melting on my tongue, the flavor lasting only a few seconds.I like (and love) my birthday, getting older, earning more privileges, getting taller than my parents, and eating cake.I like challenges and accomplishing hard things: entering writing and art contests, writing a novel, public speaking.I like drawing, letting my pencil flow around the paper like a bird flying.I like winter (when it’s not freezing) and the soft fluffy snow on the ground.I like being with my friends and doing fun things with them.

Snowy morningsBY ELLA CAUSER


I like when I wake up on a snowy, bright, jump-out-of-bed-run-to-the-kitchen-and-make-breakfast morning.I like, when on that morning, my mother tells me that we’re going to Bolton.I like when I am allowed to bring a few of my closest chums with me.I like that drive to the mountain, squished in the backseat with our skis rattling with what seems like anticipation in the trunk.I like when I get to the mountain, and see the trees encased in snow, frozen stiff like a drowsy scarecrow that forgot to come inside when winter arrived.I like taking a few runs, and skidding through the ice on Hard Luck Lane and rushing through the moguls of Spillway.I like coming inside and drinking cheap hot chocolate that burns my tongue,then going back into the cold and skiing runs until we’re all tired.Afterwards, I like going home,lounging on the couch,and talking.And laughing.I like those mornings,those days.

Summer porchBY MARIA CHURCH


I like the afternoonI like the kind of sun that drenches you in warmth all the way to your bonesI like my scratchy stone porchAnd long shadowsI like the way the ever-hidden, ever-hiding cicadas humI like the way the ice cream has a sweet aftertasteI like how there is no one around or driving up the streetI like how the splashes of color streak across the skycreating a painting-worthy sunsetI like how I can stretch my legs outand my heels rest perfectly on the edge of the stepsas if it were made for themI like the way the flowers shine like a dragon’s hoardDaffodils like gold, roses like rubiesPeriwinkles like a scattered handful of sap-phires thrown carelessly into a bushDelicate, clustered lilacs like amethystsAnd all those likes add up to a loveof one sunset-drenched summer porch

Peaks and beachesBY ALEXANDRE SILBERMAN


I like...The snow that stops-us-all-from-going-to-school snowThe deep bright blue waters of the I-wish-I-were-there beachThose kick-back-and-do-nothing weekendsThe blistering, egg-frying, heat of the sun in July during summer vacationThe wow-it’s-so-incredible-I-can’t believe-it view from the peak on a mountainThe faster-than-the-speed-of-light feeling when you whiz down that mountain on a pair of skisThe stay-inside-by-the-warm-crackling-fireplace winter daysI like the times when I think of things I like

At Oakledge Park © Kevin

Huang, Burlington High School

!

THIS WEEK: Puns & General

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,



BAY AND PAUL FOUNDATIONS







other newspapers. This week we publish work in

response to the prompts, Puns: Have fun with a play

on words; and General writing. To read more, go to




NEXT PROMPTS Package. The UPS truck arrives with a huge box addressed to you. What’s inside? Who’s it from? Alternate: General writing in any genre. Due Feb. 15

Eternal night. You wake up one morning and the sun doesn’t rise. It doesn’t rise the next day either. What do you do? Alternate: Silver lining. When bad things happen, how do you recover? Due Feb. 22

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Coyote Farrell/Richmond Middle School

Skiing freeBY TASHA KLEPPNER


Free. That is the one word that I can’t stop thinking about. Up here, I am com-pletely free.

No more classes. No more drama. Just free. There is something magical about be-ing on a snow-covered mountain with only the sky above you. Surrounded by spar-kling, fresh snow and tall pine trees.

The only sound is your breathing. You float easily over the fluffy white snow. It’s almost like being a bird. Well, at least ski-ing is the closest thing to flying that I have ever done.

Up on the mountain, you have complete control. Where you ski, how fast you go, it’s all up to you. Whatever time of day, whatever mountain, it doesn’t matter.

Plus there is the part about skiing that is just so fun, so exciting. On the lift you might be freezing and tired, but the minute you are standing at the top of the trail, it all melts away. For me, at least.

You forget about any obligations or problems and just go with it.

You lose sight of everything around you and focus only on the part of the trail that is one turn ahead. It comes naturally. I don’t even have to think.

All I have to do is enjoy every second of it.

Time aloneBY ABHI DODGSON


That day I felt like I wanted to have time alone and needed to be away from home. I wandered absent-mindedly down the road and drifted into the woods. I entered a circle of trees and sat on a small stump covered in white.

The ground was frozen and blanketed with shining powder. Branches rose up and formed a dome like a cathedral. Logs made rows of benches. The sun shone between the trees, its light became the scenes from stained glass windows.

I turned and looked at the stories of angels and gods and wondered for the first time if all those myths were true. I sat in silence that seemed to last forever.

A cold breeze touched my neck, giving me the feeling someone was there. I slowly got up and walked toward the altar.

I stepped onto the velvet carpet and looked up at the statues that towered above me. The rays of the sun were sinking behind the trees. I realized I had been there a long time. Reluctantly, I said goodbye to this wondrous place and made a promise to return.

Seasons’ crownBY LYDIA SMITH

Grade 9, Homeschool, Charlotte

When she laughs, the robin carries on the tune. Barefoot, she dances through farmers’ fields and children’s yards, coaxing color into barren ground. A little whistle heralds forth a new generation on wobbling legs. Her arrival has no date and she takes her leave as she pleases. So frail and slight, it seems the smallest foul breath might blow her away. Yet her grip is strong and her merry laugh drives all adversaries away. As she hands off her baton, it slips from delicate fingers to rougher.

Trouble glints in his golden eyes. Tou-sled hair all a mess, he swings in trees and runs on land. A daisy chain rests, crooked, atop his bobbing head and mud streaks his brown cheeks. A makeshift bow slung over his shoulder, he wanders, carefree, through wildernesses unexplored. He calls the thun-der by name and mocks its boastful roars. His cocky grin is ingrained on every cloud. All too soon, he’s chased away by whispers of colder days.

Twisted maple cane in hand, in he creeps. Seasoned and reserved, he brings his own charm, irresistible in its own way. The trees, emulating his hairless plight, give up their leaves, their only cloak. He paints the landscape with red and gold with an experienced and confident eye. He holds hands with nervous children, waiting for the bus on the first day of school. Admired while he remains, he is missed when he once again picks up his cane and hobbles to the back of minds and memories.

Cloaked in grey, she walks. The sound of her icy voice sends chills down spines and makes the tea kettle protest at the over-use. She smothers the final shades of color, allowing only white and blue to sparkle in the afternoon mist. Farmers wait, knowing she will take her share of crops and stock. Restless, she never makes up her mind. First she is calm, then dreadfully fierce. She is a fickle friend and a faithful foe. Finally, she relinquishes her crown to a bubbling voice, who shakes off her predecessor’s silence with a hearty cheer.

NarrativeBY TYLER HARRIS


I think in metaphorsand song lyrics.I listen to music and ignore peoplemost of the time.I wear plaid pantsand too much eyelinerbutI like the blonde cross-country guyandI’m really bad at talking to him.I float alongtrying to follow directionspretending that I agree or careeven though I don’tbecause it’s easier that way.I worry too much or I worry too littleand I am not perfect.

Please don’t leaf meBY CLAIRE MACQUEEN


Please don’t leaf me.All you say is we need to branch out,we wooden be good for each other.Yew,Yew with your need to be poplar,Board without sprucing up everything.Sometimes you make me sycamore.You saw this coming. You axed for it.You say,You say it’s my deciduous,That I’m the root of the problem,That all I am is shady,That I should just leaf.I, I wooden have expected this.What did you think I was fir? Your amusement?I’m stumped.But I will go out on a limbTo try to please you, soPlease,Please don’t pack your trunk,Please don’t leaf me.

The Annie MallBY ALEXA KARTSCHOKE


I walked into a store. To my left, I saw stuffed animals, to my right, I saw pets.

A lady came up to me and said, “Wel-come to The Annie Mall!”

I walked over to the stuffed animals. They all looked furry sad.

I walked up to a teddy bear and said, “Do you want a piece of chocolate?” He re-plied, “No, thank you, I’m already stuffed.”

So I turned around and went to talk to a tomato. I asked the tomato the same thing and he replied, “The last time we agreed to do something for a human my friend the cabbage jumped off the shelf shouting, ‘Lettuce live!’ We never saw him again.”

I walked over to a dog. I asked her, “Do you like it here?”

She replied, “All they feed us is fake ground meat. I ate it here! In the winter, they make me wear a coat and in the sum-mer I wear a coat and pant!”

I said, “Oh, sounds like the dog days.”As I was leaving the store I heard the

lady say, “Thank you for visiting one of the Annie Malls!” And with that I left. And I knew I made the right decision.

THIS WEEK: Photo 6




ORTON FAMILY FOUNDATION








the prompt to write about the photo, right, of the single

chair at Mad River Glen or about winter in general. To

read more great writing, go to youngwritersproject.org.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK


Beauty of winterBY GABRIELLO LEWIS


On the chair lift,Rocking in the breeze,I can see ice crystalsSparkling on the tips of trees,Twinkling in the sun.The forest,Towering like a crystal fortress,Glinting in the bright blue sky.The swoosh of skis beneath my feet,The gentle humming of the lift,And the fingers of windTouching my face like an icy caress.This is what makes winter beautiful.

Photo 6: Tower 22, Looking East. Mad River Glen ©

Jet Lowe, 2006 (Library of Congress)

Empty chairliftBY ALEXANDRE SILBERMAN


I watched the empty chairlift move around the bend as a sprinkling of snow landed on the cold metal mechanism and dusted the seat. I heard the faint sound of the squealing gears on the icy wire. I took in the trees nearby, sagging from the heavy weight of snow.

I looked back on my memories on the mountain, watching the lonely chair wheel up and down the slippery white hill.

I remembered the days and nights I glided on the mountain, down the slopes of powder. I remembered the many nights when the mountain shined bright with lights, the trails up and down illuminated for all to see.

I remembered the weekends flying down the trails, bright from the sun bounc-ing off the white ground. And I remem-bered my first day here: walking up to the mountain, seeing the slopes of thick, powdery snow, stepping into a pair of skis and speeding down the little hill. I knew then that I would come again.

I looked back at my memories, remem-bering the good times I had at the moun-tain, and watched the lonesome chairs go up the slopes.

The winter wayBY CHARLOTTE VINCENT


My cheeks are like roses, my breath is smoke. I like it this way, the winter way.

I look up above into the milky white sky. The snowflakes land one by one onto my yellow hat.

I see the ski lift moving slowly, it being hard to see in this winter wonderland.

I sit down on a white bench. The ski lift.

This is the way to ski, the winter way.The trees are like giant snow cones, not the summer snow cones, the winter way.

People slide down the slopes like cheetahs; I, the vulture in the sky. With one exception, this is not the savannah way, this is the winter way.

The snow is crisp like my grandma’s apple pie.

My skis are purple like Harold’s crayon. Not the reading way, the winter way.

The ski lift wires creak up above my head.

My skis dangle from my ankles, my body is frozen like ice.

This way, the winter way is like nothing you could ever imagine.

You feel like you are in a giant snow globe. The winter way.

Single chair BY ISAAC DODSON


Blurs of bright colors pop before my eyes. Bright blues, oranges and greens, they all seem to become one big, whirling vortex of color.

My heart pumps faster, and I start to sweat even though it’s 20 degrees outside. I look back, and see the line stretch far out behind me, just ordinary people that are ready for a fun day of skiing.

I look straight ahead and I see green chairs passing by, coated with frost. I start to groan inwardly, not knowing what awaits me.

I slide forward, reluctantly inching across the snow. Now, I’m five people from the front of the line. I feel a pat on my back, but I don’t register what the person is saying. Now, I’m at the front of the line, watching my mom swing away on the frail, spindly chair.

I glide over to the bold, red line that seems to shout, “Stop!” I quickly stop and nervously look over my shoulder. I sud-denly regret my decision to come here.

The green chair looms behind me, and before I know it, I feel a sharp pain in my rear end, and then I am floating. I look back and watch as the line of people is reduced to tiny dots of color. I look forward at the top of the mountain and smile because this is the first time I have ever ridden the Mad River Glen single chair.

White little flakes BY MOLLY HIGGINS


White little flakes,Drops of crystal art,Gracefully spinning, whirling down.They are agog, jubilant, eloquent.I see them as I pass by,And they seem to wave,Swirling back and forth in front of me.Up and up I go,Higher and higher every second,But moving ever so slowly.Which is good.So much to see, to love.I look around:Pine trees trapping me inLike a jail I never want to escape from.I look down:White, almost blinding snow,Covering everything as far as the eye can see,A blanket of winter.I breathe: The crisp, cold air, freezing my nose and smelling of ice.I look up: There is the sky,Laden with white, puffy, snow-filled clouds,Selflessly giving us drops of crystal art every second.I reach the top,Guilty of crushing the beautiful crystals.I slide onto the mountain.It’s cold and frigid.Do I care?I’m surrounded by flakes of art,White little flakes,Drops of crystal art,Gracefully spinning, whirling downFor the world to enjoy.

NEXT PROMPT

Package. The UPS truck arrives with a huge box addressed to you. What’s inside? Who’s it from? Alternate: General writing. Due Feb. 15

Vermont Writes DayFebruary 7, 2013

Join YWP and Vermont schoolsfor a statewide day of writing!

Set aside just 7 minutes on Feb. 7to write.

Find out more at vermontwritesday.org.

THIS WEEK: Object & General

YWP is supported by the generosity of foundations, business and individu-als who recognize the power and value of writing. If you would like to contrib-ute, please go to youngwritersproject.org/support, or mail your donation to YWP, 12 North St., Suite 8, Burling-

ton, VT 05401.


THE TURRELL FUND


YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences. YWP runs young-

writersproject.org and the Schools Project, a comprehensive online class-

room 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.






the prompts, Object: An inanimate object comes alive

and tells you how it really feels; and General writing.

To read more, go to youngwritersproject.org.



NEXT PROMPTS

Three letters. Choose three let-ters. You can write a poem or a short story, but all words must either start or end with these letters. Alternate:

Bottle. You’re walking along the beach and a bottle with a message inside washes up on the shore. What is the message? What do do you do? Due Feb. 1.

Surprising. Interview someone you know and ask the person to tell you a story you’d never heard. Alternate: Photo 8. Write a sto-ry or poem based on this photo by Kayla Rideout of Essex High School. Due Feb. 8

PHOTO OF THE WEEK


Set flour to the wind © Emily Aldrich/Mount Abraham Union Middle School

Mirror BY CHETEN SHERPA


My inquisitive ice-blue eyes trail through the old thrift shop, examining each object. Below me are golden, rusty frames containing photographs of elegant men and women from the past. Just looking at them I can tell they were influential.

Insecurity blinds me and I can’t stop myself from comparing my bland visage to their angelic faces, my frizzy auburn tight-curled hair to their smooth pinned-up blonde manes, and my thick-boned struc-ture to their thin, petite bodies. Bitterness washes over me as my eyes land on the wide, corroded, vintage mirror.

“Great, an object I can use to pick out my flaws,” I murmur sarcastically.

I turn to leave when I hear a frail voice, “You’re not the only one.”

Startled, I quickly spin around, search-ing for the source.

“Over here, little girl.” My eyes return to the mirror. “You’re

not the only one, you know... in my lifetime I’ve seen thousands of girls just like you. Tragic really.”

“Wha-...what!? You t-t-talk!?” I screech. My eyes dart around me, arms slightly raised as I search for a more logical source for the voice. “No way, no way, no way, no way! This is just a dream...” I murmur to myself.

“I’ll never understand you humans,” the mirror states as he ignores my panicking. “Your eyes are sharp as an owl’s as they try to catch every detail and imperfection of the body that inhabits them, yet they’re blinded by society’s expectations.”

Telephone pole BY SOLOMON ZEITLYN


Always looking outrooted to this soil where I standslam! blows from a staple gunputting up postersabout bands, protests, what to vote forwires draped over my shoulderscarrying electricity across the gridI’m always there in urban, ruralstrong, standing always held by cords going deep to the groundproud standing tallalways looking out

The forgotten clock BY PAIGE THIBAULT

Grade 6, Charlotte Central School

Dear my horrible owner,This is your forgotten clock.Why, oh, why did you stopWinding and caring for me?As you can easily see,I’ve seen a better daySo I emailed you to say:You never stopped to care,Which I think is quite unfair.I just wanted to carry time,But apparently your hopes are not the same as mine.Because you left me with my handsBent and with no demandsTo say what time is true,I am now forever stuck at 4:32.Does that even matter to you?My face is now dusted with ageBut inside, I am red-hot with rage.You do not care to look,as if I am an old, out-of-date book!All you have to doIs wind me, then I will not be so blue.Maybe you will be brighter then, too.Just dust my worn face,At a steady, caring, slow pace,Then make my time right,So that I tick on time, day and night.You will rely on me,And I will rely on you.Please, that is what you should do.So, thank you for your time,I really hope you’ll fix mine!This email is now through.Sincerely,Your Forgotten Clock...Still stuck at 4:32

The crayon BY KELLY MALONE-WOLFSUN


One day I was in my room coloring with my new crayons. I went downstairs for lunch and when I came back, one of my crayons was running around on my bed!

I ran as fast as I could to catch up with her, and when I finally caught her, she started to tell me how she feels.

“I wish people would stop using me,” she said. “My head gets jammed on the paper and instead of growing, I shrink. I get so many bruises and I just want to make my own decisions. When people use me, I..I…just want to say ‘Hey, keep your hands to yourself!’”

I felt so badly for the little crayon so I promised her I would never use her or any crayons again!

Mittens and childBY RACHEL HAMLIN Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School

Mittens:

I’m soft. I’m cozy.I’m warm by nature,but you put me out in the cold.I love the cold.I sit on your hands,playing in the snow with you.I love the cold.Throwing snowballs, feeling the crystalsthat are snowflakes.I love the cold.Child:

You’re soft and cozy. You warm my hands.You and I play in the snow. We love the cold. We love the cold.

Join YWP, schools and community groups for this

statewide day of writing!

Set aside just 7 minutes on Feb. 7to write.


Sun-stitched seamsBY ERIN BUNDOCK


Sun-stitched seams,Beams from dreams dreamt in my sleep,Seeping to the sky, longing to breathe.Cool air creeps toVelvet smooth cheeks ofChildren tucked into fat quiltedSheets.Leaking light to the world from spell boundSlumber,Leaking truth forgotten amongst peers,Healing tattered hearts, torn souls, somber losses,Drying eyes that have shed tears.Sew back the pieces,Pull together in our dreams.One day we will healThrough sun-stitched seams.

THIS WEEK: Contrast & Superpower




A.D. HENDERSON FOUNDATION



Each week, Young Writers Project receives hundreds of

submissions from students in Vermont and New Hamp-

shire. With the help of a team of students, we select the

best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers.

This week, we publish work in response to the prompts,

Contrast: Write a story or poem about extreme con-

trasts; and Superpower: What superpower would

you pick for yourself and why? You can read more at


NEXT PROMPT

I like… Create a list of things you like. They can be random and unre-lated or they can have a progression and tell a story within a story. Alter-nate: Relief. Describe the moment when you felt the greatest sensation of relief from thirst, hunger, sadness, pain or fear. Due Jan. 25

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Jenna Rice/ The Sharon Academy

Ethereal

BY OLIVIA PINTAIR


The silvery sky was a lot like your eyes,the way it swam with stars of clarity.When you laughed, your little skies crinkled and sometimesyour soul would spill over.I loved to watch you when you spoke.I pictured the words like you said them.You added beauty to my thoughtsand I loved how it clashed with the silence.

For better or worse BY CLAIRE MACQUEEN

Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School She glows with shadow; she’s shaded with light.At times she smiles and the world seems to shine.A taste of sugar, the smell of a clear sunny day,the sound of praise, of a smile, of the clichéd birds chirping.At times the coldness of her frown is freezing,the smell of cold, snow, fear and darkness,the sight of your only beacon of light roll-ing away;the only answers are the questions that flutter around like trapped little birds, and the bewilderment at how easily she can changefrom your source of light to the one who kicks it away,from the slight touch of guiding fingertips to the harsh shove that sends you flying,each moment of hers calculated,eyes boring like daggers and finding weaknesses, using them to her advantage.Because you know, and she knows,even as her wrath creates crashing waves and foaming seas,her smile will bring simple, sun-splashed waves that pull you in once again,for better or worse.

Silence versus sound BY NORA HILL


What can you break with one word? Silence.The world is broken up into those who speak and those who don’t.Silence and stillness can lead a person to a higher place, transcend our material world, or it can lead to the road of insanity, starved for human contact, when one word could save you.Too much sound and your nervous system will overload,crash into a pit of forced silence, a balancing act between the two; the more you walk, the thinner the rope becomestill it snaps and you fall into a world of sounds and silence. Things you don’t want to hear will be told to you; the truths you denied, things you want so desperately to hear will be forever out of reach. Your ability to speak when needed and to stay quiet when necessary is key.Because at some time in our lives our rope will break and we will fall.When we fall we will be tested, tested to our very soul.It is then in that pain that we can look inside ourselves,whether through silence or sound we will look;it’s up to us to determine if we like what we hear.

The power of zero

BY MADELEINE KHAMNEI


It was given to him years ago. He could

see into the future and anything he needed to know he could.

He would sit at his desk and cry. Small tears would bubble down his cheeks and splat onto his paper and pencils. How he wanted to pick one up and draw what he saw. The chalk, oil paints, and colors smearing down the smooth canvas, creating a path to the future. He could change it, but it was meant to be.

He really thought he wanted it. He wanted to see him reuniting hand in hand with his mother, or his long-lost dad, but the future holds unpleasant beings and thoughts. What you want to see almost never happens. Now all he could see was ...

To finish reading this piece go to: www.young-

writersproject.org /node/74210

Invisibility

BY ARIEL SALMON


I always know people before they know me.I can see them, know about their friends and parties and gossip,but they don’t know me.I’m the one you won’t see when you walk in a room,the one who sits behind you in five of your eight classes,the one named “That girl” and “What’s-her-name” and “The quiet one.”I’m the oddity, the anomaly, the one blessed and cursed with invisibility.A few, a small few, sometimes see me,hear me,speak with me,know me.All those people who wish that they could be invisible?They are the ones who look through me.

Dark and lightBY CALEB OLIVEIRA


The dark approaches over the hill, over the mountain.The light approaches above the ocean, above the fire.Light is fast, but dark is faster.Light is matter, dark is nothing.Dark is coldness with the snow, light is warmth with the sun.

Dark is the night and light is the day.Dark is a dead rose, light is a bright daisy.Dark is winter and light is summer.Dark is fire and ice, light is a living tree.They collide together in a big flash of light.It gets dark and very cold.Snow falls through the night.Winter hits.The water turns to ice.A small fire burns low.A gloomy deer limps through the snow.He curls up around a small daisy,his last warmth,hope and light.


Students, teachers, writers!

Across VT and NH, people are setting aside just 7 minutes on Feb. 7 to write!


THIS WEEK: Light/Dark & General

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.


KEY BANK







other newspapers. This week, we publish work in

response to the prompts, Light/Dark: Write about

contrasts; and General writing.To read more, go to


The pondBY TYLER HARRIS


There’s a pondnear my housewhere I go,occasionally.It’s hidden from view,tucked behind a redstone cliffand walls of cattails.You wouldn’t happen upon it;you wouldn’t find itunless you were looking.It’s shielded from everything,tucked away,where you can’t feelthe wind whipping up the streetand you can’t hearthe sounds of people.All that’s thereis the croaks and splashesof the frogs in the summerand the ice in the winterthat sometimes you can walk on.And I go therewhen I don’t want to see anyoneexcept those frogsand the occasional turtle,when I want to run my handsthrough the dry cattailsand listen to them whisper to me.I go therewhen I want to beshielded, too.

SmileBY SOPHIE HOMANS


Smile, for life is short and happiness is important.Breathe, for when fresh air enters your lungs, trouble leaves you.Sleep, for rest is key and fills you with energy.Dance, for it expresses love and joy.Sing, for there is only so much time and your heart thrives.Look, for she is beautiful and you only have one chance.

Race of heartsBY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS MONTESANO


To my heart that tied its shoes,getting ready not to lose,going, going to useits beating paceto win the race.Ready, ready, getting ready,keep it very steadyas you go to the start line.It’s almost timeto make that gold medal mine.To my heart that raced a race,its legs pounded at a frightening pace.Beating, beating, ever faster,just to be the masterof the race.

Snow all overBY ALEXYS GILLILAN


Today was the best day. I looked out-side and there was snow all over!

The bad thing was I didn’t bring my snow pants. But I don’t care. I will still play in it. I’m going to make a snowman and a fort. It will be so fun.

And Christmas is coming! I’m so excited!

The lightning war BY BRAEDEN HUGHES


The sky tells the soil to quiet,to shudder into open poresand breathe.The ferns are gasping, fallinginto the fitted puzzles the wind makesof their leaves.Desperate messengers of the treessend yellow scrolls –the grass listens, worries.A plan for battle rises from their whispered swells.The drums rattle deathfrom clouds that hang heavywith promise.They have marched from homelands in the lightbut are men now who carry wearinesslike woolen coats on their shoulders.Their battle cry rumbles deep and far away.The earth, she says,They are coming.They are coming.They are here. The bombs break hydrogen shellsupon the rooftops, a child cries.He says,Mother, when will it stop?When will the light return?The bullets answerthat they will stopwhen the soil has been drenched,the trees have died with broken necks,and the river has flooded its banks.The sky is bright with fire.It seems to shatter, but no pieces of dark-nessrain down.The clouds are breathless.They have found the earthunbreakable,and their guns and heartsare empty.Bruised lips resolute, the earth standswith angry, grieving eyes to watch the stormmarch away.When the sky turns bright,the grass is littered with jagged tree limbsand the buds of flowers.Water sweeps debris into the rivers,running polluted from soil. The earth is bleedingbut the storm has moved away.

Warm, soft comfortBY ELI HULSE


I lie here enveloped in my cocoon of poly-propylene,My own body heating the small space between skin and fabric,a warm bliss.Outside, the frigid world waits for my exodus,the clawing cold, the howling wind,waiting to eat away at the flesh of any unprotected body.I take one second and brace myself.Then I slip into the cold, out of my warm sleeping bag.

Night and day BY KATHLEEN DUCHARME


The day was fast fading,its bright colors dripping like ink from the sky as the sun sank.Night’s dark blanket slowly crept up the dome of the sky.Then all was blacknessexcept for the pin-prick stars.There was no moon to cast its pale glow,but in the nearby town, streetlights shone their lonely light.The wind whistled its cold, dark songand somewhere in the vastnessan owl hooted.Then all was still and quiet as the blackness began to slowly melt away.Now everything was just a pale grayas the sun climbed the eastern mountains.Soon it reached the peaksand sunlight washed over everything.The streetlights went out, one by one.A rooster cried its morning song and the sky was painted with various hues of red and orange.The sky changed to blue and the sun continued to scale the sky.

© Liu Brenna/Essex High School

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

NEXT PROMPT Puns. Have fun with a play on words

(i.e. cereal number, sell phone, etc.). Try to fit in as many puns as you can. Be cre-ative! Alternates: Essential. What’s one thing you absolutely could not live with-out? Why?; or I believe…Start a piece with the words, I believe. Due Jan. 11

THIS WEEK: Family & General

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.


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to the prompts, Family: Write about a moment or

experience with a family member that changed you; or

General writing. More at youngwritersproject.org.

NEXT PROMPT

Kindness. You have performed an act of kindness. What is it? How does it make you feel? What happens? Al-ternates: Unsafe. Describe a place or circumstance where you felt unsafe; or General writing. Due Dec. 21.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK


Child of the tideBY OLIVIA PINTAIR


She was sent to rest with the waves,for the good of the sea.And the sea was restless,for the good of her.A sleeping child to hush the tide,to tuck it in, and give it a kiss before bed-time.The water rolled in with the pull of her breathing,the hum of her warmth and the flutter of her heart.Little waves tickled her spine as she ca-ressed them unconsciously,willing them into the safety of her soul.Her sincerity called to the dream creatures.She sang to them, kissing the wind that flew with the gulls.Her footprints were left in this place,as she danced,quelling the twilight with her love and her little-girl eyes.Her dreamy presence rained gently on the water,tiny diamonds, like more salt for the sea.She mumbled pretty words while her eye-lids flickered.The dim light in the room set over her; the little queen of the great big sea,and the calmer of the crashing.Her innocence gave a small lilt to the world,and lifted the tide to the moon for a good-night kiss before bedtime.

How I met your dadBY MORGAN ROBERTS


“Mom, when was the first time you met dad?” Ashley’s daughter Maggie asked as the two were walking down the cold, snow-covered street.

“Well, it was around this time of year. I’ll never forget it. There was a fresh coat of snow on the ground from the first snow-fall of the year that made that crunch noise once you stepped on it. It was so white, it was blinding.

“Your father and I were, I believe, in 7th grade at the time. He lived only three blocks away from me, and all of his friends lived on my street. I had just moved from California to here in Vermont because of your grandfather’s job.

“Just when I walked out the door of my new house, taking my dog for a walk, all of a sudden, a snowball came right towards me and hit me in the face. This was also the first time I saw snow in my life for real, and not in movies, let alone taste it. Oh, the snowball was so cold that all I could feel was this burning sensation on my face.”

“Was it hurting after?” Maggie asked.“Not one bit.”“I bet it was daddy who hit you in the

face with that snowball, wasn’t it, Mama?”“You are absolutely correct, honey.”

She’s gone BY NAILA SALHI-MICHAEL

Grade 4, Sustainability Academy at Lawrence Barnes

As my mom called her on the phone, I saw her tears. They were dripping down, slowly, then faster and faster. My hands started squirming; my heart was racing and my palms were sweating. She was gone.

As I locked the door of my bedroom, I thought of all the things we hadn’t done yet. My body slid down the wall, and there was this tear, dripping down my cheek, and in a few seconds, tears started gushing out of my eyelids like a small waterfall. In that moment I told myself that she was officially gone and I couldn’t do anything about it.

Finally, the tears stopped gushing, slowly like when a rainstorm gradually stops. I dried my face and covered my eyes with my sweating palms and pretended there were no doubts in life, and I was locked out of the universe in my own world. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and counted, “One, two three,” little by little in my mind.

When I opened my eyes, I imagined that everything would be fine and back to normal. But I was still living in a nightmare because my grandma was gone.

GrandpaBY RACHEL HOAR


My grandpa is really important to me. A couple of weeks ago he had a heart at-tack. I fell apart when my mom told me. I could not believe it.

I believe that God is out there to help because my grandpa was at the hospital when it happened. My grandma had an appointment, so while that was going on, he was taken to the emergency room to see what was going on with him. The thing that broke my heart, but made me so happy, was when he said, “I want to be able to see my granddaughters get married when they’re older.” When he said that, I was so happy, and now my grandpa is healthy. As long as he does what the doctors tell him to do, then he should be able to see my sister and me grow up. I love you, Grandpa.

Waning sunBY MEIA FREESE


If I could, I would have smiled more sweetly in the waning sun.Watching as the discolored sky turned thick with anticipation, I might have chased the moon instead of the star,Beyond which the veins could not clutch and the heart would be unable to beat.Or perhaps I would have sung in silence, despite the earnest crowd.But this isn’t about me, is it?It’s about the truth behind hypocrisy,Two counterparts of the same element.Let’s indulge ourselves and recount a disre-garded reality.Our fate was brought in on a platter before we were seated,An inadequate stream of tipping wine glasses. I had my head tilted.We dined on separate channels with mis-matched menus,Yet I inadvertently fell into the shallows of my own persuasion.It should be mentioned before skin cuts too deep,That like all other things that are beautiful,That behind the duplicity of each untold tale,It was the shooting star we saw from be-neath the water’s surface.Steam coiled off of our pallid skin that night in the grass.You can blame it all on me.Scar tissue sounding when our secret slip filled my heart with laughter.But before all of these moments, endlessly lost in time,We shared the backseat as the night en-gulfed us And the occasional light passed us byAnd it was beautiful.The lights have faded, and we’re here after hours.Our breath is stale; the air congealing around us.Maybe my letter will reach you someday,The one I wrote before the end.But here I hold my heart and note in handWith an unlikely probability that we’ll circulate again.

Congratulations to Jenna Rice, a sophomore at The Sharon Academy, whose photo was

chosen as Photo of the Week. Jenna says, “I took this photo when I went on an exchange trip

to Saint-Gaudens, France. I stayed with a family, and one day I couldn’t help but notice how

beautiful the lighting in the window was. The sun was shining directly behind it so anything I

put in the window to photograph became a silhouette. I had quite a bit of fun playing around

with this. I eventually decided that I wanted to be in one of the photos, so I put the camera on

a tripod and used a self-timer. So the girl in the photo is me.”

YWP’S DECEMBER SLAM

YWP, 12 North Street, Burlington

Friday, Dec. 21, 7-8:30 p.m.

See you there!

THIS WEEK: Winter Tales

YWP is supported by the generosity

of foundations, business 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



Birdseye Foundation


YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with au-thentic audiences. YWP runs young-

writersproject.org and the Schools Project, a comprehensive online class-room and training program that works with teachers to help students develop their writing and digital literacy skills. To learn more, go to ywpschools.net






other newspapers. This week, we publish work in

response to the prompt, Winter Tales: Tell a narrative

about winter in poetry or prose. To read more, go to


NEXT PROMPT

Reflection. What is something you wish you’d been told when you were five years old? Alternate: Photo 6. Write about this photo of the single chair at Mad River Glen. Due

Dec. 14

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Erin Bundock/Champlain Valley Union High School

VERMONT STAGE COMPANY

PRESENTS

WINTER TALES

Dec. 5-9

FlynnSpace, Burlington

Don’t miss this special holiday

tradition, which includes

a selection of writing from

YWP’s Winter Tales prompt!

Congratulations to Erin Bundock, a freshman at Champlain Valley Union High School, whose

photo was chosen as YWP’s Photo of the Week. Photographers and artists, send YWP your

photos and scanned artwork for publication. Find out more at youngwritersproject.org.

Last autumn leaves

BY MARY PAT MORGAN


The last of the autumn leaves drift away on the wind, leaving the trees bare, and drain-ing the land of color.The clock chimes five, December 21, and startled pitch-black crows flutter away towards the balmy south, silhouetted on the overcast, muted silver sky.Animals hide away into hibernation, ob-scuring themselves from the icy breeze.They are the only smart ones.The rest of us stay through the algor and the ailment.The sun has long since set and won’t rise again for months.I long for the day when the light will return, when the days will lengthen, when the grounds will warm, but for now I am stuck, wandering, meandering through a frosty fog.Blacks and dull greys settle upon the town, casting a diaphanous, eerie, ever-present shadow.I walk down the frost-consumed cobble-stone, heels clicking and clacking on the slabs.A frigid flurry of wind surrounds me, penetrating through my threadbare pea coat and frayed mittens, piercing my numb, dry, red, raw skin.Fires are flickering and crackling in each house I see, while I am click-clacking down the street.The windows emit a miniscule glint of warm light,A hopeful beacon that is immediately op-pressed by the ashen clouds.If only the fire-tenders would realize they aren’t worth the trouble.Fire does little to warm against the freezing winter to come.All they do is emanate thick, ashen, smoke that accumulates on the somber, dusky, charcoal hues of this 18th century London slum.I shift my sight to the sky.The overcast begins to illuminate.The clouds begin to materialize from obscurity.I stop, shivering in my tracks, tip my head back, and gape into the atmosphere.Glimmering ivory flakes begin descending through the dry air.Wind whips the specks around. They dance in the air. Beautiful lacy snippets of pure, creamy, velvet weaving through the icy breeze.The snow looks too clean, too pure, to exist in this alley.But it’s still enough to put a smile on my face and brighten my mood, at least for a second.I rest motionless for a moment and allow the snowfall to settle in my hair.Then I continue wandering, meandering through the frosty fog.Until I, too, will drift away like the leaves on the wind.

Winter’s SongBY LUKE MCKENZIE FITZGERALD

Grade 3, Orchard Elementary School

The Winter’s Song is long and thought-

ful. The wind blows hard. The wind is the melody of the Winter’s Song. The wind is cold; it swirls like a spiral in a paper birch forest. It sounds like a soft swirling ocean with a sad tone.

The white snow falls into a stream. The

snow is the beat of the Winter’s Song. It sounds slow and constant. Some flakes are big. Some are small. They will never, ever look the same even if they sound the same.

The cold stream whirls, over and over again. It is the chorus of the Winter’s Song. At the shallowest parts, the sounds are fast and strong. At the stream’s deepest part, it is quiet and will stay quiet.

With the wind as the melody, the snow as the beat, and the stream as the chorus, the Winter’s Song comes alive.

Snowstars BY DAVID AMOURETTI


(Inspired by Valerie Worth)

In the cloudySkySnowflakes fallTwirlingSparklingShimmeringCatching the eyeOf aBoy In his dad’s bootsAnd his thick winter coatWho goes outside Marveling atThe falling starsHe sticks outHis tongueTo catchThe starsAnd the snowflakes fallAnd fallFloat and swirlAnd curveUntil they hitThe boy’s Pink tongueOnly to disappear

This cat of winterBY MARIA CHURCH


The snow is as soft as a cat’s paw steps,Gently placing each flake on the ground, Windy tail high and waving. The cat is black, As black as the long nights soon to come. It walks through the bare, bony treesStopping to sniff a dead leaf or a shining icicle. It walks along as the snow falls down.The cat has long whiskers That brush against the windows, Creating patterns in the frost. Sometimes the cat plays, Sending flurries of snow upon the ground, Batting at the flakes and faces With cold, velvet paws. Sometimes it rages, Striking out at the trees, Its claws as sharp as ice. Its angry howls rage across the night As it bounds from tree to tree,Winding its way through the houses As the morning sun rises.This cat is not actually black, but striped, Striped with the birch bark trees, The trail of footprints along the ground, The shadows, The faint indent in the snow Of a sled down a hill.This cat, this cat of winter.© Jet Lowe (Library of Congress)

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

THIS WEEK: Alone

Each week Young Writers Project receives hundreds

of submissions from students written in response to

prompts or as general work. A team of students helps

select work for publication in this and 20 other news-

papers. This week, we publish writing in response to

the prompt, Alone: I stood at the window, watching

the red tail lights disappear... Finish the story. Read

more at youngwritersproject.org.

YWP is supported by the generosity of foundations, business 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.


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NEXT PROMPT

Object. An inanimate object comes alive and tells you how it really feels. Alternate: Excuse. Create the wildest excuse you can think of for why you didn’t do something, why you were so late, why you can’t go. It must stretch the imagination yet still remain cred-ible. Due Dec. 7

© Jamie Ferguson/Milton High School

Congratulations to Jamie Ferguson, a junior at Milton High School, whose photo of a sala-

mander was chosen as YWP’s Photo of the Week. Photographers and artists, send YWP your

photos and scanned artwork for publication. Find out more at youngwritersproject.org.

Stars on the ceilingBY ELLA STAATS


I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear. Well, that was it. It was over. My mom was gone and there was nothing I could do about it.

I turned away and padded slowly up the stairs, clutching the handrail. I should have been crying, feeling a sense of mourning at least, but I just felt blank, like a slate wiped clean. It was as if the knowledge that she was gone hadn’t even registered in my mind.

I lay down on my bed, not even bother-ing to change out of my clothes, and felt the duvet mold around the shape of my body as I stared intently up at the cheap glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling. I reached over to the bedside table, fumbling for the light cord, and was immediately plunged into darkness. The stars ignited, and I closed my eyes, the shape of the Milky Way still stenciled into my eyelids.

In that moment, I could see my mom in her silver Prius, swerving around a corner, halting at a traffic light, and then zooming into the highway and being swallowed into the gaping jaws of the night. I imagined her parking the car outside of some strange house, in a strange neighborhood, and walking inside without a trace of guilt to start a new life.

Maybe it was all for the better, maybe it was what she needed, a break from us, a break from me, her only daughter. And maybe I needed it too.

The galaxy behind my eyes had disap-peared. I could feel a blanket of sleep fall-ing over me. I didn’t need to cry, I didn’t need to be hurt. I just needed to know everything was for the best. And then I dis-solved into slumber.

At the windowBY MARY PAT MORGAN


I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear, the red tail lights that were taking you far, far out of town.

As I stood at the window, I tried to re-member before my memory started to fade. I remember you lived a street over from me all my life. We went to the same school for three years, we were in the same class, we should have been best friends, but I still don’t even know your name.

You were the girl who always clacked her knuckles in English class. I was the girl who always drummed my nails. Class went on with a steady beat to the click of my nails and the clack of your fingers. We attended an hour-long class together every school day for three years, but we never spoke.

It’s amazing how cold people can be, how we can live our lives so absorbed in our own world that we don’t associate with others, how we can be so consumed with our own lives that we just shut everyone else out. We were so cold to each other.

How is it that we spent hours together and never said a word? We only talked through clicks and clacks. And now you are gone, and we have missed out on a friendship that could have been, but now never will be. So, as I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear, I could only think one thing: English class will be far quieter without you, my should-have-been, would-have-been, could-have-been best friend.

Cookie jarBY SOREN WYSOCKEY-JOHNSON


I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear. I was at home, alone.

I ran straight to the cookie jar and took five cookies. I was so excited, home alone!

I ran outside to the trampoline and did flips, back flips, front handsprings and cartwheels.

I went to the candy jar and took a hand-ful of candy.

I went upstairs and played with my Legos for about an hour. Finally, my mom came home.

DelilahBY EMMA BERKOWITZ

Grade 9, Champlain Valley Union High School

I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear. She was gone.

Everything I ever knew was gone in a flash. As the plane started its ascent to Spain, all I could wonder was if she was feeling the same way.

I was sure I would never see Delilah again. Tears as salty as the Mediterranean trickled down my cheeks. The taste was vulgar.

I should have never let her get on that plane. I felt so alone. The only family I had ever known slipped out of my grasp before my eyes.

I tried to edge my baseball cap down further so nobody would notice my tears. Traces of black mascara remained on my cheeks just as the traces of Delilah would forever remain in my heart.

I stood at the window watching planes taking off for about 20 minutes. I guess Joni Mitchell was right. You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.

I always took it for granted that my sister would always be by my side ready to assist me in any way possible. I never stopped to take it all in and thank her until it was too late.

I felt remorse for all the missed oppor-tunities I had to tell her I loved her.

The move BY MAX TECHAU


I stand at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear. The bulky shape of the moving van rumbles off into the distance.

It is the last time I will be alone in my old house. I slowly turn on the creaking floorboards to glance around at the dusty attic space that had been my room.

Even though I am not moving far, I will miss living near one of my best friends. I remember when we were younger and we were playing ultimate tag and how I had gotten a bloody nose trying desperately to escape my friend.

I snap out of this thought when a squir-rel hops out onto the rickety roof. I grab my bag and sadly look around at the space one last time. I don’t want to go quite yet, but I know my parents will be back with the moving van any moment now.



Another worldBY ABHI DODGSON


I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear.Alone.The word pierced me.Alone again like a wound reopening. I turned and heard the dark house whisper-ing. I listened as the chandelier clinked and swayed, knowing that I was on my own in the haunting world…Of spirits.Of grief.Of magic.I watched as cars came and went in the stillness of the night. I fixed my eyes on a shape lying on the road. I knew I was one of “them” now.Alone in a world of sadness.Mist swirled and formed shapes of others who had lost their lives. I stood in the cen-ter of the room, rooted to the spot, watch-ing for hours, lost in memories.Flooded with grief.Never to be seen again.

THIS WEEK: Photo 3 & Fan










MAIN STREET LANDING








to the prompts, Photo 3 and Fan: Write a fan letter to

someone. To read more, go to youngwritersproject.

org, a safe, civil online community of young writers.

NEXT PROMPT

If only... Write about a situation in which you wish you had done things differently. Alternates: Dialogue day. Tell a story using only dialogue; or General writing in any genre. Due Nov. 30

PHOTO PROMPT 3

© Karlo Fresl/Essex High School, 2011

Someone who canBY CLAIRE MACQUEEN


He sits unmoving on the metal bleach-

ers. Snow lays around him, fresh, cold, and seeming to shimmer in the early dawn.

In ungloved hands he holds a football – battered, old and covered in writing. He sighs, sending up a cloud of fog, and stares at the white, wide, open football field in front of him as he had a hundred times before.

In books and movies he’s seen, it says they can remember every second – how their feet slipped, how they fell, how they remember it as if it were slow motion.

He can’t, no matter how much he tries or wishes he could. All he remembers is running with sharp air in his lungs and mar-veling at how the snowflakes seemed as if they were suspended in the air.

Then he was on his back, immobile as the wet snow seeped through his jersey and heavy footsteps came closer.

Even after that there were only snippets of memory in the few moments of con-sciousness he’d had.

Tubes coming out of his arms and legs, doctors wearily telling him how lucky he was to have a chance of walking again, and his teammates presenting him a football with “Get Well Soon” and all their names scrawled haphazardly onto the leather surface.

Suddenly, he stands, wincing slightly even after all these years. He grits his teeth in an effort to block out the cold, the dull pain in his leg, and the fragments of memory.

After a few hesitant moments, he hurls the Get Well Soon ball as far as possible, hoping it will find someone who can.

Second placeBY ALEXA KARTSCHOKE


If competing means losing, then I’ve competed tons of times. This track held what could be the best moment of my life. Twenty-five years ago, I came in second to Chelsea Middle School. The boy’s name was Calvin. The race was the 200 meters. It was the county championships.

Tomorrow is the county championships and my son is racing. And Chelsea is going to be there. I am scared. I don’t want him to feel the pain that I did. He is one of the best runners on his team. I look down at the place that I finished all those years ago.

I think about what if that boy felt sorry for me. What if he knew I was jealous of him. I don’t even think he remembers. I realize how stupid I was to hold this grudge all these years. I whisper silently to myself “I’m sorry.”

I am sorry I never forgave that boy for beating me. I am sorry that I have been so upset all these years. I’m sorry my son had to watch me stare at my second place trophy, knowing that he would have to get first.

I know I came in second back then, but now I realize I was always first. I had a wonderful life and I was always treated with the highest respect on my team. And I was a very good runner.

Now I know that when I go home, I’m going to tell my son, “First is great, but second is fantastic.”

Track seasonBY KELLY HUANG


The snow begins to melt,The weather’s getting warmer,Spring’s coming.Track season is about to start.And I, just standing there, let my imagina-tion go wild,Imagining how the season is going to be.People sprinting, jumping, throwing, cheer-ing.It’s going to be an amazing year.Come faster, spring,I’m waiting for you.

Sitting here, waitingBY FIONA-ROSE DULUDE


I sit here waitingon this cold, snowy benchfor the day that I can play football.They say that girls aren’t able:That they don’t have the right build,That they lack the strength or the will,That they are weak,That they do not have “the killer instinct”To play.But I’m going to prove them wrong.On the first snap of the ball,I will get a touchdown,I will tackle the QB,I won’t fumble.

Dear WaltBY CHRISTOPHER BARKER


Dear Walt Disney,I am your fan.You are the one I look up to,The one who inspires,The one who has made a mark,and a good one indeed.You have made the impossible possible,The place where everyone wants to be,The setting of a dream, a new world, and all of the above.You are my idol, the one in whom I be-lieve,The person who blew everyone’s mind,The person who showed that there is no limit,The person who proved you can create a fantasy.You have created a paradise,The place that pleases all senses,The place beyond places,The to-go-to place.Disney is the name to be remembered,The one with the memories,The one with the spark,And I am your fan,A fan of Walt Disney.

Huge fan, no more BY JEREMY BROTZ


Dear I.M. Grate,I’m such a big fan of yours, u r awe-

some! I’ve seen all your movies, and I love them! Please write back!~ A huge fan

To “A huge fan,”Here I am, writing to you! Yes, you!

You have the pleasure of being written to by the best man in the world, me. You should consider yourself, little fan, incred-ibly lucky. Often I am too busy with my amazingly hard, strenuous job to bother myself with inconsequential people like you. And guess what? I am even going to be so generous as to sign, yes, sign this letter.

Keep on adoring me!~ I.M. Grate

Dear I.M.Grate,OMG, u actually responded! Thank u!

I’ll keep your signature 4 ever! It means so much 2 me!~ A huge fan

To “A huge fan,”

What? You are keeping my signature? Why not sell it on eBay? You would only get $5 million, but that is how much I usually spend in one day...Well, you better be glad I wrote you another letter, because I don’t have much time. I’m not going to sign this letter, because you already have one signature of mine. I figure I’ll just keep my signature, and sell it on eBay myself under a false name, and get a few extra bucks.

To I.M. Grate,

I don’t like u anymore... Thanks 4 tell-ing me that your hero can be dumb, even if he appears to be awesome.~ Not a fanP.S. I ripped up your signature.

Dear Michael BY AMARI CHRISTIE-PABON


Dear Michael Jackson,I have always loved your music and I

listen to it all the time. My favorite song is “Smooth Criminal.”

I would have liked to meet you be-cause you invented break dancing and it is so much fun. I would also like to learn the moonwalk. I am sorry we never met. Sincerely, Amari



THIS WEEK: Flying & General


of foundations, businesses and








VERMONT BUSINESS ROUNDTABLE





Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hun-

dred submissions from students in Vermont and New



This week, we publish work in response to the prompts,

Flying: You are flying blissfully over the countryside.

What do you see and feel? and General writing in any

genre. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.

NEXT PROMPTIdeal being.

What do you

think makes

someone the

“ideal” person?

What is the

most important

characteristic

that a person

must have?

Alternates:

Change. Write

to the

president of

a com-

pany, real or

fictional, about a product that you think

must be changed; or Photo 5. Write

about the photo above. Due Nov. 23

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Danielle Kracum, Rutland High School

Things we like

about fallBY ZACHARY BURNS AND IAIN PLESS

Grades 6 and 5, Browns River Middle School

Thanksgiving is number one of all,apple pie is really goodalong with all the other food.Halloween is super fun;you wish the day would never be done.The wind is blowing colors everywhere,joy floating in the air.Raking leaves and hiking,school, reading and biking.Getting close to Christmashow could you miss this?But things don’t always go as planned.You miss the warm sun and sand.Winter, spring, summer and fall,let’s have fun with it all!See Zack and Iain’s video at http://www.young-

writersproject.org/node/72276

Do you remember?BY TYLER HARRIS


Remember whenwe spent all of our days together?Do you remember our sleep-overs andour games of flashlight tag?Do you remembersitting together at lunchand laughing and jokingand everything was alright?Do you rememberwhen you held my handthrough the hardest timesof my life?Do you rememberthe way we had each other’s backs?Do you rememberwhen you knewall of my secrets?Do you rememberthe nights we spent talkinginto the wee hoursof the morning?Do you rememberhanging onto each other’s armsas we walked into school?Do you rememberthe summer we spent togetherclimbing the rocksand wasting time on the cliff?Do you rememberhow much fun we had?Do you rememberhow we never wanted it to end?Do you rememberwhen we were close?Do you rememberme?

© Anna Mechler/Essex High School

Congratulations to Danielle Kracum, a senior at Rutland High School, whose photo

was chosen as YWP’s Photo of the Week. Photographers and artists, send YWP your

photos and scanned artwork for publication. Find out more at youngwritersproject.org!

Part of the sky BY ABHI DODGSON

Grade 5, Home School, South Hero

I feel leaping, heart-beating joyAs I fly through the brilliant blue skyDancing and twisting up and glidingDownThe beating in my chest is a feeling of pure ecstasy and happinessI spiral up and down and hug the cloudsAs my heart does another flipI float overThe grassy plainsAnd watch birds soaring, singing melodic radiant songsA bluebird drifts past me, the sky carried on its backI am part of the sky I see an open field and swoop down, land-ing softlyI let out a long, deep breath and inhale the wonderful smell of summerI look back at the setting sunAnd feel the stillness as the shimmering ball of light slips away behindThe mountains

I’m flying BY CATIE MACAULEY


I’m flying. What a strange sensation it is.Wonderfully blissful and carefree,I have never been happier.Alone with my thoughts,soaring alongside the birds,I feel as if I can conquer all the worries of the world.Up here in the sky,among the clouds and colors of the sunset, are spreading swirls of light.The beauty and feeling of it are indescribable. I laugh out loud for joy and justice.Even the countryside seems to smileup at me.

A Vermont viewBY AMBER STROCK

Grade 11, Oxbow High School

My body was elevated far beyond the ground. Though I would normally have felt terrified, I felt a sense of serenity. Gliding through the air was a feeling beyond any I had ever known. My body felt weightless. To make everything so much more blissful, the Vermont view was breathtaking.

When I began my journey, my body

swept over Lake Champlain. The sun shone directly behind me, and I watched as my shadow danced across the surface of the dark blue, clear lake water, following my every move. A second later, I was soaring above Burlington, passing Church Street and the crowded streets full of tourists, locals and college students.

Within minutes, I was above Montpe-lier. I gaped in amazement as the capitol dome sparkled in the sunlight, throwing rays of light in every direction. After pass-ing over the beautiful cities of Vermont, I wanted to see what I loved most. When I

arrived, I found myself in awe. On a beauti-ful sunny day, Vermont’s landscape was beautiful. The leaves were that perfect peak color. From above, I was able to catch that ephemeral moment when the colors were at their absolute best, just before they begin to fade and fall into the dreary dullness of winter. From above, I was able to fully appreciate the beauty that had always been right in front of me. I fell into splashes of orange and red, letting myself drift into absolute bliss. At that moment, I realized I was in perfection high above the most beautiful place.

In wind or hailBY MYA GREENFIELD


Flying. I am flying in the breeze,I am flying all around,I am flying everywhere.Oh, how I would love to fly!I don’t care in wind or hail,In storms or sunny days.Oh, how I wish I could fly!

THIS WEEK: Haunted & Candidate

Young Writers Project is sup-ported by the generosity of founda-tions, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing. If you would like to contrib-ute, please go to youngwritersproj-ect.org/support, or mail your dona-tion to YWP, 12 North St., Suite 8, Burlington, VT 05401.


PHYSICIAN’S COMPUTER COMPANY


YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences. YWP runs youngwritersproject.org and the Schools Project, a comprehensive on-line 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.

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hamp-

shire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 20 other newspapers and on vpr.net. This week, we publish work in response to the prompts, Haunted: You and your friends explore an abandoned house when things turn scary; and Candidate: Write a political ad for yourself. To read more, go to youngwritersproject.org.

NEXT PROMPT

Light/Darkness. Use the idea of ex-treme contrast in any way you’d like, such as day vs. night, good vs. evil. Create a story or poem that centers on extreme contrast. Alternate: Super-power. You are granted superpowers: What superpower would you pick and why? Imagine an anecdote of you us-ing that superpower. Due Nov. 16

PHOTO OF THE WEEK


Congratulations to Kevin Huang, a freshman at Burlington High School, whose photo was

chosen as YWP’s Photo of the Week. Photographers and artists, send YWP your photos

and scanned artwork for publication. Go to youngwritersproject.org, create a blog, upload

your work, choose “Photo Submission” as the genre, click “Yes” for the Newspaper Se-

ries, and include a high resolution version of your work as a file attachment.

Dark

BY EVA EDWARDS-STOLL


The lights turn off; it’s dark.I look around, I call out,“Lily, Morgan, Jonah.”It is silent.The house is big, desolate as the African plains, cold as the Arctic.I can’t move, I am so scared.I am praying, let me get out alive.I feel like my friends have abandoned me in this haunted place.Then the lights flash on and off...strobe lights?And I hear “Bang!”...balloons popping?And I hear “phhhttttt”... a whoopy cushion?And I see people opening doors and yelling “Boo! We got you!”I see my friends doubled over in laughter.It’s all a prank.

BY CHARLOTTE VINCENT


My sneakers drag on the hard cement sidewalk. The wind blows to the south. The shutters on the house across the street creak like the floorboards in the attic. I fiercely pull my zipper up to my neck. My glance wanders to that house across the street. My friends have always told me that the house is haunted. Those thoughts run wild in my head.

The last headlights glow as I run across the black road and onto the sidewalk again. The house stares down at me as I take slow steps onto the old ripped-up mat that faintly reads, “Welcome!”

My fists knock on the swamp green door. No answer. My hand manages to turn the knob.

“Boo!” I hear, nearly tumbling over. It’s my friend and she wants to explore, too.

A few minutes later my heart skips a beat. A moaning sound fills my ears. “Aaahhh!” I whisper to my friend.

We manage to get to the stairs, dust and papers cluttered around the Victorian railing.

We walk up the stairs, trying not to make a sound, then…. Slam! goes a door about a yard up the rotten stairs. This is feeling like a ghost story!

I hear a faint cracking noise behind me and I turn my head cautiously to see my friend gone. I stare at a big black hole. I look down when suddenly a hand reaches up. “Fewf!” I wipe my hand across my forehead. I pull my friend out, tears stream-ing down her face.

We run out of the Victorian door down the sidewalk to our houses.

The cold windBY MARIKA MASSEY-BIERMAN


It was the time of Hallows Eve. The night was cold, and the wind’s icy fingers crawled under my coat as I walked home. Now, I am not one who is easily frightened, but the mystery of Hallows Eve loomed in my mind that night.

The dark was as black as death, and the comforting lights of home flickered far away. I considered lighting my candle, but I knew the wind would disapprove.

The road ahead was familiar, but in the dark of this haunted night it seemed sinister. I quickened my pace, for who would want to be stuck out here? Not I, not I. A shiver ran through me. The stars glit-tered far above, too far to be comforting. I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck, grateful for the warmth.

Suddenly, I found myself on the ground. The wind was blowing harder, like a chorus of howling wolves. My foot stung, I had caught it on a small rock. Leaning closer to the ground, I saw that the rock was much bigger than a pebble. I was star-ing at a gravestone. My mind whirled. How had I ended up in the graveyard? Where was the path to my comfortable abode?

I slowly rose to my feet and looked around. What were those moaning sounds? Where was the whistling tune com-ing from? Was it my head, or was there something surrounding me? I sucked in my breath and started to leave. Something told me I wasn’t alone. Turning slowly, I watched it pounce and saw no more.

Vote for Rowe

BY AUDREY ROWE


Do you want a compassionate, caring president who will stand up for middle-class people? Vote Audrey Rowe for President.

I will make the United States of America a clean, happy place. I will treat the middle class exactly like the high-class millionaires. I believe that gay marriage is exactly like marriage between a man and a woman, and is not to be made fun of. I think that if you love the person it should be allowed that you can marry that person.

I do not discriminate against religions although I have none. You may think that I am a softie and would not stand up for America at war or not fight back, but trust me I can be soft and cold and that can change instantly. I am also the best choice for those who want taxes to be lower...

I will stand up for women’s rights and I will be the future Ms. President... Abandoned mansion

BY ISAAC CLEVELAND


“I don’t think we should,” said Tommy, as I stepped up to the heavy wooden door.

“Yeah, let’s go,” whispered Sam, his eyebrows twitching as they do when he gets anxious.

“You know we have to, or Billy will just call us chicken in front of the whole school,” I said.

All three of us huddled next to the abandoned mansion doorstep. This was the house no kid I knew had ever entered. Even Billy Smith, the bully of our class, hadn’t stepped one foot inside. Its dark shadow loomed over Maple Street, and every day when I passed the house on my way back from school, I got an eerie feeling that something or someone was looking out at me, watching me across its broken-down fence and abandoned yard.

We had never felt more afraid than this, and we were on the verge of running back to our own houses when I reached out and felt the icy cold, metal doorknob with my fingers. Chills ran down my spine, but I kept pressure on the knob and slowly opened the door. A gust of musty air swept over us and an eerie silence fell like a blan-ket over the night.

“Turn on your flashlights, guys; we’re going to need them,” I said over my shoul-der as I stared into the dark hallway.

“I really don’t want to do this,” Sam said as he peered into the darkness.

“Yeah, I don’t really care about what Billy says as long as I don’t have to go in there,” Tommy said, his voice shaking.

“You guys go home, but I am not go-ing to ignore a challenge by some school bully,” I said. “I am going to prove that I am not chicken.”

I stepped into the shadowy hallway...Read the ending of this story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/72396.

The house across the street

Ghost manBY LINDSEA HAYES


I was only 5 years old when I first saw him. It was the middle of summer, and my parents were downstairs. I was up in my room playing with my dolls. The window was open, and a cool summer breeze was blowing in. He just showed up in my room. At the time I didn’t think much of it. I had tons of imaginary friends who just showed up, but he was different. He was so real... Read the ending of this story at youngwriter-

sproject.org/node/72395.

THIS WEEK: Photo 2 & Observer


of foundations, businesses and
















to the prompts, Photo 2; and Observer: You witness

something frightening or wrong. What is your response? To read

more, go to youngwritersproject.org.

NEXT PROMPTS

© Becca LeBlanc/Essex High School, 2011

Winter Tales. Tell a narrative about winter in short, descriptive poetry or prose. The best will be selected for presentation by the Vermont Stage Company at its annual Winter Tales production at FlynnSpace in Burlington (Dec. 5-9, 2012). Alternate: Favorite place. What is the special place where you really like to be, where you feel most alive? Imagine yourself there and tell a story about it. Due Nov. 2

Family. Write about a moment or experience with a family member that changed you. Alternate: Photo 4. This boy has something to say. What is it? Due Nov. 9

© Jack Delano, Dummerston, VT, 1941 (Library

of Congress)

Nature’s rise

and fallBY ESPEN PETERSON

Grade 8, Home School, Jericho

I stare at the blue sky and the rolling green hills.The change in the years to come gives me chills.Will the birds have evolved into moles?And dug hundreds of little holesTo escape the thick green smogThat hangs over us in a suffocating fog?Will skyscrapers have replaced the trees?And the fields resemble Swiss cheese?Will vegetation become a myth?Will the Earth become drilled out to the pith?Will it rain acid on our heads?And the ozone be torn to shreds?Will we pay any attention at all?To nature’s rise and fall?

PHOTO PROMPT 2

RoamingBY LEAH KELLEHER

Grade 8, Albert D. Lawton Intermediate School

To travel the worldWould be bold.The spacious deserts,The vast, empty cold.You could pass your whole lifeTraveling astray.You could pass your whole lifeDrifting away.From Alberta to Australia,To Paris and Puerto Rico,So many sites to seeAnd people to meet.Could you travel on your own feet?Oh, how I wish I could see it all,The list of places, oh so tall.Sadly for me,It is too much to see.But one day maybeI willHave my fillOf travel.

His name is HopeBY ELLA CAUSER


I stare out the window of our apartment,My breath leaving a steamy circle on the pane.A gray, dull, blank city looms above me with an unexpected pop of color here or there,A red umbrella cartwheeling down the side-walk,A blue raincoat anticipating a downpour from the dreadful sky.Staring at our small alley gives no comfort.A once blooming garden is dead, littered with trash.An animal with its tail between its legs lets out a sorrowful whine.Like the wind whispering through the win-dows at night,It chills me to the bone just as the cold air does.Someone is throwing rocks at the mutt,Laughing cruelly.My hands begin to sweat, nervous for the small, lost, lonely stray.The person runs away, and the dog is alone once again.Not thinking twice, I pull the old afghan off of my bed, already running out the door and down the multiple floors to the alleyway.I scoop up the shaking-like-a-leaf dog,And, fast as I can, race up the steps to the apartment.And I stroke him, lamenting how I know nothing of how to console this mutt-of-broken-demeanor.But I do know one thing;His name will be HopeBecause that’s what he gave me, in this gray, dull, lonely city.

AloneBY ELLA STAATS


They forgot me. They forgot me when he fell to the ground, twitching and clutch-ing his chest and they came with their lights flashing and took him away.

I close my eyes and huddle against the wall. My heart is thumping rhythmically in my chest. Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. My ears are ringing, blocking out every other noise. The world is acting like nothing has happened, like a little girl isn’t abandoned outside a shopping mall, but something has and she is.

One tear – one single tear – squeezes out of the corner of my eye and rolls down my cheek, glistening and catching the warm afternoon light, and lands on the very tip of my tongue for the smallest of moments before it is absorbed back into my body. That tear, though small, represents a waterfall of emotions. Afraid, uncertain, anxious, hurt, abandoned, and so much more.

I want to be at the hospital, I want to be with him, but at the same time I just want to curl up and vanish and never have to see him in a white cot in a white room hooked up to machines.

I can’t hide. I can’t face the world. I can’t breathe. What can I do? Anything? Nothing? Everything?

I have to do something. So I slowly stand up and enter the mall, to call the hospital and ask for my father.

The sicknessBY MALIN HILLEMANN


I saw the man coming from afar, his hard, leather shoes tapping as he came slowly down the hall. Nobody else seemed to see him.

I saw his white, ghostly figure loom-ing over the children as they slept. I was scared, but as I saw him come slowly towards us I froze in place, not knowing what to do.

He wore his top hat, and hobbled on a cane. I remembered that hat, the one that used to lie in the attic. It was always there, covered in cobwebs and dust. It was strange to see it on this man’s head now.

The children breathed lightly, lying on their cots, every one of them chilled by the freezing cold blowing through the door that stood ajar. I was scalding; the blisters of my hands throbbed throughout my whole body, making me tingle with the sudden jolt of heat. The man had gotten closer now, he stood only a few cots away from me, unable to see that my eyes were fixed on him.

He hit his cane across the floorboards, tapping on the souls of the sleeping chil-dren. I did not want to be next. I did not want this ghost of a man to slap his cane against the floor below me, to make my body shake and vibrate, and to be carried away in his hands. I wanted to stay here with all of the children, but most of them had already gone that night. They left to go to a happier place, without sickness, blisters, and cold. I would miss this place, but as I saw the other children’s limp bod-ies I knew it would be unfair for me to hide from this man. And so as the man ap-proached my bed, I readied myself for the worst, and “CRACK!’ I heard the sound of the cane hitting the bottom of my bed, and then, I was gone.

THIS WEEK: Elevator & Habits



JANE B. COOK CHARITABLE TRUSTS





New Hampshire. With the help of a team of readers,



to the prompts, Elevator: You’re stuck in an elevator

with a stranger. What happens? Habits. What’s the

worst habit you’re willing to admit to? Read more at




NEXT PROMPTS

Winter Tales. Tell a narrative about winter in short, descriptive poetry or prose. The best will be selected for presentation by the Vermont Stage Company at its annual Winter Tales production at FlynnSpace in Burling-ton (Dec. 5-9, 2012). Alternate: Fa-vorite place. What is the special place where you really like to be, where you feel most alive? Imagine yourself there and tell a story about it. Due Nov. 2

© Levi Beavin/Main Street Middle School

Nervous riderBY AMELIA MASON


I climb into the tight elevator after tell-ing my mom I’ll meet her in the grown-up section of the huge bookstore.

I see someone ease her way in very nervously, glancing around. I push the button for Floor #3, which seems to be the floor that the middle-aged woman is going to, as well.

“Um, pardon me, excuse me, young lady?” the woman says in an odd but polite voice.

I nod. For some reason, the elevator isn’t moving yet.

“I’ve never taken an elevator before – always used the stairs, but I’m vacationing here, and there doesn’t seem to be any,” she says crisply.

Losing her politeness, she cries, “What’s going to happen?” She is half-shrieking, half-crying, clutching the bar on the side of the elevator so tightly I think her hands might fall off.

“Er, um, the elevator just goes up, and you, um, get out, and, I guess, find the book you need,” I say awkwardly, feeling sorry for this grown lady who acts so frightened. The elevator suddenly jerks and jolts to a start. “Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!” the lady screams so loudly I have to cover my ears.

The piercing scream seems to last for-ever, me watching the woman’s hands turn-ing purple. They’re so tight in fists, waving around to the left, then the right, all around, until the elevator comes to an abrupt stop. Silence.

“Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out,” the lady murmurs to herself, catching her breath.

The elevator doors open slowly and – she walks out as if nothing had happened, except for her clutching her stomach, then her head, stomach, head.

I inhale the fresh smell of books the crisp pages, the stiff covers, and relax. I gulp down the air like I gulp down my favorite drink. I take a breath.

I step out of the elevator.

She waltzes in

BY MADDIE MEFFERT

Grade 7, Camels Hump Middle School

The large doors opened. I stood there, staring at my feet.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a petite woman wearing a polka-dot black dress waltz in. She looked ... business-y. Her black hair was pinned up in a tight bun. I slowly glanced at her. She looked almost nervous.

On our way down to the lobby, the el-evator came to a jerking halt. The woman, who was clenching the sides of the elevator started to breathe very heavily.

“I’m Maddie,” I said suddenly.“Christine,” she said as she gasped for

air.“You don’t have to worry, there’s some-

one probably waiting to get on,” I reassured her.

Christine looked at me and I saw a sign of relief in her eyes. She looked nice, a nice, well-paid business woman.

“Why is it taking so long?!” she yelled. I wasn’t too sure if she was yelling at me, or just in general.

Then suddenly, I got a feeling in my stomach, an hour had gone by, and we hadn’t moved yet.

Then suddenly, I got one of those feel-ings you get when you’re on a rollercoaster. The elevator was dropping. Stories and stories had gone by. I got so nervous.

Christine was next to me hyperventilat-ing. I could tell she was very, very scared.

Then, we stopped. I looked at Christine. She glanced back

at me. The elevator doors opened. Chris-

tine tucked her hair behind her ears, and waltzed out.

What just happened?

Stuck in the elevator BY CALLAHAN FREEMAN


It was 12:37 and Frank was freaking out. I tried to calm him down by telling him it was OK, but he wouldn’t stop crying. As a 25-year-old, I expected him to be fine. “Frank, it’s only been an hour; someone will get us out.”

“Yeah, but what if they don’t find me; what if I die what if...oh, we fall to the bottom?”

Here’s how it all started: I was walk-ing in to work, went to the elevator, then looked around and thought, “Why isn’t anyone here?

“Oh, it’s only 11:30; everyone’s still at lunch.”

I got in the elevator. There was some-one else in there.

“Hello, 26th floor please.” “Um, OK. I’m Frank,” “Nice to meet you. I’m Sara. Do you

work here?” “No, just visiting,” said Frank. This is an old building, so the elevator

is kind of old. It gets stuck sometimes but never for a long time.

Creak, zing, bong, the elevator sounded as it stopped.

“What’s going on?” Frank asked ner-vously.

“Oh, it always does this.” I pushed the emergency button, but realized that no one was in the building.

Thirty minutes later, we were still stuck.

“OMG, I should have taken the stairs,” said Frank, angry with himself.

“It’s OK; we’ll be fine,” I said. “Yes, but I don’t like small spaces and I

have to get home. I am really scared.” Back to when Frank was freaking out:

I tried to calm him down by singing “Don’t Stop Believing” four times. Then he finally stopped crying. After he was comforted, I asked him, “Do you have a phone?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” he said excitedly. When he gave me his phone, I called 911. “Hello, I’m stuck in an elevator!”

Ten minutes later we were out and safe. “Thank you for helping me stay calm

when we were in there,” Frank said thoughtfully.

“No problem,” I said. “All you need to do is not worry and think positive.”

Congratulations to Levi Beavin, an eighth

grade student at Main Street Middle School in

Montpelier, whose photo was chosen as YWP’s

Photo of the Week. Photographers and artists,

send YWP your photos and scanned artwork

for publication. Go to youngwritersproject.org,

create a blog, upload your work, choose “Photo

Submission” as the genre, click “Yes” for the

Newspaper Series, and include a high resolution

version of your work as a file attachment.

My poor pencil

BY LEAH KELLEHER

Grade 8, Albert D. Lawton Intermediate School

Chewed To the lead,The paint has rubbed away,The wood splinteredBy my teeth.Number two,Gone.I have triedTo not be so tense,But when I am a messI can’t help myself.To break a habitIs a goal,One not easy to achieve.When my heart is breaking,Or my stress is awakening,I need somethingTo take it outOn.

My reading habitBY EMMA CAMPBELL

Grade 5, Robinson Elementary, Starksboro

My worst habit is I read really, really late. Once I read until 12 a.m.

I’ve tried to keep track of the time, but one minute it’s 8 o’clock and the next it’s 11 o’clock. Another time I set an alarm but the clock ran out of batteries. Argggh! But then again, even if it had gone off, it prob-ably would have wakened my sister so I’d get in trouble...

Now I only sometimes read a book be-fore I go to bed. But I still can’t go to sleep until 10:30! So for now, I’m stumped.

CELEBRATION OF WRITING

Every year, YWP publishes an anthol-ogy of the year’s best student writing and photos. On Oct. 27, we will toast the publication of Anthology 4 with a day of celebration and writing workshops in partnership with the Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpelier.

Special guests this year include enter-tainer Rusty DeWees, author Katherine Paterson and the student writers and pho-tographers who are featured in the anthol-ogy! To register for workshops and to find out more, go to youngwritersproject.org.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

THIS WEEK: Remember

& General writing










AMY E. TARRANT FOUNDATION








to the prompts, Remember: Write about your earliest

memory; and General writing.



NEXT PROMPT

Alone. Write a piece that begins with the following line: I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear... Alternate: Listen. Pick a moment – in the hall at school, in the general store, anywhere – and listen. Choose the most interesting conver-sation you hear and base a story on it. Due Oct. 26

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Lydia Smith/Grade 9, Homeschool, Charlotte

Warm arms on a

cold nightBY ISABEL VIVANCO

Grade 5, Edmunds Elementary School

The cold pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream that is in my small chubby hands matches the chilly December air whipping around us. Just ahead is our neighbor, arms open with a warm, welcoming smile.

I try to run, but the ice cream slips out of my grasp and on to the ground. I try to pick it up but the sweat on the container is making it slip away from my untrustworthy grasp every time I try to pick it up. I leave it for my parents to get as I run with my curls bouncing in my face into the nice warm hug of our friend. Her hug is warm and comforting, soft and sweet.

We hurry inside to have ice cream and pie after a few speedy hellos. The ice cream is delicious but even more scrumptious is the homemade blueberry pie. The filling is

hot and gooey on my tongue. I try to eat it nicely like the adults but I soon have hot berry filling all over my face. The adults talk for a while; I go around and sit on ev-erybody’s lap, but soon I choose my mom’s lap to sit on. I am starting to get drowsy. My mom’s lap feels like the coziest pillow. I am starting to drift off to sleep, and before I reach my bed, I am asleep.

The choirBY MADDIE HUBER


Sometimes it feels like you can see music notes floating through the air as you press your fingers down on a creamy white key.

The sounds form a funnel cloud around you and then it’s only you, alone, hypno-tized by the notes skipping along the page.

It’s like there’s a choir formed when you play music. The way the keys hit the sound strings creates a vibe that’s like a harmony. The notes running across the pages look like the happy, cheery voices.

And then there’s me, sitting in the front row. Now there isn’t any room for me in the choir, so I take a seat on a small black bench and let my fingers do the work.

Sharp memoryBY ELLA CAUSER


I soar above my memories like an eagle searching for its prey. I’m searching for my memory. A mother is holding her young daughter on her hip. Sharp, white needles come into focus. They’re attached to a tall green plant. The mother’s hand reaches out to pet it.

The air is fresh and humid. It smells green. Soft sunlight spills from a glass ceiling. Greenery and blossoms burst from large ceramic pots that sit on damp, con-crete floors. The hand is still stroking the needles, which now look soft and gentle.

As if white splinters were replaced by fur, a smaller, chubby set of hands reaches out and grabs the plant. A wail shatters the air. A cactus porcupine is impaled in my palm. I soar up and away from the memory, touching down in the present, after my trip to the past.

When I was youngerBY MARY PAT MORGAN


When I was younger, about four or five,Every Saturday morning my friends would arrive.We’d all dress up, Do our hair different ways,And watch Disney movies for the whole day.Stories of beautiful, brave, daring girls,Who seemed to live in the most wonderful worlds.They’d talk to animals, sing their hearts out,Go into the woods and just dance about.There were stories of sisters, and slippers, and balls,A girl with gold hair in a tower so tall,One with skin white as snow with seven small friends,Or a frog who was not just a frog in the end.All of their mothers were cruelAnd their lives were a mess,But they always looked stunning in the most beautiful dress.So stunning, in fact, they’d see a prince and steal his heart.That was always our most favorite part.They’d be true loves,Find each other in the end,And I always believed that would happen to me and my friends.But now we’re grown up,Twenty-four, twenty-five;I used to believe, but my prince is yet to arrive.And happily ever after seems so far away.It seems farther and farther with each pass-ing day.I still wish like those brave, daring girls,But it’s hard to be brave in this horrible world.I wish I’d find happily ever afterFor my story to end,Or maybe my story is yet to begin.Until that day arrives, I’ll patiently wait,Just as I have since I was four or five.

Remember?

BY PAIGE HAUKE

Grade 10, Rice Memorial High School

Remember that daywhen I jumped out the windowand flew through the air?Remember how the windwhipped my hair into my face,strands of chestnut goldcreating their own light?Remember how you screamed,told me to come downbefore I broke my neck?Remember how I turned my headtoward you, laughing in reply,a bright tinkling soundthat carried across the breeze?Remember how blissfully freeI was away fromthe hurt, the pain, the hardshipsof being on the ground?You remember that day,don’t you?Me neither.But I remember my heartdreaming of it, wanting itmore than anything else.

Congratulations, Lydia Smith, for your Photo of the Week! Photographers and artists, send YWP your photos and scanned artwork for publication. Go to young-writersproject.org, create a blog, upload your work, choose “Photo Submission” as the genre, click “Yes” for the Newspaper Series, and include a high resolution version of your work as a file attachment.

The worldBY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS-MONTESANO


The world is a song,played over and over.We keep adding beats;it won’t hold much longer.And if the strings break,what beat will we walk to?If silence puts us to sleep,our dreams will be haunted.Maybe if we realize,next morning we’ll really wake up.

YWP NEWS

FRIDAY NIGHT SLAM

Join your fellow poets on Friday, Oct. 19, 7-8:30 p.m., and slam your best work at Young Writers Project headquarters, 12 North St., Burlington. Arrive by 6:45 p.m. if you want to slam. Free and for all ages.

CELEBRATION OF WRITING

Every year, YWP publishes an anthol-ogy of the year’s best student writing and photos. On Oct. 27, we will toast the publication of Anthology 4 with a day of celebration and writing workshops in partnership with the Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpelier.

THIS WEEK: Photo 1



UNITED WAY OF CHITTENDEN COUNTY

YWP WRITERS ARE ON VPR.NET

EVERY WEEK!

PHOTO PROMPT 1

© Caitria Sands/Essex High School

Heart in the sandBY ARIEL SALMON


January 9: He smiles at me in the hallway. I am surprised and excited, so I rush off.January 16: He sits next to me at lunch, of his own volition.January 25: He asks me if I want to go to the football game with him. I say yes.February 4: We are almost always together. He walks me to class and to the bus.February 9: He takes me to the Santa Moni-ca beach. I sit in the sand and draw a heart, with our initials in it. He takes my picture without my knowledge. As I turn to smile at him, a wave washes the heart away.February 10: I see him with the lead cheer-leader, talking.February 11: I see the duo laughing, as if at a private joke.February 12: I ask him about it. He says it’s a project for school. But they aren’t in any of the same classes or clubs.February 13: I see him going over to her house. He texts me later, saying that he needs some time.February 14, midnight: I break up with him in a text. I am crying. He never replies.February 14, afternoon: I go back to the beach where we went together. I say to the waves, “if only I had noticed that little warning...” I say to the sand, “thanks for nothing.”I say to myself, “What a fine Valentine’s Day this turned out to be.”

Her purposeBY C. M. EVANS

Grade 12, Colchester High School

Her shadow spoke to her often. It wrapped her with comfort, almost as if someone else was there to keep her com-pany. There was an immense depth to it, colors within the gray; feelings, thoughts, and actions.

It could travel within cracks and touch that which she couldn’t. With it, she was more aware of her surroundings. She would stop and stare at it sometimes, reassured of herself. The more light there was, the darker it became. Now it was extremely black with a sheen of green.

With her shadow she had a purpose. Without it, she was lonely. She wasn’t part of the world. But of the times she did have her shadow, she was never more sure of her solidarity and her place on the surface of the world. Her shadow was a signal, and let her know she still had a purpose in the world, because she was still alive. Without it, she wasn’t always so sure. But because the sun still shined, still touched her and left a stamp of her shape on the ground, she knew she wouldn’t be gone so soon.

When the day came that the sun meandered through her and the shadow was gone, she would have to rethink her purpose, knowing she had done what she was supposed to. But for now she had her shadow, and she still had her purpose.

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hamp-

shire in response to writing prompts. The best writing is selected for publication here and in 20 other newspapers and on VPR.net. This week, we publish work in response to the prompt: Write about this photo by Caitria Sands of Essex High School. Find more writing prompts at youngwritersproject.org and click on “Prompts.”

YWP NEWS

BRATTLEBORO LITERARY FESTIVAL

YWP presents Millennials on Stage (the Brattleboro edition) at the festival. Don’t miss the next generation of great writers on Saturday, Oct. 13 at 1:15 p.m. in the Hooker-Dunham Theater, 139 Main Street, Brattleboro.

YWP SLAM

Join your fellow poets on Friday, Oct. 19, 7-8:30 p.m., and slam your best work at Young Writers Project headquarters, 12 North St., Burlington! Arrive by 6:45 p.m. to get on the list!

ANTHOLOGY CELEBRATION

Every year, YWP publishes an anthology of the year’s best student writing and photos. On Oct. 27, we will toast the publication of Anthol-ogy 4 with a day of celebration and writing workshops in partnership with the Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpelier.

Flying. You are flying blissfully and effortlessly over the countryside. What do you see and feel? Alternates: Fan. Write a fan letter to someone. It can be a celebrity, a loved one, an 18th century poet – anyone; or Photo 3. What happened here? Or what is about to happen? Due Oct. 19

©Karlo Fresl, Essex High School, 2011

QuestionsBY CLAIRE MCDEVITT


Why? Why are you drawing a flower on the sand if the rain might come?If the tide might come in?Will you watch the flower wash away?Or will you protect the flowerso it will be on the sand forever, for everybody to see?While you draw, the wind blows. Other pieces of sand go with the wind.Will your drawing go with the wind?Will your drawing slowly disappear, sand grain by sand grain?All these questions, but no answers. Why?

NEXT PROMPTS

The sandBY ZINMIN KOUASSI


Some think it causes pain andRots even the strong hearted’s brainBut not meIt warms body, heart and mindHelps leave the fear and the pain behindOnce it washes away the disbeliefIt opens up my heartSo it can breatheI’m away from the cityThe hunger And the fliesNow I can lay downAnd close my eyes

LonelyBY ABBY LIZOTTE


I was at the beachScared, sad.He said he would come back for me.He told me he would just be a minute.He said he heard something outside.I watched him walk out the door,But he never came back.I know he is somewhere out there looking for me.I was so sad I ran away.I ran and ran until I was lost.Now all I can think about is him.I sadly draw a heart in the sand,thinking about him.I can’t get his face out of my mind.I will find himEven if it takes forever.

Finally thereBY MARTIN KLEINER


We are finally there.You may wonder where.The beach? No. The spot Where my father was buried.I dropped to my kneesAnd drew a heart over the spot.Suddenly tears Started forming.I remembered How he died.It was a bridge incident.He was running. The bridge fell apart. He never opened his eyes again.

THANKS FROM YWP

ABOUT THE PROJECT


Beach walkBY ERIN COURVILLE


Sand, windFingers on the groundWater, skiesNew things to be foundShells, stonesA breeze in the airHearts, cloudsA warmth to be sharedEarth, lifeFeelings of the heartWind, sandWe’ll never grow apart

GirlBY KAYLEIGH BUSHWELLER


Gown made of silk flapping in the windIncredible white sand getting carved into imaginative carvingsRight to left her dark brown hair swings in the wind with all the sand around herLying on the hot sand drawing all she can think of

THIS WEEK: General writing

CabbieBY AVNI NAHAR


It’s hard sometimes to understand what I’m doing here: 24 years old, two years out of college, broke. I drive a cab to pay the bills—to cobble together rent on my closet-sized apartment, to keep coffee on the shelf and Ramen in the pantry.

Yesterday somebody told me taxi driv-ing was no job for a girl like me. To hell with that, I need the money and I need to drive—there’s no way that I can sit around an office in pumps and a pencil skirt and make copies.

Not that I was supposed to end up here. Who is? Who dreams of driving people around all day? Always taking journeys but never arriving at a destination.

Yet, there are hundreds of taxi drivers in the city. Many of them are immigrants. They came here with nothing more than a wife, some kids, and a load of expectations. Don’t know what they thought they’d find here, but this sure isn’t it.

It isn’t a social job, unlike most think. People flag me down and bark directions at me and yell at me if I’m driving too fast and yell at me if I’m not driving fast enough. They make it seem like the traffic issues in the city are my fault, like I put extra cars and stop signs in the streets to

lengthen the time of their commute, and by extension, the numbers on the meter.

When they do pay, I can hear them muttering about how expensive the fare is. I can see how much they hate forking over a tip — if they have the decency to tip, that is. They slam the taxi door and walk away, back into their lives. They don’t realize that drives like theirs are my life: 10 hours a day, six days a week.

Sometimes I get hit on. Hey baby, what are you doing later, they say, as soon as they get in the cab and see that the person driving them around has breasts. It’s fun for them. They think it’s a good way to pass the time—flirt with the young taxi driver, she must be desperate. Probably got pregnant as a teenager, or something. None of them would believe I graduated near the top of my high school class. None of them would believe that this job is the only way I can pay off tens of thousands of dollars in student loans. To them I’m a failure, hope-less, no-good white trash. They pity me. Sometimes I pity me, too.

It’s hard to remember that I attended a college my guidance counselor called “highly selective.”

It’s hard to remember my classmates are now in grad school, or working on Wall Street, or in Washington D.C., or Silicon Valley—while I drive a cab.

It’s hard to remember any of it at all. But I guess that’s because the days go by more quickly when I forget.

YWP is supported by this news-paper, foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing. To help us help young writers, please go to young-writersproject.org/support, or mail a donation to YWP, 12 North St., Suite 8, Burlington, VT 05401.


Bay and Paul Foundations

THANKS FOR SUPPORT

ABOUT THE PROJECT

YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences through the Newspaper Series (and young-writersproject.org) and the Schools Project (ywpschools.net).

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred

submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire

in response to writing prompts. The best writing is selected for

publication here and in 20 other newspapers and on VPR.net. This

week, we publish work in response to the prompt, General writing. Go

to youngwritersproject.org, and click on “Prompts” to find out more.

NEXT PROMPTS

Every year, YWP publishes an anthology of the year’s best student writing and

photos. On Oct. 27, we will toast the publication of Anthology 4 with a day of

celebration and writing workshops in partnership with the Vermont College of Fine

Arts in Montpelier. Included this year are writer Alexandra Contreras-Montesano and

photographer Coyote Farrell, below. More details at youngwritersproject.org.

Do you know?BY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS-MONTESANO


Do you know what makes the wind, the sweet, sweeping sound that reassures us that there is air to breathe?I know what makes the wind blow so.‘Tis you who makes it flow.Do you know what makes the berries ripe, with juice and raw newborn color?I know what makes the berries ripe.‘Tis you, ‘tis you who makes the flavor burst.

Do you know what makes my life so

sweet, with bursts of small delight?

I know! I know!

‘Tis you, ‘tis you.

I know it is.

YWP ANTHOLOGY CELEBRATION OCT. 27

Haunted. You and your friends are exploring an old, abandoned house when things suddenly turn scary. What happens? Alternates: Candidate. Write a short, catchy political ad for yourself. Whether you’re running for President of the United States or local office, convince voters to vote for you!; or General writing in any genre. Due Oct. 12

© Coyote Farrell/Richmond Middle School, 2011

YWP IS ON VPR.NET

EVERY WEEK...

CHECK IT OUT!

Love

BY NEISHA SURPRISE


My heart feels swollen,Like it’s filled with too much blood,too much pain.My insides are aching,aching for love,For lately I have lost so much love,and have nothing to replace it with.I lost love that was in the form of green eyes and footballs,I lost love that sang like an angel with flowing chocolate waves.I can’t gain the love of the Indian boy I yearn for,and I can’t express the love for a man with eyes that are filled with oceans and a mind that is wired similar to my own.I am throbbing, pulsing,for I do not want to feel this love,this lost love,unexpressed, unwanted love,this love that is not returned.I want to crawl back inside myself,into the dark caverns of my mind,where no emotions,no love can reach me,no pain, no fear,just me and the darkness.I hate the way my heart trembles,how my eyes burn,and my fingers shake.I am being incinerated by the light,and I can’t stand it anymore.I need to hide, to crawl away.I can’t be here;I don’t want to stay.There’s no love for me here,and everyone keeps slipping away.This is why I never wanted to come out in the first place.Why feel pain when I can just feel nothing at all?

CamaraderieBY BASUNDHARA MUKHERJEE


Dissonance.Penetrating white and golden brassbehind honey-colored woodand mahogany,sugary trillsand waltzing horse hair,actorsand puppeteers.Piano with British inflections,a crescendo of laughs,high-rise windowsand red-rose fingers.Stepping into storms andwalking out hand-in-hand;we melt into a potand meld our passionsinto iron walls.Words, lives,chains of emotionsamalgamating.Love runs under beams ofglistening wood;music too.We build the ethosof this roomourselves,Build it frominsipid meals and midnight ties andsummer Mondays,from infinite Sunday-afternoon hours,from Russian churches and cobblestone Tallinn streets.We build it ourselves.Resolution.

Simply ‘being’BY EMILY COFFIN


“I want you to be everything that’s you, deep at the center of your being.”

~Confucius

Our lives are built on this fundamental concept, our own personalized, self-driven beings. As children, we were galvanized to explore and broaden our interests, living as ‘endless dreamers.’ To be young and fear-less, venturing into our true curiosity and wonderment with no conception of limita-tions, or potential, for that matter. Our na-ivete only lasts so long; we inevitably come to realize how selective the future is when it pertains to pursuing our own ambitions.

This realization is in no way discourag-ing; it stimulates our yearning to strive for what we want out of life, who we want to be. Everyone has an essence during their youth of who they envision themselves becoming, the treasured traits they will acquire, occupations, accomplishments, etc. This mind set, of ‘becoming’ some-one, detaches one’s self from the present. Why can’t we all be satisfied with who and where we are?...We weigh ourselves down with all of our “doings” and forget to just simply, be. We are human beings, miracles one and all. Take a moment to remember who you are, and I am hopeful that a smile accompanies your thoughts...Read the ending of this essay on youngwritersproject.org.

THIS WEEK: General writing

YWP is supported by this newspaper,

foundations, businesses and


and value of writing. To help us

help young writers, please go to


mail a donation to YWP, 12 North St.,

Suite 8, Burlington, VT 05401.


A.D. Henderson Foundation

THANKS FOR SUPPORT

ABOUT THE PROJECT

YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences through the Newspaper Series (and young-writersproject.org) and the Schools Project (ywpschools.net).


hundred submissions from students in Vermont

and New Hampshire in response to prompts. The best

writing is selected for publication here and in 20 other

newspapers and on VPR.net. This week, we publish

work in response to the prompt, General writing. Read

more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil online

community of young writers.

NEXT PROMPTS

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Kevin Huang, Burlington High School

Every year, YWP publishes an

anthology of the year’s best student

writing and photos. On Oct. 27, we

will toast the publication of Anthology

4 with a day of celebration and

writing workshops in partnership

with the Vermont College of Fine

Arts in Montpelier. More details at


YWP ANTHOLOGY

CELEBRATION OCT. 27

Elevator. You’re stuck in an elevator with a stranger. Create a short story, shaped primarily with dialogue, about your interaction with this person who is either annoying, funny or terrified. Alternate: Habit. What’s the worst habit you’re willing to admit to? Write about the great lengths you go to, to break this habit. Due Sept. 28

Awesome. Write a mini-story (maximum three paragraphs) without adjectives. Find the perfect noun for everything in the story. Alternates: Observer. You witness something frightening or wrong. Don’t describe the scene; focus on your own re-sponse; or Photo 2. Write about this photo. Due Oct. 5

Photo 2 © Becca LeBlanc/Essex High School 2011

The towerBY MATTHEW BLOW


The white tower stands above the cityserving absolutely no practical purpose.It’s just an old stone towerin an old darkened city.Upon further investigation,upon entering the tower,one can find old photographs,a picture of a family,a soccer ball;did someone once live here?Upon climbing to the top floor of the tower one can find toys,a doll, singed by fire,and (ironically enough) a plastic fire truck.There had to have been a child here.Why else would there be these toys?Delving deeper into the tower,one can find the basement.Dried blood on the ground,an MP3 player loaded with rock music(the kind that swears so much that you have to wonder why they even bothered putting the swears to music),a wealth of poorly done homework scat-tered around the floorand a wristwatch.Stopped at 12:30. Why then?The basement hides more secrets than that, though.An old magazine hidden underneath the floorboards,a literary magazine. Why that?Isn’t it a teenager who inhabited this room?Why would there be a literary magazinehidden underneath a wealth of essays and notes that seemed to have been passed in class?(The gossip kind; apparently Sandra had a crush on the foreign exchange student).There are more secrets to be found, of course.There are books hidden under the bed,college acceptance letters tucked behind the posters,(and denials; apparently failed essays don’t get you into Stanford)and poetry.Poetry,scrawled on sheets of paper,hidden deeper than the rest,behind the college letters,underneath the literary magazine,under the floorboards beneath the bed.Upon seeing this,one could assume that the teenager who lived here pretended to be a slackerwhile secretly dreaming of being a poet,of going to college,of getting smarter.Why didn’t anybody seem to notice?Why didn’t they seem to care about delving deeper into this teenager,finding out who he or she really was?The answer, as far as one could seefrom the mess in front of them,is that no one cared.Why would they when he or she pretended to fit perfectly into what they were sup-posed to be?Why break that perfect illusion?No one has ever attempted to break through the floorboards,or to look behind the posters.While exiting the tower,the white stones seem to vanish,being replaced by stones in every shade of grey imaginable.There is no answer to the past of this teen.At least, not one that one can be satisfied with.But there is an answer,if anyone cared to delve deeper.

Calling all artists and photographers! Send us your photos and scanned artwork for publication. Go to youngwritersproject.org, create a blog, upload your work, choose “Images” as the genre, click “Yes” for the Newspaper Se-ries, fill out the information boxes and “Save!” The best work will be published in this and 20 other newspapers in Vermont and New Hampshire!

YWP IS ON VPR.NET

EVERY WEEK...

CHECK IT OUT!

MILLENNIAL WRITERS ON STAGE

Hear Young Writers Project writers present their work at the Burlington Book Festival, Saturday, Sept. 22 at 2 p.m. at the Film House, Main Street Landing Performing Arts Center on the Burlington waterfront! If you can’t make it to the festival, tune in to VPR to hear a recording of the young writers, including Jessica Austin, below. Find out more at youngwritersproject.org.

Unimpaired

BY JESSICA AUSTIN


he sees the shades in a rainbowin multiples of threeface tipped skywardhe’s stepping closer to the bandstandwith his arms spread widehe’s jumpingswayingto submerse himself in the music he’s not alone herethough he usually is the woman playing the upright bass is glaring at himwondering how hisbabysitters could allow him to become so out of controlhow they could permit him tobellow-shoutso close to the music but he’s beamingthe thirty-year-old manglances back at his peerssome in wheelchairssome drooling on their shirts

he’s beaming at themand some are clapping for him he’s not alonenot herewhere his group has lunch on Tuesdays when it’s sunnyhe’s not alone here an older woman who has a badge on a lanyardthat says something along the lines of“I’m in charge of these people”or“I care when no one else does”stands and leaves the group of middle-aged men and womento take the hands of the dancing man and in front of godin front of the glaring woman on the upright bassand all the people spread across the green on this sunny Tuesdayshe takes the hands of the dancing man andshe sways with himface tipped skywardshe’s smiling so widelylaughingwith himbecause he’s not alone

THIS WEEK: Winning Winter Tales

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



CHAMPLAIN INVESTMENT PARTNERS









newspapers. This week, we publish local pieces that

were selected for Winter Tales to be presented by

Vermont Stage Company until Sunday at FlynnSpace.

NEXT PROMPTS

Kindness. You have performed an act of kindness. What is it? How does it make you feel? What happens? Al-ternates: Unsafe. Describe a place or circumstance where you felt unsafe; or General writing. Due Dec. 21.

Puns. Have fun with a play on words (i.e. cereal number, sell phone, etc.). Try to fit in as many puns as you can. Alternates: Essential. What’s one thing you absolutely could not live without? Why? or I believe...Start a piece with the words, I believe. Due Jan. 11.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Eve Pomazi/Brattleboro Area Middle School

VERMONT STAGE COMPANY

PRESENTS

WINTER TALES

Until Sunday, Dec. 9

FlynnSpace, Burlington

www.vtstage.org

This year’s holiday show includes

14 YWP writers, including the

local students on this page!

Bonfires

(Inspired by William Carlos Williams)

BY EMMA LACROSS

Grade 5, Thomas Fleming School So much depends uponthe tower-likeflamesthat dance at nightas my family gathersand snowflakesfalldrifting in thebreezeto keep us warm.

Vermont Stage Company performed this piece for Winter Tales on Friday, Dec. 7.

Gingerbread (Inspired by Valerie Worth)

BY PHOEBE GAMMAL


Ona red plateasugary, vibrant gingerbreadhouse sits,adornedwithall sorts of candy, fromAirheads to Zagnut barsbalancingonclumps of icing,whena green gumdropfallsfrom the roof,Icatch itandput it backintothe perfect spot,when,all of a sudden,likea blizzard of sugarsweeping through,thehouse topples overandall of my work,is …gone.

Vermont Stage Company will perform this piece for Winter Tales on Saturday, Dec. 8 (matinee) at FlynnSpace, Burlington.

Winter only comes once a yearBY JEREMY BROTZ


I’m wet.I’m cold. My nose is running.My gloves are covered in ice.Night is falling.My mom is calling.My friends are leaving. I’m probably getting hypothermia.But it’s winter! Ha ha!I jump on my sled for one last run down the slope.

Vermont Stage Company will perform this piece for Winter Tales on Saturday, Dec. 8 (matinee) at FlynnSpace, Burlington.

Sweet comfort BY EMMA CHAFFEE


I lean my head back on the cold, hard plastic, engulfed in the twinkling of the night. The cold fills my mind and relaxes every bone in my body.

I’m alone out here; the others aren’t be-witched with winter’s ever calling comfort.

They’re into all the horrifying cliches of winter: Santa, hot cocoa, rosy cheeks, cards with meaningless words, forced thank-you’s, and the ever-present annoyance of the snow.

That’s not winter for me. Winter is my once-a-year sweet comfort.

I breathe in the sound of the night and the thrilling chill of the wind.

Vermont Stage Company will perform this piece for Winter Tales on Sunday, Dec. 9 (evening) at FlynnSpace, Burlington.

Ski lift BY RACHEL CHAN


Riding up the ski lift,My little brother is perchedon the edge, between my dad and meAnd he is looking at the skiersgliding down the mountainon the glittering snow,when suddenlyCRASH!The lift stops,but my little brotherfalls forward.My dad’s eyes growas round as playground ballsas he reachesfor my brotherwho hangsin the air, laughing,with just the safety barunder his arms....Dad sets him back on the seat,And asks if he is okay.And my brother says, “Yes! It was fun!”But I don’t thinkmy dad thought so.

Vermont Stage Company will perform this piece for Winter Tales on Sunday, Dec. 9 (matinee) at FlynnSpace, Burlington.

First snow BY RILEY THOMPSON


As the snow falls downcovering the ground witha bright white quiltthe back door opensand two kids come outshoving pasteach otherto getoutside firstwith joyful grinsand gleams in their eyesin their winter coats, snow pantsand their colorful hats and gloveswith their sleds banging against their kneesas they hike the hillsnow flies everywhere“Wheeeeeeee!”

Vermont Stage Company performed this piece for Winter Tales on Thursday, Dec. 6.

Burlington Free Press index 2012-13

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Transcript of Burlington Free Press index 2012-13