Professional Documents
Culture Documents
BY ELLA STAATS
Grade 10, Burlington High School
I woke up to a quiet house, no missed
calls and no one around. It was odd, actually; usually my parents were downstairs
making breakfast or listening to the radio.
Today, though, I supposed they must have
gone to work early. Usually they would
have left a note, but today they must have
forgotten. Oh well. No big deal. Id make
myself something to eat.
The kitchen was oddly bare of provisions. There was only one cereal box in the
cabinet; it was stale and half empty. Hadnt
my mom brought it from the grocery store
just yesterday?
When I tried to turn on the stove to
make eggs, it wouldnt light. In fact, when I
flicked the light switch in the kitchen, nothing happened. Had the bulb burned out during the night? Why hadnt my parents fixed
it when they got up? Well, I could change
it. Except ... there were no lightbulbs under
the sink. There was nothing under the
sink, not the usual cleaning supplies and
sponges, just dust.
Okay. This was weird. I stood up and
turned on the faucet to wash the dust off
my hands. Nothing happened. I twisted the
knobs further. Still no water. What the ...?
All right, this was enough. I unlocked
my cell phone and tried to dial my dad, but
the call was canceled by a robotic voice
telling me my plan had run out. It was only
the third of the month; I had just paid my
bill last week!
Scared now, I ran out of the house in
my pajamas, my slippers slapping on the
sidewalk. I found a pay phone, shoved
some change in the slot, and punched in the
numbers for my dads cell phone.
Ring, ring, ring...Cmon, Dad, pick up!
Hello?
Dad! Its me, Jessie.
Jessie! Youre awake!
Yeah, look, somethings wrong at
the house. The lights and the stove arent
working, and someone stole everything
from under the sink, and my cell phone
plan somehow got canceled!
He chuckled. Look, son, youve been
asleep for a while.
Yeah, I woke up a little late, I know,
but seriously...
Oh, no. Youve been sleeping for two
months.
I sputtered. Two months?! Thats not
even possible!
Believe me, thats what your mother
and I thought. But you went to sleep on
June 1st, and then you just didnt wake up.
We knew you were tired from finals, so
we didnt wake you. We actually moved
while you were gone. The buyers are pretty
impatient to move in; Im glad you finally
woke up.
What ... how ... I stuttered. I missed
two whole months of my life?! Why didnt
you wake me up?
Youre a teenager. You need your
sleep. He was being way too calm about
this.
Not two months of it!
Son, calm down. Get a fresh set of
clothes, pack up your things and catch
a cab to 32 Maple Drive. Its the yellow
house with the roses in the front yard.
Oh my god, I muttered.
See you soon.
I slammed the phone down and
squeezed my eyes shut. I rubbed my
temples, shook my head, and then turned
and walked back to the house.
Young Writers Project receives hundreds of submissions from students across the state, and each week
including this summer the best work is published in
this newspaper, in The Voice, our digital magazine, on
vpr.net, vtdigger.org and cowbird.com. This week, we
present responses to the prompt for General writing.
Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
CHAMPLAIN INVESTMENT
PARTNERS
TOWN FOREST
WRITING CHALLENGE
TAKE A WALK IN THE WOODS OF
VERMONT AND WRITE FOR PRIZES!
Vermont has more than 300 town forests and this year marks the centennial of
the legislation that started them all.
The Vermont Town Forest Centennial
Celebration, in partnership with Young
Writers Project, invites young writers to
explore these forests and write!
PRIZES: 1st: $100; 2nd: $75; 3rd: $50.
All winners will also receive a 2016 season
pass to Vermont State Parks and will have
their work published.
HOW TO SUBMIT: Submissions may be
in any format: poetry, prose, essay, letter,
and should be no more than 750 words.
For more information, go to youngwritersproject.org/forest15.
TEEN PHOTOGRAPHERS
Send us your best photos for
publication in this newspaper and The
Voice!
Email them to Susan at YWP:
sreid@youngwritersproject.org.
Isabella DeFeo, Colchester Middle School
Love reminds me
of the sky
BY AVERY MCLEAN
Grade 10, Lake Champlain Waldorf School
When thunder fills up the sky each night,
I think of you when the lightning strikes.
The brightness reminds me of your eyes.
When the sweet scent of rain fills the air,
I feel my fingers in your hair.
They become fists at the memory.
When the clouds crack open and swallow
me whole
like the thunder, you echo through my soul.
Love reminds me of the sky.
The outcast
BY HANNAH FREEDNER
Grade 10, Homeschool, Vergennes
He trained his eyes to catch each copper
glint in
the gutter, wedged
between the cobble stones, the things
forgotten and
left behind. He watched red
balloons, dropped from childrens sloppy
hands, plummet
to the clouds in which they cursed for each
wretched raindrop. They made wishes on
shooting stars
and birthday candles, on moments when
photographs
were snapped and smiles were taut, while
he made wishes on copper pennies, red
balloons, and
every wild raindrop.
THE VOICE
GET YOUR FREE SUBSCRIPTION AT
youngwritersproject.org
Homo sapiens: a
beginners guide
BY ELLA STAATS
Grade 10, Burlington High School
Congratulations. You were born into
this world as a human being. You may
share 98 percent of your DNA with a chimpanzee, but its that other 2 percent that led
you here, to this manual. So without further
ado, here are a few simple steps for beginning your life as part of the Homo sapiens
species.
1. Be like everyone else. Resist the urge to
develop your own identity or let your real
personality shine through. No one wants
to see that. If everyone acts the same and
speaks the same and wears the same thing,
well function better as a society. Everyone will agree! Because everyone will be
exactly the same! Another way to word this
first step might be: squelch all originality.
2. Absorb yourself in technology. The fun
happens online. Thats where you hear
about whos-dating-who and who-worewhat and which celebrity threw shade at
their famous counterpart. Also the Kardashians. Always the Kardashians.
AMY E. TARRANT
FOUNDATION
TOWN FOREST
WRITING CHALLENGE
TAKE A WALK IN THE WOODS OF
VERMONT AND WRITE ABOUT IT!
Vermont has more than 300 town forests and this year marks the centennial of
the legislation that started them all.
The Vermont Town Forest Centennial
Celebration, in partnership with Young
Writers Project, invites young writers to
explore these forests and write!
PRIZES: 1st: $100; 2nd: $75; 3rd: $50.
All winners will also receive a 2016 season
pass to Vermont State Parks and will have
their work published.
HOW TO SUBMIT: Submissions may be
in any format: poetry, prose, essay, letter,
and should be no more than 750 words.
For more information, go to youngwritersproject.org/forest15.
youngwritersproject.org
Harry Potter
BY SOPHIE DAUERMAN
Grade 7, Shelburne Community School
I first laid eyes on this beauty during
third grade as I began the best series in the
world. I was sucked in. In my mind, I was
living at Hogwarts.
My first crush was Harry Potter. Well, I
am not sure if it was exactly the character,
but all the characters, and the world so
beautifully painted.
While reading, it was as if someone
had put a full body bind curse on me that
only allowed me to turn a page.
My mind was glued to the story with a
permanent sticking charm.
If you dont love Harry Potter, I think
theres something Siriusly Ron with you.
The characters are so real; the adventures leave you awestruck.
There was no place Id rather be than
at Hogwarts.
Unfortunately, I didnt get a Hogwarts
letter on my birthday. I was just a tiny bit
disappointed It wouldve been nice if
Hagrid couldve come and knocked down
my door exclaiming, Youre a witch,
Sophie.
But I compensated by reading the
series again for the gazillionth time, once
again hanging on to Hermiones every
word.
The old books have now been devoured uncountable times by my older
sister and me, who is also in love with this
beauty.
The books are a piece of history with
signs of wear marking their pages.
Page 227 of the sixth book has evidence of one of my many nosebleeds; page
104 of the second has a stain from when I
popped an unfortunate earthworm-flavored
Every Flavour Bean into my mouth; and
the fourth, well, lets just say the book
needed some Spello-tape to resurrect it.
But despite the fact that my sister and I
can recite scenes by memory (Ive never
liked these curtains. I set them on fire in
my fourth year...), I can still find something new every time I dive into these rich
adventures.
Even today, I find myself lost in the
vivid world hidden behind the old, damp
pages.
My first love will never be forgotten, and, like Snapes love for Lily, it will
never, ever fade.
Young Writers Project receives hundreds of submissions from students across the state, and each week
including this summer the best work is published in
this newspaper, in The Voice, our digital magazine, on
vpr.net, vtdigger.org and cowbird.com. This week, we
present responses to our Summer of Stories prompt,
First crush: Write about it. Real or fictional.
VERMONT BUSINESS
ROUNDTABLE
TOWN FOREST
WRITING CHALLENGE
TAKE A WALK IN THE WOODS OF
VERMONT AND WRITE ABOUT IT!
Vermont has more than 300 town forests and this year marks the centennial of
the legislation that started them all.
The Vermont Town Forest Centennial
Celebration, in partnership with Young
Writers Project, invites young writers to
explore these forests and write!
PRIZES: 1st: $100; 2nd: $75; 3rd: $50.
All winners will also receive a 2016 season
pass to Vermont State Parks and will have
their work published.
HOW TO SUBMIT: Submissions may be
in any format: poetry, prose, essay, letter,
and should be no more than 750 words.
For more information, go to youngwritersproject.org/forest15.
First sweetheart
BY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS-MONTESANO
Grade 9, Burlington High School
Oh, how I loved the way his hair sparkled
in the low light during nap time.
And the way he played with me; it was really sublime.
Sometimes he would whisper for me to
meet him behind the play-structure,
and he would tell me tales about dragons
and Pokemon.
His dirt brown eyes reminded me of the
worms we would collect,
and the soil castles that we wrecked.
He was a little bit smaller than me,
but size doesnt matter; on that we agree.
I had many play dates with him that ended
with us screaming.
But my mom told me that it was a trait that
was not very redeeming.
I think I love him, really I do.
So I got down on one knee and proposed
that we get murryd, just us two.
Dad
BY LYDIA MOREMAN
Grade 12, Champlain Valley Union High
School
Dad:
a parent, a counselor, a role model
who does all and gives all,
underappreciated, taken for granted
but a vital part to keep us functioning,
the ever stable presence of safety
who never raises his voice,
bestowing advice upon those who will
listen,
patient and generous to a fault
with a constant smile on his face
and a story or joke to tell,
who supports me in my endeavors
and taught me to forgive
a blessing from God,
the perfect imperfect father
who completes our family,
who I couldnt live without.
The wind
BY OLIVER HALBERG
Grade 7, Endeavour Middle School
A patch of dust
undisturbed in the moonlight
lying on the ground
somewhere
sometime,
anywhere you think.
The wind comes softly at first,
gathering strength, shaking the trees
slowly;
their branches sway and shake.
Leaves would fall and be carried off if it
wasnt winter.
The branches are bare, rattling like percussion instruments,
backing the soft rustle of the swirling wind.
It reaches the patch of dust,
particles lift off like a rocket from a launchpad.
They are exuberant in their newly found
freedom,
dipping and swirling like snowflakes in a
blizzard.
A shape seems to form inside the column of
swirling dust.
Then something seems to shift, and it
vanishes.
The wind changes direction.
It moves on.
The branches stop moving.
The dust floats to the ground, as undisturbed as before,
a moment in time, lost and forgotten
until the wind comes again.
And when it does, the dust will fly again.
The natural music will resume.
Time will repeat again.
SUMMER OF STORIES!
Writers! Looking for a fun, creative
project this summer? Join YWP online
for eight weeks of daily writing challenges! Write today!
Go to youngwritersproject.org.
Its funny
BY KATIE MATTHEWS
Grade 12, Colchester High School
Its funny how memories work.
Its funny how memories become lost
under the surface until the slightest hint of
recognition brings it all back ... like a song,
or a smell or a taste.
The memories that happen in the now, the
ones that dont seem to matter, those are
the ones that haunt you. The moments that
almost pass by, those are the ones remembered.
Its funny...
Its funny how the universe works.
Its funny how much power we give up
to circumstance and fate... Our lives are
controlled by so many things, its insane to
still call it our lives.
If its meant to be. Nothing is ever truly
meant to be; things dont just happen.
There is no such thing as fate and circumstance. Life is how we make it ... yet when
we do make it, we are so afraid of being at
fault for the mess, we blame it all on the
stars.
Its funny...
Its funny how people work.
Its funny how easily peoples wants
change. Its funny how easily people can
leave.
Its funny how flimsy and fair-weathered a
person can be ... its funny how easily they
change.
But they arent really changing. Its funny
how when a person decides they dont care
anymore, their true colors show.
But its not funny ... not really.
Its not funny how memories work. Its
not funny how our thoughts work. Its not
funny how people work.
Its not funny how a happy memory can
turn into a nightmare that wont stop haunting.
Its not funny how the universe works.
Its not funny that humans are so afraid of
causing something and making decisions
that they leave it up to fate.
Its not funny how people work. Its not
funny how unreliable the human race has
become. Its not.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
JANES TRUST
(Dis)likes
BY OLIVIA PINTAIR
Grade 9, Emma Willard School
Hometown: Williston
THINGS I LIKE:
1) Ive fallen in love with the way rain
sounds on a tin roof as if it were angry.
It hurtles from the air, single and separate,
but never reaches solid ground as a whole.
It splits and breaks and shines in the sunlight.
Rain is like you, sometimes.
2) I like the mints on the floor of your car,
spilled and scattered without a box,
leaving dust and clouds of white to settle
on the leather,
bringing me comfort to know that youre
still imperfect.
3) Words have always found me, forced me
to love them.
Theyve shown me to cast shadows, silhouettes; bring life, let it go.
Theyve taught me to drown the truth and
then teach it to breathe under water,
taught me to make things bright.
THINGS I DONT LIKE:
1) I dont like how I cannot feel the ways in
which you are hurting,
in ways that I will never have to hurt.
And I wish I knew how to give you my
bliss.
Im sorry I know joy while you seem unable.
Im sorry you werent given the precious
life I was.
2) I dont like that I apologize for happiness.
3) It was long before I learned to love my
being,
before I held her like she was cherished.
I dont like that Im still learning,
but sometimes hate
is a predator of hope.
YWP NEWS
Secrets
BY ABIGAIL HARKNESS
Grade 7, Shelburne Community School
I love freshly picked berries
but I hate pits of cherries.
I love waking up early before the birds
and the perfect combination of words.
I dont like chapped lips
or long car trips,
but I like secrets and laughs I can have with
my friends,
and snow days that never end.
I like the smell of different lotions,
but not when people chew with their
mouths open.
I dont like overly sweet things
or loud noises like dings,
but I like splatters of paint on a canvas
and a good book with lots of chances.
I dont like nails on a chalkboard
or conversations that are awkward.
I dont like a messy or unorganized room
or rude comments when people assume.
I love delicious home-cooked meals,
and my family, I love head over heels.
THE VOICE
Go to youngwritersproject.org
to get your FREE subscription!
In the mirror
BY EMILY FOSTER
Grade 7, Endeavour Middle School
I didnt know what was happening at
the time. I had simply been sitting at our
long farm table, absentmindedly eating my
Cocoa Puffs (made even more flavorful
by the milk), distantly pushing the puffs
around in my bowl with my spoon.
I finished breakfast and went to the
bathroom, putting my hair up in a messy
ponytail.
I looked in the mirror. It looked strange.
I looked strange.
Suddenly my reflection smiled at me. I
backed up. It wasnt a good smile, not one
that made you smile too. It was a smile of
smugness, of superiority, of knowing something others didnt.
I gasped in shock as my reflection
stepped out. She was me. I was her, from
the hazel eyes to the frayed jeans, except
that her eyes were strange and catlike with
slits for pupils. And her/my mouth was still
in that same sneer.
Suddenly she grabbed a fistful of my
hair. I shrieked as she pulled harder.
She shoved me back into the tub and
began to fill it up. Oh, my gosh, shes going to kill me; she wants to drown me, I
thought, panicking.
She shoved my face into the water. I
struggled against her, grabbing her arm and
pulling her in. She screamed my scream
and I backed away.
I looked for something to fight her
with. There was nothing, except the mirror.
I started towards it, but she blocked me,
hissing, as if she was guarding it. Why
wasnt she using the mirror as a weapon? I
wondered.
A thought struck me. If she was from
the mirror ... maybe breaking it would kill
her.
In a burst of strength, I shoved her
against the mirror, breaking it. It fell off the
wall, shards raining down onto the black
and white tiled floor.
She screamed. Her eyes went black. I
stepped away, shocked. Her body began to
smoke and she soon was gone. Then there
was black.
I woke up, a throbbing pain in my skull.
I sat up, clutching my forehead, and then
stood up. It must have been a dream, I
thought.
Then I noticed something: a broken
mirror, shards on the floor.
And my reflection just wasnt there.
The storm
BY NATALEIGH NOBLE
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
I didnt know what was happening at the
time.
I didnt know something so small and insignificant would make such a big impact.
I didnt think about the big picture at the
time.
I didnt think about important details,
only trifle matters.
I didnt realize the chain reaction at the
time.
I didnt realize what the future would hold
until it was too late.
I didnt know. I didnt think. I didnt realize. I couldnt have foreseen the storm that
was to come.
Still ... I should have.
YWP NEWS
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
COMING JUNE 1!
WATCH FOR THE JUNE ISSUE
OF YWPS DIGITAL MAGAZINE
THE VOICE
Go to youngwritersproject.org
to get your FREE subscription!
Love is dead
BY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS-MONTESANO
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
I didnt know what was happening at the
time.
But when he came back, I knew his crime.
His weeds are growing inside my head.
And my thoughts are being misled.
I take back the things I said.
Then he smiles and he says
he wont leave me ever again.
But I know when the night is spread,
hell be gone before the sun has bled.
So I dance with him until hes fled.
And his wake whispers the words,
Love is dead.
Noahs museum
BY ISIDORA BAILLY-HALL
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
I didnt know what was happening at
the time.
At first, the easy shaking of dust from
wing tips and paws was drowned out by the
low murmur of the other patrons, quietly,
respectfully going about their business with
the soft pitter-patter of their footsteps on
the hardwood floors.
It was barely a whisper, but we, the
humans, were enough to mask the entire
awakening of Noahs Ark, using only our
footsteps and the whispers of our respiration.
Cheep! Tweet! Rrrrr! Suddenly, the
quiet equilibrium was broken, as the old
and woefully threadbare stuffings began to
awake.
The slightest flutter of a wing tip here,
a miniscule shake of the head there, as the
animals began to rediscover their bodies,
and test these new waters of motion after
I didnt know
BY LUKE ARENAS
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
I didnt know what was happening at the
time
why she was acting that way,
why he was acting that way,
why there were even fighting to begin with.
I just wanted it to stop.
But it wouldnt,
and I wondered if it ever would.
They said everything was fine,
that everything was OK.
But they just wouldnt stop.
Then he moved out
and she cried.
I cried.
It felt horrible.
But like most problems, we got over it.
And she met someone new.
I just hope they dont fight.
The mission
BY ELLA STAATS
Grade 9, Burlington High School
I glance at the thermometer on my
armband: 112 degrees. The heat on Casima
is nearly unbearable on human skin and
this is just winter.
Its too dangerous to set foot upon the
planet during the summer months. The first
aircraft to arrive here made that mistake,
and they died of sunstroke almost immediately. But that was over 100 years ago; we
know better now.
I trudge along the road, sweating under
the straps of my backpack. The Shelter
isnt too far, my armband tells me. I should
be there within the hour.
Still, Im not sure I can last that long.
I only have one canteen of water left, and
its going fast, trying to keep up with the
perspiration seeping out of my skin.
I squint down the road. The jagged red
peaks of the Selika Cliffs are visible in the
distance, contrasting the lavender sky.
Closer, though, I spot what appears
to be a rickety roadside stand, composed
of splintering boards and an old piece of
canvas that functions as a roof.
Maybe theyre selling something.
Maybe its water. I grit my teeth and force
myself to quicken my pace.
As I draw closer, I make out a wiry
figure leaning over the front of the stand. A
Casimian; a female, by the looks of it.
Upon first glance, Casimians appear
identical to humans. Then you notice the
little things that set them apart, like the
way their eyes are void of pupils, and how
they have small flaps of skin on the sides
of their necks which serve as gills that let
them live in water, as those in the colonies
beneath the Visian Sea choose to do.
Hello, I greet her in Casimian. Ive
been practicing my language skills, but I
know my accent is still thick, and I often
lose the words at the tip of my tongue.
Hey. She nods. She doesnt look
much older than me, but I know she has
probably been alive at least five times longer than I have.
I glance at the hand-painted sign tacked
to the stand. Youre selling Stardust?
She reaches under the counter and pulls
out a small wooden box, which she holds
up for inspection. Fourteen quorans a box.
Sixty for five.
I wish I had just opened by asking
if she had water. Now I feel obliged to
inquire further about her goods. Um, what
does it do?
The usual stuff. Healing, beauty, resurrections.
My stomach drops.
Did you say resurrections? As in
bringing people back from the dead?
She shrugs. The gills on her neck flutter
slightly.
Yeah. Takes about 10 boxes for one
Casimian, but Id say for a human youd
only need one or two. If thats what you
have in mind.
All thoughts of water have drained out
of my head. My hand moves swiftly to my
pocket, fingering my currency pouch.
I have 40 quorans left. Two boxes of
Stardust. One empty hole in my heart filled
again. Isnt this why I decided to travel to
Casima in the first place?
Two summers ago. Black rain. The
last Invasion. The last time I would ever
see her. Two boxes of Stardust and I could
change it all. But what was it that Noah
told me? What was it he said, as I knelt at
her grave and wept, when I asked him what
(continued next column>)
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Stardust vendor
BY ZANI LEWIS
Grade 6, Homeschool, Burlington
Wow! I exclaimed. There are a lot of
vendors here.
Yes, replied my tour guide, who happened to be a flying unicorn.
We were passing by a cart when I heard
something: Stardust, stardust! Get your
Meeting HugWuffle
BY CHARLOTTE DAKIN
Grade 5, Cambridge Elementary School
Three, two, one ... blast off! I hear my
boss yell.
I clench my seatbelt tightly and lean
back into my seat. I scream a little too. Just
before I burst into orbit I press a bunch of
buttons and then I flick on auto pilot. The
rocket transitions from a bumpy ride to a
smooth and calm journey. I glance out my
window and see a variety of colors purple, blue, black, white and a little pink, all
blended together. They look like the northern lights but prettier. I sit there in awe and
stare into space, literally. Suddenly, I hear
a voice.
Wh-what? I question, whipping my
head in all directions.
Are you there yet? my boss asks.
No, not yet. Almost, though, I answer
quickly.
Okay, she replies.
I give my head a little shake and direct
the rocket toward Saturn and I see a silhouette of a person, or should I say creature?
Immediately, questions race in my mind. Is
it a real live alien? Will it hurt me, if it is?
Is it ET?
I giggle at my silly questions and head
over to Saturn. I land and glance at the
alien. It has a strange appearance. It has
purple eyes that you cant stop staring at,
green antennas, a white bunny tail, penguin
feet, monkey hands, a pig nose, elf ears,
and is about 2 to 3 feet high. I stare at it in
confusion.
Excuse me, maam, the alien says
politely.
Yes? I stutter.
Do you want some stardust? it questions.
I dont know. What is your name? I
ask.
HugWuffle.
I laugh and stare at the stardust.
Is it edible? I say.
Yes! it says in excitement.
I stare at the brightly colored dust.
Free sample? asks HugWuffle.
Sure, I say with a smile.
I inch over to the stand and try some
of the dust. It immediately makes everything rainbow colors and smiley faces are
everywhere.
Woah, I say, stumbling over stuff
thats not really there.
HugWuffle laughs hysterically. Pink
tears fall from its eyes.
I work for NASA. I need a picture
with you, I demand.
How about I come home with you? It
always has been a dream of mine to go to
Earth, HugWuffle says.
That would be amazing! I exclaim.
HugWuffle and I gather its stuff and
board the ship. We exit space and land on
Earth.
Amanda, George, I would like you
to meet my friend HugWuffle, I tell my
children.
They stand there confused until HugWuffle comes out ...
Read this story at youngwritersproject.org/
node/110017.
&
THE VOICE
Person training
BY ELLA FISHMAN
Grade 7, Endeavour Middle School
Well, hello there! You are a new person.
Welcome to person training. Its almost the
centennial anniversary of people training,
and by the time we celebrate, you will be a
cultured, well-trained human. But you need
training for that ... so here we go!
First, youre going to have to learn how
to use your arms and legs. This is easier
than it looks, kind of like riding a bike (you
will learn about that later.) Once you learn,
you never forget. No triathlons, nothing
like that. Just a few steps.
After youve mastered that, youre going to learn how to speak. You dont have
to be bilingual (thatll come later, too.) Just
get the basics down. Nothing hard; its not
going to take you a century to do this. All
you need is patience. Dont give up.
Now that you know how to walk and
talk, you are going to start meeting people.
You will make friends. Its important to
remember that everyone is unique in their
own way; not everyone is exactly like you.
Once you know people, you can start
making phone calls. You can call one person or you can do a three-way call (and you
should note that a group of three is called
a triad; you can add that to your list of new
words.)
When youre on a phone call, you could
make plans with a person at, say, a restaurant in town. You need to get there. So next
youre going to learn how to drive.
Driving is also like riding a bike. Once
you learn, you will always know. But, it
takes time, patience, and cautiousness to
really learn how to do it correctly. Its a
binocular skill, and though you are bipedal,
you need only one foot for both the gas and
the brake pedals.
If you go the wrong way, make a Uturn. A U-turn is basically a semicircle. Just
make sure to do it in a safe place, and dont
hit anything.
When you get to your lunch with a
friend, you engage in conversation. On
some topics, you will unify; and on others,
you will disagree. This is OK. Like we said
before, everyone is unique and is not going
to be just like you.
Well, those are the basics to being a
human. There are other things, but thats all
we have time for today.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
BY EMMA DOWNEY
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Being a human is hard. Im just going
to put that out there.
People expect everyone to be perfect
when thats physically impossible; nobody
is perfect.
Living as a human being is grueling,
complicated and inequitable, but also
enjoyable and amazing. Its full of surprises
and adventure.
Enjoy the little things and make the
most of it. Life doesnt just come around
easily. You need to work for things as a
human.
Life as a human being is a privilege and
you should try to enjoy it because life is
short.
THE VOICE
Go to youngwritersproject.org
to get your FREE subscription!
Still learning
BY ZANI LEWIS
Grade 6, Homeschool, Burlington
Being human
Nobody is perfect
YWP NEWS
BY EMILY FOSTER
Grade 7, Endeavour Middle School
Step 1: Act casual. This is very important.
Humans try to find themselves superior to
everything, so practice eye rolling in the
mirror.
Step 2: Read tabloids and believe them, but
pretend that you dont believe them and
that you dont read them.
Step 3: Act like talking to yourself is crazy,
but do it anyway.
Step 5: Every once in awhile, wear mismatched socks. When questioned, throw
hands in air, saying, Everyone does it!
BY ZOE CUDNEY
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
JANES TRUST
DONT MISS
YWPS FINAL POETRY SLAM
OF THE YEAR!
YWP HEADQUARTERS
47 MAPLE ST.
BURLINGTON
THURSDAY, MAY 14 AT 6 P.M.
FREE PIZZA | FREE POETRY
My hands shake,
uncertain,
afraid of the unknown.
Eerie blue light reects upon my face,
ominous,
emitting a warm pulse.
The ball trembles slightly,
deciding
my fate.
The white clouds begin the move,
telling
my future.
Images begin to form,
cloudy,
shifting as dark shapes begin to emerge.
The warmness disappears.
Cold settles over me.
My stomach is unsettled,
nervous,
afraid of what the ball will tell me.
My clammy hands begin the slide,
slipping.
CRASH!
Its gone, and my future goes ...
unknown
forever.
YWP EVENTS
DONT MISS
THE FINAL SLAM OF THE YEAR!
YWP HEADQUARTERS
47 MAPLE ST.
BURLINGTON
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Nighttime place
Rustle of pages
BY MADELINE EVANS
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
BY LAUREN HALBERG
Grade 5, Renaissance School
Comforted,
enveloped in warmth,
and snuggled tight.
A place where I can spend each night.
A place to draw,
to read,
to write.
A place to relax
when I dont feel alright.
A place to laugh,
to smile,
to sing.
A place to enjoy the simplest things.
A place to see plastic glowing stars.
A place to imagine people
and places,
near and far.
A place to hold dreams,
warm and dear.
A place to have fun
with family and friends.
A place to hold pillows,
stufes,
and then,
wait until light breaks the horizon again.
&
THE VOICE
Baseball or art
BY KAYLEY HAYS
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Tunnel vision
BY ERIN BUNDOCK
Grade 11, Champlain Valley Union
I found a tunnel with golden moonbeams and unplanned decisions, and from
the bricked ceilings there hung captured
memories reecting against the glass of the
shattered Coke bottle chandeliers.
As I walked, my dreams that painted
the walls began to peel and curl away from
my palms and the rough insides of the tunnel. Glowing Mason jars illuminated the
tattoos scrawling over my skin before fading, like ink dancers in water. Though they
disappeared, I felt them still; they were
waiting for someone elses light to discover
them again.
In the distance, a shufe of feet echoed
into my heart, dragging me forward
through the darkening hall. The smell of
cinnamon and ocean fell into my mind
as the tunnel narrowed, the coarse walls
scraping my ngertips as I ran them across
the seams of the bricks. And I stumbled
over my thoughts and the stinging of my
tattoos, tripping over shards of broken
bottles, pushing the walls away, only to
nd the oor.
And then I found a hand, a smile, and
small creases next to young eyes. I found
the strange familiar shufe; comfort in a
foreign giggle I had always heard, even if it
had only been dream-painted on the walls.
I found a gait in a skip of heart beats I had
never felt. I found a light to my tattoos; the
smell of sunscreen dancing in the heat of
that sun.
Its in those irises that you ask yourself,
They mean the world to you, dont they?
A whole planet could fall away, but
theyre all youd see.
It was before those irises that Id never
believed blind spots so large could be
caused by two small hearts.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Trap door
BY LOY PRUSSACK
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Its a warm, foggy day and Im walking in the crowded New York City streets
listening to the bustle of people as they
walk by.
I stumble forward, bumping into the
man in front of me. He turns toward me, a
stern look on his face.
I mumble an apology and he spins
around and quickly walks away.
I look back to see what caused my
clumsy stumble, and notice that the cracks
in the sidewalk form a sort of square.
I lean down and gently slide my hand
over the cracks. I notice that the area inside
the square seems to be ever-so-slightly
higher than the rest of the sidewalk.
Digging my nails into parallel cracks, I
yank the concrete upwards. I fall back onto
my butt and see that the sidewalk hasnt
budged.
Im about to give up when I notice an
inconspicuous crack that looks wider than
the rest. I put my ngers into the sidewalk
crack and pull. The square in the sidewalk
slowly rises before me, opening like a trap
door.
I cant help it; I lower myself through
the doorway. My feet quickly nd the
ground, and I drop down, leaving the busy
streets behind. I look up to see the door
closing above me, slowly lowering itself at
rst, then slamming shut. ...
Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.
org/node/110438.
Only in books
BY SUMMER GRACE
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Falling. Falling. Falling. I hit the
ground hard. I see nothing. For a moment I think Ive gone blind. I havent. I
see a light in the distance. I must have hit
my head hard; I hear a loud, high-pitched
ringing. I crawl down the jagged path.
The ringing gets louder and louder until I
realize that the noise is not in my head, but
coming from the source of light that seems
Bizarre triathlon
BY OLIVER HALBERG
Grade 7, Endeavour Middle School
Once upon a time, there was a computer
programmer named Fred.
Fred had a collection of live centipedes
and another collection that consisted of
plastic unicorn statues. He was bilingual
and worked for a programming company
called PurpleGreen Programming.
One day, he entered a triathlon. In order
to get in, however, he had to ll out various
unique forms with lots of semicolons that
had to be signed by a triad of people he
barely knew, be stamped with a stamp of
approval by someone who only stamped
things semi-annually, and then be lled out
again in triplicate.
Once all of that was completed, it was
revealed that the forms were the rst event
in the triathlon. Fred, who had come in
third place in the forms event, wondered
what he had signed up for.
The second event was a birdwatching
event with binoculars. Fred did very well in
that, and came in second behind a professional birdwatcher. The score sheet for the
birds spotted had the usual daytime birds in
the area, but it also had:
Barn Owl (If you can spot one of these,
its probably asleep) 10 points
Dodo (These are extinct, so you will
need proof and a event ofcial to conrm
the sighting) 100 points
Your Feet (These are not birds! Do not
try to convince an ofcial by throwing your
shoes off the cliff! You will not get them
back!) 0 points
After these weird contests, Fred felt he
could handle anything. He was wrong. The
next contest was a randomly picked individual event, where the contestants were
put into individual rooms to attempt to follow the instructions they would be given.
Freds instructions were very strange.
He was supposed to unify the Union and
Confederate forces. They turned out to be
relatively poor actors who obviously hadnt
studied their lines, as they were holding
scripts. He had to get them to agree on
something before they would move away
from a door. Once they moved away, he
could walk through.
His attempts werent working, however.
Come on guys, this happened over
a century ago! Now, can you just let me
through the door? didnt work.
Neither did, You guys should study
your lines more! I can tell you didnt practice.
Finally, he was ready to give up, but he
had one more idea.
Are you guys bipedal? he asked.
Yes! said the Union forces leader, who
was the only one of the actors who paid
attention to anything Fred said.
You Union people started this war in
the rst ... oh, yeah, were bipedal, said
the Confederate forces leader, chewing on
his obviously fake mustache.
Fred did a victory dance.
Why are you dancing? asked the
Union forces leader.
I got you to agree on something!
yelled Fred.
The actors sighed and reluctantly
moved away from the door, forming a
semicircle as they watched him go to it.
The door was locked with an electronic box
that he had to program to open the door,
but that was easy for Fred.
When he got out, he was awarded the
rst prize medal. ...
Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.
org/node/111597.
Mountains, lake
BY CAMRYN MUZZY
Grade 5, Renaissance School
Vermont is hiking up a mountain, smelling the trees and feeling the joy of nally
getting to the top so you can sit down and
eat lunch.
Vermont is doing the Penguin Plunge:
watching people cut a hole in the ice because its so cold; getting the tingly feeling
of numbness as you rush into the water;
then sprinting back to the tent where there
are heaters; going with my family to get hot
chocolate to warm up.
Vermont is skating on a pond until you
feel like your toes are going to fall off, and
sailing across Lake Champlain in my boat
Tied the Knot with my family, feeling the
warm, summer air against my face as we
glide across the calm waters. Vermont is
reading a book at the top of a tree, smelling
the fresh leaves and grass, running through
a sprinkler with my friend, feeling the cold
water against my skin, and making forts in
the woods behind my house. Vermont is my
home.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Just because
BY EMMA BARKER
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Vermont is
the susurration
of the orange plastic sled
slipping over snow,
barreling down the hill
in the backyard,
ipping sideways,
and you coming up
with a new, white beard
you never knew you could grow.
Vermont is
watching the national
ice swimming competitions
just outside your home
and shivering for the competitors
who somehow, inexplicably, love it.
Vermont is
running through the sprinkler,
turning blue beneath the frigid water,
lying on the hot sidewalk,
steeped in sun,
leaving a human-shaped wet patch,
sitting up and brushing off tiny pebbles
clinging to your water-logged skin.
Vermont is
bragging to your family in Georgia
about the 5 feet of snow
and the negative-20-degree cold.
Vermont is
sitting outside in the heat,
Mom slipping out the door
with a tray
of sticky, sweet, raspberry Popsicles
to eat and dribble mostly down your shirt.
Vermont is
a giant pile of soggy leaves
concealing patches of sticks
under the bare tree
in the front yard
and jumping into it anyway
and laughing
just because thats Vermont.
In the midst
Bri Lancaster, Essex High School
My Vermont
From Grade 5 Class at Cambridge Elementary School
To me, Vermont is a long dirt road with
a silo and chipped red barn every couple
of miles and uncountable cows. There are
mountains surrounding that road. In the
distance, innite forest starts at the end of
the eld.
Vermont is waiting at the bottom of my
driveway for the bus in the cold before the
sun even begins to come up...
ELIZA GOLDSWORTHY
Vermont, to me, is maple syrup. I go
sugaring almost every day after school.
I get there when its still light and leave
when its dark.
We always cook hot dogs in the boiler
and eat them for dinner, then go home to
get our wet clothes off and get into our
warm, dry beds. We sugar until the peepers
stop peeping and the sap stops running.
Then we go home and start a countdown
until next year when we have to put a
pipeline over a big river and hill because
we cant reach it.
But before we leave, we have to ride
the snowmobile one last time.
KARLIN FOLEY
Shadows
BY ELLA STAATS
Grade 9, Burlington High School
It happened again, Mimi.
I stood in the doorway to my grandmothers room, staring across to where
she sat in her oversized armchair by the
window, where she seemed to spend more
and more of her time as she aged.
Her eyes ickered over to me. Though
sunk deep into their sockets and framed by
deep wrinkles, her icy gray irises could still
speak for themselves. As a little girl, a mere
glance from her could ll me with great
pride or sudden fear. Today it was something different. Shame.
When she spoke, her words were sharp
and clipped. You cannot let this keep happening, Magnolia. There are dangers that
come with your powers.
I bowed my head, and a thick lock of
white-blond hair untucked itself from behind my ear, oating down to brush against
my collarbone. I know. Im sorry.
She sighed, lifting a bony hand to
beckon me further into the room. I obeyed,
stepping across the threshold and gently
closing the door behind me, so as not to
alert the rest of the family.
What happened this time?
I was at the convenience store, I
began, my ngers straying to my pocket to
clutch the candy bar I had purchased not
half an hour before. The one on the corner
of Garden Street by the bakery.
Yes, yes, I know the one you mean,
she said impatiently, gesturing for me to
hurry up.
Well, I thought Id buy some candy.
The cashier scanned it for me and then
handed it across the counter, and I reached
to take it ... but I brushed her shadow as I
did.
A lump rose in my throat, as I remembered the shriek of the teenage girl as she
dropped the candy and leapt backwards.
She screamed. She blamed it on a
muscle spasm, afterward. I dont think she
realized.
Mimi exhaled slowly, closing her eyes
for a moment to reveal the spotted brown
skin of her eyelids. And youre sure she
saw nothing? She didnt see the shadow
stretch?
I shook my head. Im sure she didnt.
Mimi opened her eyes again, to stare
deep into mine. There are people, you
know, who would do anything to get their
hands on you. Anything. And you cant let
them. You cant let your power get out of
hand.
Im trying, I pleaded. I am. But
sometimes I cant help it. Its starting to
affect my life.
Well, of course it is! she exclaimed,
slapping the arm of her chair. These
ancient powers, they take control of you.
They determine what you can and cannot
do. But you must keep them in check for
the good of the people.
The good of the people, I repeated.
No one can know. Mimi grasped my
hand. There are people who can help you,
people who helped your grandfather. But
its risky business. One misstep and you
could fall into the wrong hands.
I could feel tears welling up in my eyes.
I dont care. I cant live with this. I want
to understand whats happening. I want to
know others like me.
You can, Mimi said rmly. And you
will, if that is what you want.
It is, I whispered. I promise.
She nodded, and pushed herself up
from her seat. Then it is decided. Let us
begin.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
THE VOICE
READ THE APRIL ISSUE!
Go to youngwritersproject.org
to get your FREE subscription
of YWPs monthly digital magazine!
On the edge
BY ZOE CUDNEY
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Why did you invite me up here anyway? I asked as I sat down on the metal
edge of the roof.
My stomach was a swirling mass of
butteries, and I was already starting to feel
dizzy as my fear of heights kicked in.
The sloping roof of the barn looked like
a menacing cliff waiting for me to take one
wrong step and fall to my destruction.
It didnt help that the night was pitch
black, the moon covered in a swirling
mass of clouds. The rooster weather vane
creaked as it spun in the wind.
She didnt answer. Instead, she turned
away from me and began to walk along the
top of the roof. Her long red hair billowed
out behind her in a cloud as she spun to
face me, now balanced on the very edge of
the roof.
I have to show you something, she
said, her voice wavering as she spoke.
&
THE VOICE
BY ISABEL VIVANCO
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
I toss and turn in bed, uselessly attempting to fall asleep. I glance at the clock.
Midnight. Already? I groan inwardly and
try not to think about tomorrow, a day that
will pass in a miserable haze of exhaustion.
Deciding that a drink of water and a trip
to the bathroom will cure my unsleepingness, I get up, creep toward the hall and
see the door across from my room. The
door across from my room ... Hmmm.
There isnt one. Or there shouldnt be one!
I nearly scream and run down the hall to
my parents in a panic so together we can
examine the door in safety.
But as I try to run, my feet move only
toward the door. I stop just before I crash.
I look around nervously, but my curiosity
gets the better of me and I turn the knob.
The door creaks softly as it opens. No
one stirs. I step in but dont close the door
because that wouldnt be a very smart thing
to do. An average spiral staircase stands in
front of me. I put my foot on the rst step,
testing its weight and anticipating a crash
that doesnt come.
With this positive sign, I cautiously
make my way up the stairs; my hand grazes
over the smooth, sleek wood that makes
up the banister; my feet strike down on the
unblemished stairs. I make my way up and
up and up and up and up and up and up.
The thought of turning around crosses
my mind once or twice, but I know I have
to keep going so I can eventually reach
my goal. (Whatever that is). Finally, when
I feel like I might just drop from fatigue,
my feet hit level ground. And suddenly,
the oor is transparent and I get a dizzying
look of my town below me, a dark mass
of buildings, houses and church steeples;
a small speck on an expanse of elds and
elds of wheat and grass. I see the sun
gradually rising, casting a pinkish glow
over places I recognize so well.
I am so far up, I can even see partially
into the next town over, another dot on the
stretch of farmland. I walk and gaze down
at the Earth in wonder and amazement
and I realize Im on top of the world.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
YWP NEWS
THE VOICE
READ THE APRIL ISSUE!
Go to youngwritersproject.org
to get your FREE subscription
of YWPs monthly digital magazine!
CLIMATE CHANGE
WRITING CHALLENGE
Gavyn Letzelter on Vermont Writes Day by Sophia Cannizzaro, Homeschool, West Glover
BY SAMMIE BLACKMORE
Grade 6, Charlotte Central School
Still no answer.
At the end of the long hallway, I turned
the corner and started heading for my
moms room. We were living by ourselves
in this house since my father went missing
after our old house burned down.
There was no corner though. No Moms
room. Just an old staircase that I had never
seen before.
Mom? I wailed helplessly, and became disoriented.
Was she gone? Had she been kidnapped? Was I lost in my own house?
Then I tripped and slipped down the
stairs, where there was no light. I closed
my eyes and shrieked.
After landing on what seemed like
grass, I opened my eyes. I was somewhere,
a beautiful place with colorful birds ying
through the air, swooping and squawking.
Plums and oranges and pineapples seemed
to be growing everywhere.
Hello. Who are you? a man said
calmly.
It was my father. He was standing in
front of me, looking clean and well-shaven.
Welcome to Wonderland.
Seven minutes
BY AKUCH DAU
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Its Vermont Writes Day. My teacher
has been telling us about it. I think its a
good idea because everyone just stops and
writes. I wish I could write for seven minutes a day every day. I could write more
than seven minutes a day ...
Think about it
BY ZACH FORCIER
Grade 8, Albert D. Lawton Middle School
Think about what youre doing today.
If its not something you would do on your
last day of life, do something else.
Louisa
BY HALLE NEWMAN
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
The sky was an ominous grey, and rain
sprinkled down from the thick clouds onto
the eld. The grass oscillated and rustled in
the heavy wind as the three men heaved a
giant cage to the middle of the eld, right
next to a brightly colored tent, which was
also billowing in the wind. The men wiped
the sweat from their foreheads and collapsed on the damp grass, exhausted.
Inside the giant cage was an elephant
that the trio had hauled halfway across the
eld, a very long way to haul an extra-large
elephant.
The yellow paint on the cage was beginning to peel, but the words Louisa, the
Extra-Large Elephant! could still be made
out above the cages metal bars.
The elephant, Louisa, sat inside, staring
somberly out at the gloomy day. She was
extra large; she had to lay down in the ninefoot-tall cage because she was too big to
stand up. She had long, white tusks and a
majestic, grey trunk that protruded between
the metal bars, her trunk lying in a dirty
puddle on the ground.
Just then a man wearing a purple suit
and a top hat emerged from the colorful
tent, raised his arms above his head, and
shouted to the tired men in a booming
voice, Our main attraction has arrived!
Bring her in, boys, only two hours till
showtime! Louisa, the Extra-Large Elephant will be raking in all the big bucks
today!
At the words, extra-large elephant,
Louisa trumpeted. The thunderous, piercing
sound echoed through the eld, and the
three men abruptly jumped out of the grass.
The trumpet sounded almost like a protest,
or a cry for help, rather than the victory
sound that trumpeting was known to stand
for.
Bad Louisa! one of the men growled.
He scowled, stepped towards the cage, and
promptly smacked the innocent elephant on
the ear.
Bad, bad elephant! Keep quiet, you
worthless, extra-large cretin!
The rain began to fall harder, slapping
against the cage with loud thumps for each
oversized droplet. Louisa cowered in her
tiny cage as the three men picked up the
ropes from the front of it and dragged her
across the wet grass into the circus tent.
The man in the purple suit, also known
as the ringmaster, grinned and gazed up at
the sky. Under the protection of the tents
awning, he watched the rain plummet from
the grey, swollen clouds onto the muddy
land below.
He was picturing the throngs of customers he hoped would come in two hours and
how they would ll up the whole muddy
eld just to see his very own extra-large
elephant.
He could practically feel the money
between his hands, those lovely green
papers being passed to him for his keeping.
His grin widened, showing off his crooked,
yellow teeth.
Whatever would I do without Louisa,
the Extra-Large Elephant? the ringmaster
chortled greedily.
Still smirking, he clasped his hands
together, and strode back into the tent, the
heavy wind rustling behind him.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
The Ringlings
BY VIOLETTE MARTIN
Grade 5, Cambridge Elementary School
Elephants
BY ELLA STAATS
Grade 9, Burlington High School
Hurry up, Addie! Pippa grabbed the
cuff of my sleeve and dragged me down the
street, her shiny black Mary Janes clicking
on the sidewalk. Her two identical braids
specially crafted just for the occasion
bounced rhythmically against her back,
their ne, blond hair glistening in the May
sunlight.
Aw, I dont even want to go, I mumbled, scufng my toe against the pavement.
Pippa slowed her pace to match her
steps with mine. You promised, she
pouted. You cant back out of a promise.
I know, I know.
Pippa began bouncing on her toes the
moment the theatre came into sight. The
sign was displayed prominently in the ticket-booth, the wrinkled, painted elephants
tooting on their various brass instruments.
I wonder how they play, Pippa said.
I mean, with such large hands and all.
Youd think theyd have a tough time of it.
Im sure they do, I humoured her.
Now lets get this over with.
Pippa marched up to the ticket-booth
and slapped a dime onto the counter.
NEXT PROMPTS
Unjust. Write about an injustice youve
witnessed or experienced. What should be
done about it? Alternates: Lists: Write two
lists your top 10 likes and top 10 dislikes;
or General writing in any genre. Due
April 3
Climate. Take action to combat Climate
Change! Respond to three prompts, using
words, sound, images -- or all three. The
challenge sponsor, Vermontivate, will
award three cash prizes and honor winners at a celebration in Montpelier in May!
See above, and go to youngwritersproject.
org/climate15 for full details of the three
prompts along with resources and tips. Due
April 10
Too scared
BY AMELIA MASON
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
I was 7 years old when it happened. I
was taking my pipsqueak of a dog, Cha
Cha the Chihuahua, out for a walk on
my street. It was a brisk autumn day and
I was only planning to take Cha Cha up
and down my street because his little legs
would get tired, being a puppy.
I remember praising him when he
would go to the bathroom, saying Good
boy, Cha Cha! You are such a good boy!
I remember petting his silky smooth head
and shushing him when he would growl
at birds. The sun was out and a few of my
neighbors were raking their lawns.
My favorite neighbor, Mrs. Johnson,
the old woman who was always kind to me
and gave me milk and cookies, was sitting
on her porch in her rocker. She was admiring the beautiful day with its auburn and
crimson leaves that crunched under your
feet. She said, Ruth! Come in for a bit,
will you?
I eagerly picked up Cha Cha and raced
up the steps of her house. Mrs. Johnson
smiled and whispered, Only for a short
while, because you must nish walking
that Cha Cha ... Child, have some milk and
cookies.
I did, and then we talked about the
subjects we loved, such as dogs. We shared
a love for dogs. We also shared a love for
books and hot chocolate. But mostly dogs.
We could talk and talk and talk about dogs:
big dogs, small dogs, any kind of dogs. We
were planning to volunteer at the animal
shelter the next week.
After about 20 minutes, I realized that
my parents must be wondering where I
was, so I thanked Mrs. Johnson, gave her
a tight hug, and skipped down her porch,
holding Cha Chas leash, and headed home.
I looked left, right, and left again, just
like my mother had taught me to make sure
there were no cars. Then I walked across
the street.
The next part happened so fast, I can
barely remember it now. I have a memory
of a huge, bulky bulldog called Bruiser,
(who was usually kept inside) racing at me
with erce eyes while barking and frothing
at the mouth.
I, being a 7-year-old who was obsessed
with dogs, reached out my hand to pet
the dog. Thats when everything changed.
He bit my hand, leaving huge, bleeding
marks and I screamed in pain. I let go of
Cha Chas leash and said, Run, Cha Cha!
Run! I could hear Mrs. Johnson shrieking
for help.
The dog yanked me to the ground,
biting me and ripping through my clothes.
Neighbors rushed outside at the sound of
my screams as the dog attacked me mercilessly. I was helpless.
Finally some people pried the dog off
of me as I was in a daze, sobbing, and in
awful pain.
I havent touched a dog since that day.
I got rid of Cha Cha in fear that he might
hurt me like Bruiser had. I am terried of
dogs and run away whenever I see one,
even a small one.
I do miss the days when I didnt start
shaking at the sight of a simple pug, and I
miss Cha Cha.
Looking down at my scarred hands
right now, I close my eyes and sigh. I want
to love dogs again, but Im just too scared.
I cant help it. Im just too scared.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
VERMONT BUSINESS
ROUNDTABLE
YWP EVENTS
CLIMATE
CHANGE
WRITING
CHALLENGE
WRITE AND WIN!
First place: $100
Second place: $75, Third place: $50
PROMPTS AND MORE DETAILS:
youngwritersproject.org/climate15
DEADLINE: APRIL 10
Presented by Vermontivate!, Vermont Energy
Education Program & Young Writers Project
Different view
BY JACOB FRENCH
Grade 9, Rice Memorial High School
It was a cold rainy day, the rain pounding the roof, the water trickling down the
gutters. I wondered what would it be like to
be the rain, dripping down the drain, slamming the roof.
Thats when everything changed. I
had a different view of life. You have to
imagine what it would be like to not be
you. We take everything for granted, ignoring the struggles, not having to risk your
life every day and not knowing if you are
going to eat. The rain reminds you that not
everyone lives like you and has an education. Thats when everything changed.
Starting school
BY KARLIN FOLEY
Grade 5, Cambridge Elementary School
I remember those days when you would sit around in your pajamas all day and you
didnt care. You would watch your older siblings walk out the door to catch the bus and sit
by the heater by the window and watch them freeze and you would look down and see that
you were warm and in your pajamas.
Then you would make a mess with all of your toys and you were so little that your
mother would come and pick them up for you, make you snacks and lunch until the bus
came back and so did your brothers and your sisters and they would crash your party. Also
your mom would give you anything you wanted and whatever you wanted to do because
you were the cutest and the smallest of all.
But then you were old enough to go to school and thats when everything changed.
Instead of you watching your older brothers and sisters get up out of their beds and
make all the noise, you would have to join them. But that is not all. You also had to stand
out at the bus stop in the freezing cold and jump up and down when you saw the bus
pull around the sharp corner of your road. When you got on, you would hear your name
being called by your friend to come and sit with them, and you would sit down and they
wouldnt stop talking.
When you got to school you had to learn and when you had a break from learning
you were trapped in the smaller playground and you would stand by the gate and stare at
the older kids as they played on the big playground. Then at lunchtime you would eat the
schools lunch instead of sitting at your kitchen counter with your moms perfect food
right in front of you.
Then when it was time to go home to do the things that you would do when you didnt
have school, the teacher would give you homework. And when you got home to go to the
toy bin, your mom would tell you to do your homework and you would think back to the
days before everything changed.
When it moves
BY PAIGE HAUKE
Grade 12, Rice Memorial High School
Suppose the ground were alive.
Suppose it stretched out its grassy skin,
wiggling its rocky toes
and shaking off the excess dirt
to rise in the morning and salute the sun.
Maybe it would be blind,
too grown-over with roots and mulched
sediment
or too smothered by the pavements and
foundations
to open its eyes more than a crack,
making the world a useless blur.
The birds would be its messengers then,
dipping their beaks into the sky
and then coming down to peck at seeds,
whispering the secrets of the world into
dusty pores
so that it might know the beauty it has
cultured.
Suppose it laughed in spouts of water,
Old Faithful singing its praises
while the volcanoes rested
with no reason to hold a grudge,
because all would be at peace
breathing in and out with the steady pull of
the tides.
But if it rose in the morning to salute the
sun
what would be there to keep it from falling?
For if our only connection to this earth
is the ground we walk on,
what is left for the ground to walk on?
And when at last it needs to move,
stretching out its grassy skin,
wiggling its rocky toes
and shaking off the excess dirt,
will we have the courage to give up our
feet and lie down
so that the ground may take its turn?
THE VOICE
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Go to youngwritersproject.org
to get your FREE subscription
of YWPs monthly digital magazine!
CLIMATE CHANGE
WRITING CHALLENGE
Just magic
Verication
BY JULIA SHANNON-GRILLO
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
BY MANNY DODSON
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Eric Wakim, Essex High School
Raspberries
BY CLARE MAXWELL
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Come on, hurry up, slow pokes! my
parents yell at the overall crowd of close
and distant relatives. Gather up your stuff;
lets go; lets go!
I run inside and up to my room. I sigh
and smile at the peace and silence. I walk
around collecting everything that I want to
bring to the picnic, as if I have all the time
in the world. Sun hat, utensil set, and my
china tea cup from my grandma.
Leisurely, I walk down the stairs to
catch up with the hubbub. The truck starts
to slowly turn on. I run and yell to wait up,
so the truck slows down.
No more room, Mouse. Hop in the
back, says Cousin Ann.
I dangle stick-thin legs over the back
edge of the truck as it takes off down the
road. Bump, bump, the truck whizzes along
the dirt road. BUMP! The truck runs over
what looks like a large tortoise sticking out
of the road. I y off the back, holding my
little pink backpack and bunny.
Bunny, watch out, I warn as we plum-
&
THE VOICE
NEXT PROMPTS
Vermont. Vermont is maple syrup, Ben
& Jerrys, Green Mountains, skiing/snowboarding, farms, right? Now, describe your
Vermont. Alternates: Life. Write a crazy
story about what would happen to the rest of
your life if a certain major event had gone
differently the more earth-shattering, the
better; or Message. You send a message in
a bottle. What do you write? Who do you
want to nd it? Due March 27
Just run
BY HALLE NEWMAN
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Dont think, just run. The wind shoots
daggers of icy air at my back, pushing me
along the frozen pond as I run. A dusting
of snow covers the ice, making it slightly
harder to slip, but not impossible. Slipping is not an option. Not today. I grip the
sack Mama gave me, and push the vivid
thoughts out of my head that have haunted
me ever since she got into The Business.
I knew she owed people money, but judging by the weight of the sack, it must have
been a lot. I pull the sack into my chest,
and run faster.
Dont think, just run. Mamas raspy
voice plays over and over in my head,
giving me the strange orders. I try to follow her instructions, as I always have, and
focus on running, running, running. I can
see the tip of the lighthouse now, the place
where Im supposed to leave the sack.
Since she didnt mention plans to meet
me anywhere in particular, I suppose Ill
wait with the sack for her. Maybe she said
something about where to meet her and
I wasnt paying attention? Mama hates it
when I dont pay attention. Sometimes she
hits me with the broom when I dont listen
to her. I guess all Mamas have to be harsh
sometimes. Its probably for the best.
I sprint faster and faster, trying not to
think about the scary men in the driveway.
Trying not to think about how Mama had
emptied all the money from the kitchen
drawer into the sack. Trying not to think
about anything but running. Run, run, run
to the lighthouse, Alice. Go, go, go! I chant
in my head. I cheer myself on, remembering that tomorrow I will be 9, and 9-yearolds have to be able to run fast. If I do not
run fast enough, will I be able to turn 9?
I run even faster, the image of the 9-yearolds in the junior track meet racing through
my head. Finally, I arrive at the lighthouse.
Out of breath, I sit on the snow-covered
ice, breathing in the frigid winter air. I hope
Mama comes soon. Its very cold out, and
I dont even have mittens on. I shiver, and
tuck my hands into my jacket pockets. I
think about my birthday tomorrow, and
how much I want a pony. Mama said no
when I asked her all ve times, and I ended
up getting hit with the broom and sent to
my room for the rest of the night. Maybe
shell change her mind by tomorrow, and
Ill nd a pony at my doorstep!
I snuggle deeper into my jacket, shaking from the freezing-cold air. I wonder
where Mama is. I hope she isnt late
because shes sick. Sometimes she gets
very sick and lies in bed for days at a time.
Its okay, because she takes lots of pills and
drinks clear stuff out of a big bottle and
other silly things that make her feel better.
Even after she gets better, she takes the
medicine so she doesnt get sick again. She
has to pay people for the medicine, but I
think she forgot to this time, and thats why
the scary men are at our house. Shell just
pay them back, and it will be ne. Theyve
come to our house for money before, and
my mother gave it to them.
A thought suddenly strikes me. All our
money was locked up in the kitchen drawer. If I have it, whos going to pay the scary
men with the sharp knives? I clutch the
sack, and stare across the icy pond. What
would Mama do? The wind whistles in my
ear, sounding like a distant scream. My
heart beats a mile a minute, and my brain
pounds against my skull. I swallow. Mama
always liked to keep the truth from me; did
she know Id nd out? Maybe thats why
she said not to think. Just run.
YWP EVENTS
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
JANES TRUST
The lighthouse
BY ELLA STAATS
Grade 9, Burlington High School
I trudge on through the snow. The wind hisses as it swirls around me, tugging on the
sleeves of my jacket, trying to nd a patch of bare skin to burn. The breakwater is no
protection, the rocks piled precariously, leading the way toward the old lighthouse. That
lighthouse is my destination; with its aky white paint and burned-out bulb, it may seem
like a ghost camp to some, but to me its a place of refuge.
The snow beneath my feet blankets a layer of ice, crystals fused to create a solid pathway from the shore. I can only hope I wont nd the one weak link, the one misstep that
could send me tumbling into the frigid waters below.
The lighthouse draws closer. I hop up onto the rocks and nimbly leap from stone to
stone, until I reach the old wooden door. The hinges are rusted, but a good yank makes
them yield, and I turn the knob and step inside. I nd my way through a dimly lit passage
to the staircase. It spirals upward, leading up to the busted light, and then out onto the
rickety deck.
I clutch the railing and stare out over the lake, where the Adirondacks rise in the distance. Their peaks are misty, shrouded by clouds, but still visible.
The beauty always surprises me. Some people see nothing but an unforgiving winter
day, but I see the way the wind sculpts the snow into perfect dunes. The way the islands
are blanketed by a jaunty cap of white. How the sky is ivory for miles around, at and
dimensionless, leaving the world isolated.
There is no blueprint for nature, and yet somehow it all ts together just right.
Breakwater
BY ISABELLA SOUZA
Grade 6, Browns River Middle School
Snow crystals glow in the early morning light as if to say, Follow us. The wind
buffets me, and as I stumble, ice crackling
under my feet, miniature crevasses run
across the sheets of snow that cover the
breakwater where Im walking.
Soon I will be at the edge of the lake
where the foot of the lighthouse touches
the frozen waters of Lake Champlain. The
closer I get to the end of my walk, I think
about a common truth that we all have to
face. The truth of how all things have to
end, whether you like it or not...
Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.
org/node/108678.
NEXT PROMPTS
Decision. Think of a time you had to
make a difcult decision and create a
ctional character who makes the opposite
choice from the decision you made (or
would make) in this situation. What would
turn out differently? Alternates: Idea. Write
about a seemingly bad idea that turns out
great; or Manual. Write instructions on how
to be a human being. Due March 13
Left or right?
BY CASEY ALLEN
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Inspired by Dr. Seuss
Thinking up, thinking down,
Looking around the turnaround.
Is this left or is this right?
Backward? Forward? Day? Or night?
Maybe looking straight is backwards too.
I must use imagination to see this through.
This is a window or maybe a mirror;
Some things in life are just so unclear!
Looking through the wrong side of the
telescope, is the way
I want to live where nonsense thrives!
And if one wish I had, only one wish for
me,
It would be to live in my dreams.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
AMY E. TARRANT
FOUNDATION
Pam walked the long road of neverendingness. The road spiraled in black and
white checkers, with big and small houses
along the edge, and the sky was a velvet
purple. I wonder when this will end, Pam
murmured under her breath.
There were people, well, I wonder if
you can call them people, but they walked
in groups of three. They talked about what
it would be like to be a mouse ower. They
looked like dodo birds with a hint of cat.
What funny-looking creatures. I hope that
I will never look like them, Pam thought.
Lovely young lady, do come over
here and listen to our poems; we have been
working all day on them, said the strangest looking toad. Beg my pardon I forgot
to introduce myself, I am Todd and this is
Bodd.
Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.
org/node/105839.
BY KLARA MARTONE
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Inspired by Agatha Christie
December 7th, 1941
BY ISIDORA BAILLY-HALL
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe
BY OPHELIA KEEFE
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Inspired by Lewis Carroll
The shelter
Delusional world
Never-ending road
My curious room
BY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS-MONTESANO
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Inspired by Lemony Snicket
Wicked people never have time for reading. Its one of the reasons for their wickedness.
It was a curious set of stairs. Oddly
curved, they wound themselves around a
pole. One trip could send you tumbling
down. But in some ways there was a certain elegance in them, as if a royal king or
queen would step lightly upon them to announce themselves in a regal way. But if a
king or queen slipped, would the disastrous
results be worth a curious set of stairs set in
the middle of a room?
What was even more puzzling was the
minimalist contents of the things surrounding the stairs. A sea glass vase sat on a
black trophy stool. If it was a trophy would
it not be gold? What if someone were to
trip down the curious stairs and break the
precious vase? Was the display of an obviously important object an invitation to steal
Wonderland
BY ZOE CUDNEY
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Ethan Allen
BY SABRINA GOSLIN
Grade 5, Browns River School
BY OLIVIA FRANCISCO
Grade 6, Williston Central School
Laika
BY LIAM JOLLY
Grade 5, Champlain Elementary
As I went past the statue of Laika, the
rst dog in space, I heard an odd voice say,
Always be strong.
My jaw dropped. Laika was talking!
I know that sometimes humans cannot
be smart or brave, but you are both. You
have a big heart and a good spirit. You can
do anything. Remember that.
Wow, I thought. Suddenly a kid yelled,
Hey! Stop talking to a statue, weirdo!
Notre Dame
BY CATIE MACAULEY
Grade 6, Endeavour Middle School
Reection
BY KATIE EMERSON
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Why do you keep looking? I keep saying youll always look awful in that outt.
I look to the left of my reection, only
to see Anne standing there behind me,
tainting my reection with her annoyance.
I turn around and inform her that it is my
right to look if I want and that she has no
business telling me what to do.
I stick my tongue out at her, making her
eyes widen and her tongue appear shortly
after. We both yell for our mom, each trying to tell rst on the other, and we shove
each other out of the way in a silly and
childish attempt to get to her rst. Im yelling, me rst, and shes shouting, out of my
way, and were both laughing so much that
its hard to remember who said what and
why we were even angry in the rst place,
if we even were.
Girls, be nice. Dont make me separate
you guys, okay? comes my moms voice,
trying without success to contain her own
laughter.
Yeah, be nice to me, I say.
I receive a kick in the shins in response,
and chase Anne down the stairs, her squealing the whole time. I corner her in the
living room, where she runs to the couch,
and Im on top of her, tickling her as she
slaps my hands away. Anne begs for mercy,
for me to get off of her, so I do, only to be
rewarded by the war cry of her jumping on
top of me and pinning me to the ground.
We lie there until we both catch our
breath. And when we regain the needed
energy, we resume the ght that has long
lost its meaning. I run back to the mirror,
my sister chasing me. She calls something
about how I look the same as I did when I
checked before, but I ignore her. Its no use
paying attention. Maybe thats why I like
looking. Because I look the same each and
every time.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
If I was a cloud
BY NELLY DAHOUROU
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
If I was a cloud, I would rain some
days, and then just go away.
If I was a cloud, Id explore the sky
daily.
If I was a cloud ...
Springtime release
BY ISA BLOCH
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Okay everyone, hold your butteries
in your hands. Now open your hands and
release them!
Margot, the leader of the annual springtime release, was anxious but happy.
Beauty watched from far, far above, in
awe of the beautifully colored butteries.
Have I created this? The colors of the
creatures, gorgeous.
Little did she know, Joy was also
watching from above, as everyones faces
lit up below.
This is what she loved. The happiness
in the world. She shouted to the birds,
for they were the only ones who listened,
Happiness, happiness is here now!
The long winter was over and the butteries were ready to y outside.
YWP EVENTS
True love
BY MARI ROSENBLUTH
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
I remember the rst time I laid eyes on
you. I turned on my heel, my head whipped
around. I saw you there.
You were the most beautiful thing I
have ever seen. Instantly I knew I loved
At the pond
BY ISAAC JENEMANN
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
BY FERN SULLIVAN
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Decoded
BY EMILY FOSTER
Grade 7, Endeavour Middle School
Lightning strike
BY ARNAUD DAHOUROU
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
I had not checked the weather that day,
and taking my chances I went on a hike
with my dog. It was still sunny when we
got to the mountain, but I could see the
clouds coming in from the south.
We started hiking anyway. Locky, my
dog, seemed very anxious that day; he kept
bouncing up and down and pulling back on
the leash. I pulled forward and faster.
As we climbed up the hill, Locky
started barking. I had no idea what was
bothering him so much. He kept looking up
at the clouds which I hadnt noticed over
our heads now.
Deciding whether or not to start walking back down, we turned a corner facing
the top of a mountain. Just as I looked up,
it struck. Time slowed down. Just a couple
meters from us up on a tree, lightning so
powerful had hit; my hair stood up and
chills ran down my back. I was stunned and
blinded as if I had received a ash grenade
right in my face.
Right after the ash, the sound arrived
louder than anything I had ever heard.
Locky ran away at that point. I guess
the stun had made me let go of his leash.
After those brief seconds it started pouring
icy cold rain.
I walked down and eventually found
Locky, got back into my Jeep and drove
home, still shaken up from what had happened.
I dont think anything has ever scared
me as much as what I encountered that day.
In a ash
13.86 seconds
Danger
BY ZOE CUDNEY
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
BY NYA JONES
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
NEXT PROMPTS
Stardust. Youre exploring intergalactic space and come across a voyager
selling stardust. Write your conversation.
Alternate: Regret. Is there something you
wish you had done, but now its too late?
What is it and how do you deal with it?
Due Feb. 13
Unfortunate groom
BY ZORA STEWART
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
He had it all planned out,
what hed say, what hed do.
It wouldve been perfect, if he hadnt contracted the u.
He went down on one knee,
saw her face bright with glee,
and took a sore breath
and said, Marry me, sweet Beth,
and part not till death.
Happy forever;
always together.
Hopefully, he looked up
and suddenly froze
for something was dripping out from his
nose.
His joints were aching;
his throat was dry.
He thought he felt something in his eye.
And down he tripped,
the unfortunate groom,
suddenly subjected to grief and gloom
for when he was righted,
he saw a sore sight,
his Beth, running away in the night.
If it wasnt enough,
hed just remembered
hed left on his oven.
Now his house was in embers.
YWP EVENTS
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
THURSDAY, MARCH 12
The day Vermonters stop everything
and write for just seven minutes!
More details at
youngwritersproject.org!
THE VOICE
VERMONT BUSINESS
ROUNDTABLE
BY MARK HARRINGTON
Grade 5, Cambridge Elementary School
One day, Joe from New York wanted
to propose to his girlfriend. So he went to
one of the best jewelry stores in town and
bought a really expensive diamond ring.
The next morning Joe went to brush his
teeth, and he brought the ring with him because he was worried about losing it. After
he brushed his teeth and washed his hands,
he went to dry his hands and knocked over
the box that had the ring in it. The ring fell
into the sink drain hole without Joe realizing it.
Joe picked up the box without the ring
and got ready to go on his date with his
girlfriend Alivia. At the restaurant, Joes
legs were shaking and he was sweating
profusely. Joe, who is a gentleman, pulled
the chair out for Alivia, but he pulled it too
far and she fell. Joe picked her up and said
sorry. Alivia was thinking, Whats with
him tonight?
Their food came and they started eating.
Joe let out a belch so loud that the people
around him stared at him. Alivia was so
embarrassed.
Joe was nally ready to propose. He
got down on his knees and grabbed the ring
box, but still didnt notice that the ring was
gone.
Alivia, will you marry me? he said.
Uh ... Where is the ring? she asked.
What do you mean? Its right here!
Joe looked and saw that it was gone. His
jaw dropped to the oor. Then he said,
I dont know what happened! I lost the
ring?
Joe, I will marry you, Alivia said.
But we need to nd the ring rst!
Okay, replied Joe. After they nished
eating dinner they went to Joes and looked
everywhere. Joe couldnt nd the ring. He
got frustrated and went into the bathroom
and remembered that he had the ring in the
bathroom. He started looking all around.
Finally, he realized that it was down the
drain.
Go to youngwritersproject.org
for your FREE subscription!
Bittersweet
Olivia Fewell, Essex High School
BY CATIE MACAULEY
Grade 6, Endeavour Middle School
I think that winter is like a person.
It has two sides to its personality.
There are icy blizzards that turn any exposed skin into frozen stubs,
where the wind is so loud and strong it can
push you over without trying.
The only thing you can see is a cyclone of
gray and white,
and it circles all around you mercilessly.
The storm greedily snatches away your
energy and breath;
everything is surreal.
And then there are the cold days,
where you sit, wrapped in a blanket before
a crackling re.
You stare into the mesmerizing ames,
without a care in the world.
The snow falls softly and silently onto
every surface,
but you are safe from the biting cold as you
sip your hot drink,
and feel nothing but happiness.
Winter is a bittersweet season
that is all yours.
And all mine.
And everybodys.
It is different and special to every person.
I think that winter is like a person.
It has two sides to its personality.
NEXT PROMPTS
Detective. Write a
detective story about
a librarian who nds
a mysterious package
at her front door.
Alternates: Penny.
Tell the life story of a
penny since it was
minted to the time you received it as
change; or Photo 6 (above). Due Jan. 30
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
A birds dream
Waterfall
BY SIRI BECK
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
BY HAILEY CHASE
Grade 6, Williston Central School
Free time
BY EMMA MCCOBB
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Bye, Em.
Bye, Mom. Have fun at yoga. I smile,
wave, and shut the door. WAO.
I pull my hair out of my ponytail and
shake it around. I sprint up the stairs and
pull on the fuzziest socks I own, making
sure to test them for maximum slipperiness.
I skid across the kitchen oor and turn
on the radio to 102.3. Music oods my ears
and blares out of the speakers. My feet start
thumping and the next thing I know, I am
dancing around and singing at the top of
my lungs.
I rush to the freezer and pull out a
carton of peppermint ice cream. The spoon
plunges into the ice cream and the sweet
minty taste lls my mouth. I grab the
chocolate sauce and a chocolate waterfall
pours out. Perfect.
I plop down on the couch and whip out
my laptop. The keyboard clicks under my
ngertips and I begin typing. What do I do
when Im home alone? Well...
Alone at last
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
JANES TRUST
BY HELEN WORDEN
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
My world
BY JULIA SHANNON-GRILLO
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Julia, your dad and I have to go to a
meeting. Well be home by 7.
OK, bye! I say. Its 4 oclock; I have
three hours all to myself! I hear the door
click shut as the door to my own world
opens wide. My mind wanders as I think
about what I want to do during my time to
myself. But I always know what Ill end up
doing.
I take all of the blankets off my bed and
make a little nest to sit/lie down in. Then I
grab my enormous stuffed lamb and open
my book. As I begin reading, I can feel
myself turning with the pages and feeling
the characters emotions. I breathe with her,
I dance with her, and I laugh with her. The
rest of the universe is frozen as I am drawn
deeper and deeper into the vast ocean of
words.
Honey, Im home! I sense my body
jerk awake from the world of imagination.
Quickly, I rearrange my nest back into my
bed and sit in my beanbag chair as I pretend to look at a magazine. Creeeeeak. The
door to my room swings open and standing
in the doorway is my mom. How was your
evening? she asks.
Fine.
Just ne?
Just ne.
OK, well dinner is ready, so come
down soon.
I will. Then she turns around and
walks downstairs. I glance at what was my
nest and what was my own world. Then I,
too, turn around and walk downstairs.
On my bike
BY EAMONN BOTTGER
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Sunday morning
BY CLARE MAXWELL
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Its a Sunday. A super-boring-not-looking-forward-to-Monday Sunday.
I am lying in bed, under my blue and
green patterned duvet that looks like
waves. I slightly open my eyes and turn my
head, only to be disappointed by the big,
red, block letters on my alarm clock that
tease 9:00. Dismissing the clock, I get out
of bed anyway. I always forget that my bed
is about four feet off of the ground, and I
gasp as my feet hit the cold, wood oor.
I yawn and take a peek out my window.
Im blinded by the sun and immediately
shut the shade. I am such a vampire when
it comes to mornings. I slip my red-sockgarnished feet into my slippers. I smile at
Thinking
BY COOPER SMITH
Grade 5, Champlain Elementary
When Im in my room alone I like
to think. I think about things like a royal
knight going on a dangerous quest to nd
his beloved princess, but on the way he
meets a scaly dragon or an ugly troll.
Sometimes I think about what I want
to be when I grow up, like an architect or
an amazing artist or a ve-star chef. And
then theres those days where I just start to
daydream and lose complete track of what
I was thinking before. My favorite thing to
think about is creative stories that I might
write later. When I think hard, I think about
me.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
JANES TRUST
The meadowlark
BY ZORA STEWART
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
BY ELLA MASON
Grade 5, Champlain Elementary School
NEXT PROMPTS
BY ZOE FISHER
Grade 5, Champlain Elementary
What to do?
BY MADELINE EVANS
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Walking down a quiet street,
look up! Surprise!
What meets your eyes?
A big blue door
with handles of brass
that youve never seen
and never passed.
A golden key on a golden ring
Eclipse eyes
BY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS-MONTESANO
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Listen to the silence, let it ring on, eyes,
dark grey lenses frightened of the sun.
(Joy Division Transmission)
Listen to the silence,
avoid your eyes
as they catch the sun.
There is an eclipse in your soul.
Bad is closing up your good.
Winter is on the edge of the cliff;
spring is breaking,
but you are not opening your eyes.
Something has threaded through your lids.
Love is broken and your soul knows that.
The blood is stale running through your
body.
Your ears are half closed and you are waiting.
When the moon covers the sun Ill let it
ring,
the silence.
Be brave
BY GRACE LU
Grade 8, Albert D. Lawton Intermediate
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
AMY E. TARRANT
FOUNDATION
NEXT PROMPTS
Sorry. Write a story or poem that
incorporates the sentence, Im sorry
Im so sorry. Alternate: Cyborg.
Write a story about a cyborg (part
human, part machine). How did it
become that way? How does it use
its powers? Can it integrate into the
world of humans or the world of
machines or is it always an outsider?
Due Dec. 19
No escape
BY JARED BRYCE
Grade 5, Cambridge Elementary School
It follows you everywhere you go to
school, to the bathroom, on a eld trip, to
a birthday party, outside. Your shadow is
exactly a copy of yourself by sunlight.
Sometimes your shadow does not obey
you. Sometimes your shadow shows itself
in a game or a sneak attack. Then your
friend or enemy wins the game or something serious.
You become mad at your shadow, hurt
by your shadow, betrayed so much that
you just want to run away from it. But you
cant. You cant run away from yourself.
Your shadow is you, it will follow you, tag
along with you, be you.
The body
BY GENNI BOGDANOWICZ
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Lazy shadow
BY MADELINE EVANS
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
BY SARAH DANIELS
Grade 5, Cambridge Elementary School
An uninsulated tent
BY SOPHIA ST. JOHN-LOCKRIDGE
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
A sun porch, an uninsulated tent,
connected to our house with wood and
cement,
looked over the beaches and onto the lake,
a beautiful sight you would not forsake.
A place that was fun to play in in the summer,
but in the dead of winter, it was quite the
bummer.
But Grandma, oh Grandma, did not mind
the cold,
although her bones were brittle, aching and
old.
She sat in her rocking chair day after day,
with a blanket and cocoa to watch the kids
play.
It must have been 20 degrees in that room,
but she knitted and hummed, and wove
with her loom.
She didnt feel cold, and she didnt mind.
She stared at the lake, every day, all the
time.
The sparkling snow would melt through the
netting,
and puddle the oor, and wet her warm
bedding.
But Grandma didnt mind, she didnt care.
She watched the snow while children
braided her hair.
Snowball ghts and ice shing,
Christmas Carols, New Years wishing.
She watched as the snow fell, and melted,
and fell.
She knitted some socks; she rocked and she
rocked,
until the snow went away, and she nally
stood up,
walked into the house, with no need to
have knocked.
A ride on a reindeer
BY JADYN JACOBS
Grade 5, Thomas Fleming School
I gallop through the sky.
Its like the stars
are snowakes,
and the sky
is the ground
and the ground
is the sky.
The reindeer pants,
and I pull back
to slow down.
I hold on to his horns
and pet his soft fur
as we gallop
through the snowy
Christmas night.
Performance: Wednesday, Dec. 10 @7:30 p.m.
NEXT PROMPTS
100 Miles. You get lost and end up
walking 100 miles through thick,
bug-infested woods. When its nally
over, you cant believe whats waiting
for you in a clearing at the edge of the
forest Alternates: Online. Somehow
youve fallen into the Web page youve
been browsing. Where are you? Whats
happening?; or General writing in any
genre. Due Dec. 12
Being a snowdragon
BY NOAH SANDERSON
Grade 4, Thomas Fleming School
Theyve made many before.
But none quite like me.
Many were men,
some women,
even babies of three.
Made of snow,
not feathers, skin, or scales.
I only pretend to breathe re;
but still, when everyone else is so plain,
its cool to be me.
Winter in Vermont
BY SALLY MATSON
Grade 11, Burlington High School
For some people, winter is just like
you see it in Hollywood movies. Winter is
perfect snowakes landing on outstretched
tongues. Its new Bean boots; its their
fresh tracks in the snow. Winter means ice
skating on perfect ponds with a fresh batch
of Swiss Miss after. Winter is the brief moments spent outside of the warm coziness
of home.
Well, Im a Vermonter. In Vermont,
winter isnt simply a season: its a mindset. After screaming in pain while running
almost-frost-bitten ngers under water in
the hopes of thawing them after hours on
the sledding hill, winter takes on a new
meaning. Its an intense survival of the
ttest, a brutal few months where you feel
lucky to make it to the end alive. Just last
year I spent 20 minutes waiting for the bus
when it was -15 degrees. Maybe in some
other state that kind of weather would call
for a snow day but not in Vermont. If
you want a ride to school but the car wont
start, you walk! Winter is watching your
breath turn into not just fog, but ice right in
front of you. Winter is waddling around in
ve layers of clothes, just for a run to the
supermarket. Winter is spending over an
hour shoveling your driveway, just to have
the plow come push all the snow back onto
it. Winter is giving up on trying to raise the
thermostat to an acceptable level, because,
no matter what, your house will be freezing. Winter is hell!
But somehow, us Vermonters still get
giddy at the rst sight of snow. We love
turning ourselves into human Popsicles
on the ski slopes, taking breaks only long
enough to defrost. We love Sundays spent
reading on the couch in the living room
with ve blankets, a cup of Lake Champlain Chocolates hot cocoa, mittens, and a
scarf on. We love the feeling of beating, or
almost beating, the cold but even more,
we love knowing that were some of the
few people who know what winter really is.
Sure, some may call us crazy but
here in Vermont, its an unspoken fact:
winter is the best part of the year.
Performance: Saturday Dec. 13 @2 p.m.
Snow Tag
BY PATRICK HERRIN
Grade 6, Albert D. Lawton Intermediate
My important ones
BY ANNA SCHWARZ
Grade 6, Cambridge Elementary School
Have I ever said that when I smiled and
laughed at your jokes, I wasnt just thinking about the humor in them, but more of
the people telling the jokes? Hearing you
laugh, and me laughing too, just makes me
light up inside.
Someday I hope to tell all of you, my
parents, my friends, the many people I have
met along the way, how much I really love
you. The reason I have let you keep a place
in my heart is that each of you has done
something for me. You have befriended me
when I was lonely, or just given me a place
in your household. And the teachers the
teachers who went above and beyond to
make a place for all of us kids in the class,
who let us enjoy ourselves, who taught us
most everything we know now.
I remember everything. Everything
even the tiny things that have made my
life a little easier ...
Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.
org/node/100398.
Always there
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Passage of time
BY EUGENE PETROW
Grade 9, Rice Memorial High School
The new moon rises,
the old moon wanes.
A new day dawns and sets.
Passage of time is predictable
like a train on a track,
over bridges, through tunnels,
together or alone,
to stations not always known.
Secret wonderland
BY HANA KALLEN
Grade 11, Mount Manseld High School
BY HELEN WORDEN
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
A standing shadow,
not too close,
nor too near,
just a shoulder in the distance,
ready to be leaned on.
A young girl of 5 years,
blonde, fearless, excited,
in a pink, frilly tutu,
with a father showing her how to kick a
soccer ball.
You can be anything, he said.
A relationship based on trust,
memories and struggles,
someone who makes you want to be strong,
hold back your tears,
and ght for what is true and just.
Fifth grade, a talent show,
a man who never touched a Hacky Sack in
his life
kicks it around with his ecstatic daughter
in front of a crowd.
Dont ever take yourself too seriously, he
said.
A father who has seen the world,
and wants to place it in your hands,
and every day teaches you how to grasp the
continents,
and reach the stars.
Sophomore year,
learning how to push through the sloughs
and mountains of toxic homework.
Youll nish, he said.
In a life of confusion, complexity and hardships,
he untangles the knotted string,
and makes life simplistically beautiful.
Junior year,
trying to hold it together, staying strong,
trying to cope with the idea of college,
with the idea of my love leaving.
People come and go, he said.
No other way to describe him,
besides a rock
in every way, strong, fearless
and the best human being who ever lived.
NEXT PROMPTS
Invention. Youve just invented the next big thing! Pitch it to the head of the most inuential company you know. What is it and what does it do? Alternates: 15, 10, 5. Create a short dialogue of three characters. The rst can only speak 15 words, the second
10, and the third just ve words; or Author. Write in the style of your favorite author or
poet. Include the writers name and a favorite quote, if you like. Due Dec. 5
100 Miles. You get lost and end up walking 100 miles through thick, bug-infested
woods. When its nally over, you cant believe whats waiting for you in a clearing at
the edge of the forest Alternates: Online. Somehow youve fallen into the Web page
youve been browsing. Where are you? Whats happening?; or General writing in any
genre. Due Dec. 12
Feeling
BY MANNY DODSON
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Adrenaline. Thats all I feel. Not the
cold, the guilt, the hard gravel that crunches with every footfall. Nothing. Well, there
actually is one thing, a thing that cant be
unfelt. No numbness or distraction would
keep me from feeling it at this moment.
Its actually the reason for the adrenaline...
Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.
org/node/101108.
My guardian
BY ZANIPOLO LEWIS
Grade 6, Homeschool, Burlington
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
War angel
BY ARIEL MERRILL-NOLTE
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
The ground shakes as I cower under
the table, waiting for the explosions to
end. The heat is unbearable. My palms
are sweaty and my knuckles are white as I
clutch the table leg. My world is lled with
screaming, pleading, waiting. My mouth is
full of grit and I cough, hacking up blood.
My ears are ringing, and my vision is beginning to fade as I open my eyes, knowing
this could be the end. Then a bright light
descends through the smoke and lands
softly next to me, blinding me for what
seems like forever. I feel someone lifting
me gently, then I slowly start to rise. Soon
everything fades to black.
My head is pounding, and I suddenly
hear my mother singing me a lullaby, the
one about my guardian angel. Then out of
the gloom she walks; her face is hidden
yet I know it is her. I reach out to her, my
ngers just inches away. I call to her to
take me with her, but its too late. She is
gone, leaving only a melody drifting in the
smoky air.
Then I know that it is time to leave, yet
I cling for a moment and try to envision
my mothers face one last time. She comes
clear and crisp, then the picture fades and
she is gone; her face is enveloped in the
black river of my past. Then I release and
embrace death. My soul oats upward, and
I am enveloped in a sky full of smoke.
Angel speaks
BY HANNAH MILLER
Grade 9, Rice Memorial High School
Grandfather
My wish
BY AVA BENOIT
Grade 5, Cambridge Elementary School
BY MIKE CASARICO
Grade 9, Rice Memorial High School
NEXT PROMPTS
Invention. Youve just invented the next
big thing! Pitch it to the head of the most
inuential company you know. What is it
and what does it do? Alternates: 15, 10, 5.
Create a short dialogue of three characters.
The rst can only speak 15 words, the
second 10, and the third just ve words; or
Author. Write in the style of your favorite
author or poet. Include the writers name
and a favorite quote, if you like.
Due Dec. 5
Night mystery
BY MAIA VOTA
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
The lie
BY THOMAS MONTGOMERY
Grade 6, Browns River Middle School
BY CAVAN LAMONTAGNE
Grade 9, Rice Memorial High School
All glass walls for natural light,
king-size water bed with a polar bear
blanket,
my pet koala that knows not to bite,
a hot tub in one corner
where I spend most nights,
a reclining chair for when I read
and a twirly slide that goes outside.
My room is perfect
but not yet complete;
I also must have huge speakers
and my beats.
Now my room has no aw,
just a boy with too much homework is all.
Just right
BY WILLOW ALBEE
Grade 5, Cambridge Elementary School
My room would have:
A book shelf that always had the books
I wanted. (Even if they werent out
yet.)
My bed in a tree house that was watersealed and had heaters.
A light that made the ceiling look like
the moon.
Loads of cats, one unicorn ... and a
baby dragon in a re-proof house.
Wingtips
BY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS-MONTESANO
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Dream room
Extraordinary room
BY KATRINA GARROW
Grade 9, Rice Memorial High School
The rst thing you see is a giant tree.
Inside the tree, steps are carved exquisitely
with quotes from various authors, sports
players, celebrities, poets, and many more
famous citizens. As you climb the steps
there are white Christmas lights all along
the siding as it gets darker, but suddenly
you see a door that is glowing with images
of creatures of all different species. Say the
word Open and the door shall open with
no restraint.
The room lights up with a glass ceiling, so you can see the stars twinkle in the
night. The bedding made of memory foam
with galaxy sheets is the rst thing you see.
The dark walls and furniture are hidden
I wonder
BY CATIE MACAULEY
Grade 6, Endeavour Middle School
The circle in the sky is hot and merciless today. At rst the heat was pleasant,
but I am now parched. I hope the sky
waterfalls again soon, but there is no way
of knowing when it will come.
A slight breeze blows my way, and
my whole branch gently sways. Some of
the leaves whisper to each other, but I am
content to just think.
My mind wanders, and I wonder what
color I will turn when it gets colder. The
few leaves that have somehow survived the
winter (by holding onto the tree throughout
the whole biting cold) say that it is the best
time of year when we all turn into bright,
happy yellows, light, glowing oranges, and
deep, regal reds.
It is not scorching and boring as it is
now; it is not the freezing calm when we
fall to the ground, coated with uffy white.
I know when these seasons arrive, change
will come. It is inevitable. I have no idea
what will happen when I drift slowly to the
ground far below, watching the tree high
above. I have no way of knowing when this
will happen, nor how. I have only heard
witnesses stories. But I know I will enjoy
what I have while I have it, for that is the
only way to go through life.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
SATURDAY, NOV. 8
9:30 A.M. 5 P.M.
VERMONT COLLEGE OF FINE ARTS
36 COLLEGE STREET
MONTPELIER
Join us! Its FREE!
BY ZOE FISHER
Grade 5, Champlain Elementary School
Wonderful fall
BY NOLIN WUESTENBERG
Grade 5, Cambridge Elementary School
YOUNGWRITERSPROJECT.ORG
BY ADA CASE
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
CELEBRATION OF WRITING
Holding on
YWP NEWS
A leafs life
BY GRACE ADAMS-KOLLITZ
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
A cool breeze blows over, causing me
to brush against my neighbor. Its a tight t,
and I always nd myself bumping uncomfortably into the leaves surrounding me.
I live my life on a large, old maple tree
in a neighborhood just east of a large park
lled with immense amounts of foliage.
The area is kept clean and fresh, and I
never nd myself entangled in hazardous
plastic bags as in the stories Ive heard. I
hope to never nd myself in this situation,
for I have a great fear of being choked to
death.
NEXT PROMPTS
Reporter. You are a new reporter, excited to be assigned to your rst big story,
but everything seems to conspire against
you (e.g., trafc jams, torrential rain,
wrong information, police barricades, people who refuse to be interviewed.) Whats
the story and how do you pull it off?
Alternates: Seconds. Describe something
that happened in mere seconds, something
big or small; or Famous. You nd out
someone you know is famous. Describe
the person, and why s/he is famous. How
does this affect you? Due Nov. 21
Bad day
BY RIANN GIANNI
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
... I stared into the refrigerator, it was
like looking at an empty house, nothing but
shelves and compartments.
I heard the buss roar, so I lled my water bottle and ran out the door. I, of course,
spilled ice cubes everywhere so I picked
them up and tossed them into the sink.
When I nally got outside I found myself watching as the bus raced by. I chased
after it until the next stop... I hopped into
the bus and walked to the back. When my
friends nally got on the bus, they sat down
next to me and we talked until the bus arrived at the school.
When I got off the bus, I was heading
over to talk with some other friends. It had
rained the night before so, of course, with
my terrible luck, I slipped and fell. Mud
got all over my sweatshirt... Luckily, I had
P.E. rst period so I just wore my sweaty
gym shirt all day. After all that drama, I
went about my day. I slipped off my chair
in math, spilled some chemicals in science,
and smelled like sweat all day...
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
36 COLLEGE STREET
MONTPELIER
Register for workshops today
at youngwritersproject.org! Its FREE!
THE VOICE
CHECK OUT THE OCTOBER ISSUE OF
YWPS MONTHLY DIGITAL MAGAZINE!
Go to thevoice.youngwritersproject.org
Get your FREE subscription!
Transfer students
BY MADDI EVANS
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Honk! Festival of Activist Street Bands, Boston, Oct. 11. YWPs Sophia Cannizzaro of West Glover took this photo
and also participated as part of the Bread and Puppet brass band.
Lost dreams
Some days my life is complicated. It
is lled with lost dreams, but the dreams
make a point. I think about the people and
the fancy rich government ofce workers and Obamas play dolls. They sit
and watch as the wars rage on. People are
scared and afraid, not knowing if their wife
or husband is ever going to come home or
if there will be something like 9-11 again.
People are afraid of their government,
but the government should be afraid of its
people and what its people can do. They
can protest and make the streets as unsafe
as the war that is going on right now as you
read this. Some people hide, hoping the
war will end soon. Some people are sick of
there being nothing done about this war. It
will be up to the people to stop the war, and
not the government.
No one likes a coward, and a coward
the government is being. They say they will
do something about this, but do you see
anything happening? ...
CELEBRATION OF WRITING
BY KOLBY DARRAH
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Human alert
BY KAYLEE WHITE
Grade 5, Cambridge Elementary School
Aliens were coming by the thousands,
landing their UFOs anywhere there was
space on the vast eld I was walking on.
I took a glance at them and my impulse
was to run, but I realized I was frozen on
the spot. I urged my legs to run but I could
not.
Then one came up from behind me
and held my chin. It hissed, wwhaat aare
yyyouuu doinng hhheeere?
I screamed and feeling came back to
my legs. I took off as fast as I could.
Then it bellowed, Human alert! The
effect was immediate. They turned around
and started to march toward me.
I ran even faster to who knows where.
They were gaining on me; one brushed my
shirt; another tripped me. I hit the ground
with impact and they pinned me to the
ground. They were demanding silly things
like, Where do we get doughnuts? What
is a bicycle? Those were everyday things
NEXT PROMPTS
Door. Youre walking along when you
spot a large blue door in the wall of a building that you pass every day and youre
sure the door wasnt there yesterday. Open
it! Where does it lead? Alternates: Season.
Write about your happiest memory of a
holiday season; or Mythical. Invent a mythical creature and tell us about it. What does it
look like? What does it do all day? Good or
bad temper? Is it a fan of peanut butter and
jelly sandwiches? Due Nov. 7
YWP EVENTS
CELEBRATION OF WRITING
NEXT PROMPTS
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
JANES TRUST
Greta, no!
BY AMELIA MASON
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Greta! I shriek to my dog as she bolts
down the street chasing a squirrel, ripping
the leash out of my hands.
I furiously race after her, but I cant
keep up. She nally gives up on the squirrel and skids to a stop abruptly at the end of
the street, right in front of the abandoned,
haunted house that every kid in my neighborhood knows not to go into. I scream at
her, saying, Greta! No! Stay right there!
But being a dog, a disobedient dog, she
creeps up the stairs, which squeak under
her paws. She pushes open the door and
wanders into the house.
Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh,
what is she doing?
That house is haunted; everybody
knows the story of the ghosts and the
blood-stained carpets! Greta, Greta, Greta,
no! Im going to have to go in there after
you. No, no, no, this is so bad. Please can I
be dreaming? This is awful, awful, awful.
... Thoughts are racing through my head of
all the possible things that could happen
36 COLLEGE STREET
MONTPELIER
More details and registration
at youngwritersproject.org
Chasing Caramel
BY CECILIA FIELD
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Caramel! Come back! I screamed.
But it was no use. Caramel shot into that
door like a sprinter running across the nish line.
I panicked, not knowing what to do. I
crept up the brick walkway. The trees were
swaying and the wind howled. I peered in
through the window while standing on the
creaking porch. There were spider webs
dangling from the corners of the ceiling,
and I thought I saw a shadow reecting on
the curtain in the window.
My heart started racing as I realized I
had to go nd my dog inside that house. I
gingerly pushed open the door and quietly
whispered his name.
Caramel?
But there was no bark, no sound of his
wagging tail slapping the walls, no whimpers, nothing. I peeked around a corner and
saw a light ickering on and off. I quickly
glanced behind me and jumped when I
heard a slam of the door.
That was just the wind, I thought, but
I couldnt believe myself. Something was
in this house; I just knew it. I had to nd it
before it found me.
I cautiously crept down the hallway and
with my feet, cleared away the dust blanket
covering the oor. I heard the rain starting
to splatter on the metal roof above me.
I heard a creeeeak and stopped
abruptly. I looked behind me but nothing
was there. I quickly ducked into the next
room and cowered behind a couch. I had
to think of a plan and fast. I was giving up
hope that my dog was alive, but I was still
going to search. I got up and tip-toed out of
the room. It was getting dark outside and
every light I came upon wouldnt turn on.
I had to use my wimpy ashlight from my
phone that barely gave any light. I got up
and went into the next room. There were
boxes scattered across the ugly, wood oor,
like someone was moving out of the house.
Suddenly, I saw a dark shadow dart across
the room.
Caramel? I said, hopefully. But there
was no response. I shuddered. I was beginning to doubt that I still had a chance of
nding my dog. The wind blew across my
face, coming from the broken window next
to me. I saw lightning strike in the distance.
I was suddenly worried that Caramel had
made his way out of that creepy old house
and into the pelting rain. I bolted from the
room, calling his name...
(Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.org/node/99451.)
YWP EVENTS
CELEBRATION OF WRITING
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
An unheard conict
BY ISABEL VIVANCO
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
A pair of bright green sneakers walked
quickly down the hall. A pair of polkadotted socks peaked just over the edges.
And though we (the humans) couldnt
really hear them, the shoes and socks were
in heated debate. (This argument has gone
on ever since the shoe and the sock met
each other. You would think they would
have come to an agreement by now, but
alas, no).
We get to see way more than you do!
bragged the socks (whose names, by the
way, were Polka and Dotty).
Yeah, right! retorted the shoes. We
do, we get to see all the places in the world
while you two just stay tucked away inside
us.
You guys are just like moles. They
enjoy the dark, you know, agreed the right
shoe (whose name happened to be Righty).
Well, you know what? Our owner gets
us mixed up with her brothers socks, so
we get to see much more than you two do!
fumed Dotty.
And, they are much nicer than you are.
MONTPELIER
More details to come
at youngwritersproject.org
Snowakes
BY CORTINA BARBIERI
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
I was always told that life is short so
make sure you live the whole thing. I never
did that until I realized how short life can
really be...
Today is the most special day of winter
in Vermont. It is the rst snow. I am sitting
up in the clouds when all of a sudden the
wind pushes, and I start to slip off the side,
colliding with the others until I plunge into
nothingness.
Then I fall, slowly drifting, oating,
sailing, spinning into the abyss. I collide with another; she is beautiful, her six
points glistening even in the dark sky. She
grasps onto one of my many hands and we
oat downward toward the barren frozen
ground. Together as one.
I get closer to her beautiful body and
the wind gushes and pushes us far to the
left away from the others. We are alone;
falling but ying together, we dance and
twirl through the night sky, knowing soon
our life must end but ... we are together as
one. Forever.
We smash into the ground. Our eyes
close; our life ends.
A tree to a ag
BY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS-MONTESANO
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
A ag waved on a slight breeze,
echoing the murmurs of the leaves in the
tree.
Pointedly the tree shifted its attention to the
ag.
Why hello, dear ag, how are you today?
The ag kept on waving, but in a whiny
voice it cried,
Death to the Russians!
Oh no! How can you say that? inquired
the tree.
The ag stood proudly.
I am the best! I stand so strong!
The tree shook her trunk and righted his
wrong.
No, we are all the same, ag, look at thee,
you stand above, but still below me.
With that attitude no one will like you.
Why must you always win when you can
have peace?
The ag wavered and leaned its torn ends
down.
Im sorry, he mumbled,
and together they stood,
one taller than another but
the same size too.
The dare
BY MEGAN LEACH
Grade 6, Browns River Middle School
It started with a dare. My friends and I
were out on the old railroad track.
Joe Billy was the one who set the dare,
and he was the leader in the group. He
dared Sam Parker that he couldnt skate on
the tracks at 5 p.m., the same time that the
train would come.
He wouldnt have done it, of course, except that Joe said that if he didnt, he would
tell Wendy Simon, and Sam likes her. And
that couldnt happen! So there we were on
the railroad tracks. Sam had brought his
skateboard. We all looked at him.
Come on, scaredy-cat, on the tracks.
Lets go, said Joe.
Im going, said Sam.
As he got on the track, we looked at
each other. All of us watching had a bad
feeling about this.
After he got up speed, he started to
do tricks. We cheered and clapped as he
jumped and landed each one. But when we
heard the rst whistle, he booked it off the
track.
Oh come on, we have plenty of time,
complained Joe. Do some more!
No, we dont, I said. That is an
Alvero train, fastest train yet.
The others nodded.
Its coming now, said John Flane.
Just then Joe pushed Sam on the track.
But like all of us, Sam was fast. He grabbed
Joe and pulled him out with him.
Okay, the rst one who steps off rst
loses the dare, said Joe. Now he was getting reckless.
No, said Sam, shaking his head.
Someone will get hurt.
Oh, come on, Sam ...
Look out! I yelled.
The train was plowing toward them.
Sam and Joe were both on the track!
Sam dove to the other side of the track
and Joe dove toward us. Minutes seemed
like hours. We wanted to leave, but we
couldnt just leave Sam on the other side
of the track. When the train passed completely, we rushed to the other side. There
was Sam, scared, but safe.
All of us knew that Sam and Joe could
have been killed that night. We were all
shaken, and didnt say anything on the way
home. That night we didnt say a thing to
our parents. The next day we said nothing
to our friends. And none of us went back to
the old train tracks again.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Keep moving
Wheelie!
BY MORGAN MAGOON
Grade 11, Champlain Valley High School
BY MADDI EVANS
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
The tryout
BY LUKE MCKENZIE FITZGERALD
Grade 5, Orchard Elementary School
Im at Olympic Development Program
(ODP) tryouts. For me, though, this isnt
just a tryout. It is an opportunity to improve
my skills and to meet other highly skilled
U12 players.
There are at least 50 kids trying out for
these 20 spots which could be one of the
rst potential steps in making the future
U.S. World Cup team.
I know 10 of these kids and only two
of them are willing to pass the ball. I know
I need to stand out if I want one of those
spots.
Uh-oh, not again! I think as I watch
the other teams tall left wing in a breakaway.
I try to run back to stop him, but hes on
the other sideline and I cannot get there in
time. I feel nervous because he could score,
which might hurt my chance of making the
team.
He shoots the black and white Nike
ball with his left foot, right at the keepers
chest. The keeper is brave and saves it.
Phew, I sigh in relief.
I wonder what the keeper is thinking
inside his head.
The ball makes a puhh sound when
the towering and skinny keeper punts the
ball far and high, like Tim Howard.
The ball goes exactly to the waiting
right-winger, who has black hair and a
sharp, freckled face.
He receives the ball while standing still
and starts sprinting down the line.
He does scissors around one player,
fakes out the next and sprints past the third
to the corner. By now, I am in the box calling for the ball.
He blindly crosses it behind the third
defender.
I am ready to receive the cross that is
somewhere between a line drive and a lob.
This is my moment, I think to myself,
my time to shine, to show that I am good
enough to make the team by making this
goal.
It is at a hard angle because I am in
front of the near post, and I will have to
change the trajectory of the ball. I jump up
in the air and twist my neck like a piece of
rotini pasta.
I think, I got the angle, the accuracy.
Did I get the power?
Yes! My rst header and its a good
goal too! I shout inside.
All of the pain of practicing this move
has actually paid off! I think.
But, again, I didnt do it by myself. I
only did one part of it, the easy part, scoring the goal.
My teammate did the hard part, receiving, sprinting, dribbling and crossing.
I run up to him and give him a high ve
and tell him, That was a perfect cross.
We run back to our positions, right
wing and left center mideld.
I wonder, Was it enough to make the
team?
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
BY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS-MONTESANO
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Oh Segway, my darling,
how hard you must work.
Panting and pufng for those who smirk.
Ode to the Segway,
love goes to thee.
All the unt people who dont walk agree.
Everyone looks at your rubber wheels,
turning and turning head over heels.
We have your latest design,
we even built you your very own shrine!
My mother takes you everywhere,
how I dont get to is not fair!
Everybody loves you,
(except maybe Mother Earth with whom
you are quarreling.)
Oh Segway darling,
even if the people of Burlington reject you,
I know that your cold, steel heart
warms when we step on you.
Segway, if only you knew
how much we love you under our shoe.
First win
YWP NEWS
BY AKUCH DAU
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
INTRODUCING...
Young Writers Projects new digital literary
magazine a multimedia
monthly that showcases
the best writing, art, photography, audio and video
posted by students, grades
3-12, on YWPs web site,
youngwritersproject.org.
Subscription is free!
Go to youngwritersproject.org and click on The
Voice or go to this link:
bit.ly/1CaT9WB.
NEXT PROMPTS
Room. You have a chance to redesign your room from scratch with no limits. What do you do? Alternates: Lie. Use the sentence, You dont have to
lie; I know it was you, in a poem or story; or General writing. Your best
piece in any genre. Due Oct. 10
Angel. For the rst time you
meet your guardian angel.
Write a short story developing
your guardians character and
his or her relationship with you.
Alternates: Snapchat. This is
no time to Snapchat! Use this
sentence in your story, poem or
play. What has just happened or
is about to happen?; or Photo 3
(right). Due Oct. 17
Ode to a Segway
Things
BY PAIGE HAUKE
Grade 12, Rice Memorial High School
My room is full of mementos,
a collection of everything under the sun.
Stuffed animals litter the bed.
Some have missing ears;
others sport uff worn down to scratchy
stitching.
Still more have smells of must and mothballs
wafting from their fur,
smelling of my grandmothers house,
their place of liberation.
I have cheap plastic rings of all shapes,
sizes and colors,
mood rings permanently clouded over,
forever stuck on blue,
imsy metal rings
twisted into weapons t for impalement.
Some were so big I grew into them,
snugly tting just when I had no desire
to ever wear them again.
Others cant slip over my pinky nail,
but I cannot bear to give them up;
that trip to Pizza Putt was too memorable.
There are broken tops and cracked marbles,
skipping stones and dried-up owers.
All of them stay,
even if their meaning has been lost to me
for years.
All I can think is,
I have stuff that is important to me now,
more than anything else.
What if some of these old trinkets were just
as important
in some long-forgotten memory?
I can picture my chubby 4-year-old face
screwing up in a distorted cry, echoing
from the past,
every time I even consider relocating her
treasures.
No, I really must not let anything go.
Im sure even those broken binoculars have
meaning.
Maybe they were fairy watching mechanisms
in an alternate world of my creation,
maybe something I begged for for my
birthday
and nally received,
broken a week later but still a precious
memory
of candles and cakes and Pin the Tail on the
Donkey.
Once, there was some meaning.
Therefore, now, there is still meaning.
Therefore, later, there will be meaning
enough
to keep them forever.
Grandmas doll
BY JACKSON NEME
Grade 7, Endeavour Middle School
I stand there looking at a raggedy old
doll I got from my grandmother.
Its my last object from her and its a
smelly, old, rotting, yellowish doll and its
hair (or whats left of it) is a reddish brown
terra-cotta color thats just disgusting. And
it smells like rotten eggs mixed with horse
dung, rotten apples, and a dash of spoiled
milk.
Yet I cant let it go.
Its the last remnant of my grandmother
who was so dear to me and, now that shes
gone, the doll has become her. I put it back
on my shelf and smile.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Glass dragon
BY EMILY FOSTER
Grade 7, Endeavour Middle School
Erin, please come down. Honey, you
know you cant stay up there forever,
Mom called, a little helplessness in her
tone, which I still detected even though
there was a oor level and locked door
between us.
I turned my face toward the rainspattered window and cuddled deeper into
the comfy window seat cushion, trying to
ignore the truth.
She was right, I could not stay up here
forever. But I could stay until they came.
I played with the glass pendant, moving it
up and down on the frayed cord that served
as a necklace for Mema. Tears pooled and
then spilled from my puffy red eyes.
I shook in tune to my gasping, uncon-
YWP NEWS
THIS WEEK!
YWP INTRODUCES
THE VOICE
AN EXCITING NEW
DIGITAL MAGAZINE
Go to youngwritersproject.org
to view YWPs new monthly
e-mag and subscribe!
Green crown
BY LILLA ERDOS
Grade 5, Rick Marcotte Central School
NEXT PROMPTS
Complicated. Your life is complicated, and some days, theres just one
mess after another. Describe one of
those days in detail it can be funny
or tragic. Alternates: Leaf. Write
from the point of view of one leaf on
a large, colorful maple tree; or Photo
2 (Write a story or poem based on the
photo below). Due Oct. 3
Goodbye
BY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS-MONTESANO
Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Goodbye,
long-lost friend slipping,
slipping delicately through my ngers.
I will count the days alone with the
days of pain.
Goodbye,
forever leaving,
blowing furiously away.
No love was lost but none regained.
Goodbye,
together.
Treading lightly,
sliding further.
Goodbye,
my hurt,
my friend,
my enemy;
goodbye to the tinkling of you,
and the heaviness of your soul.
Farewell, my friend.
Away, my dear.
The steps away are a cut there
and a cut healed.
Avez my darling,
oat to the ends of the sunset
to spark the sunrise of my
goodbye.
YWP NEWS
COMING SOON ...
YWPS NEW
DIGITAL MAGAZINE
THE VOICE
WORDS
| SOUND | IMAGES
Watch youngwritersproject.org
for more details on the launch!
MILLENNIAL
WRITERS
ON STAGE
Hear the next generation
of great Vermont writers!
BURLINGTON
BOOK FESTIVAL
SUNDAY, SEPT. 21
Evolve
BY OLIVIA PINTAIR
Grade 9, Emma Willard School
Hometown: Williston
I miss you
when theres nothing else,
when the crowds hold
rushing bodies
and little girls
who wonder about love,
and the others who cant see it or
spell it out,
and little boys whove already found
a god,
have already needed
a god,
and bright-eyed babies
who say, Mama, I miss you,
and all those others who
miss.
NEXT PROMPTS
Photo 1.
Erin Bundock,
Champlain
Valley Union
High School
THE CALVIN
WIN $1,500 FOR AN
ESSAY ABOUT VERMONT
Deidre Vanmoerkerque, Essex High School
she robbed
and the drugs she took
on that sidewalk.
He is alone.
She is abandoned.
You are a missed opportunity,
another person walking by
handing out free judgments
when love in the smallest dose
is all they desire.
He should be driving his own car.
She should feel safe in her own house.
You should be ashamed of your own
thoughts.
But they dont have a car or a house,
and you dont feel bad for discriminating
against them.