Burlington Free Press 15-16

THIS WEEK: General
When I grow up
When I grow up
I want to live in Los Angeles
in an apartment at the top of a hill
with my three best friends.
When I grow up
I want to get cheap tacos
from the truck around the block
and eat them on a park bench.
When I grow up
I want to do everything I love
and buy useless things I think I need
and pay off all my debt.
When I grow up
I want some people to know my name
but I still want to be able to introduce
myself
with a clean slate.
When I grow up
I want to stand on top of a mountain
that I climbed all my myself
and cry a little at the beauty.
Each week, Young Writers Project receives submissions

from students across Vermont, New Hampshire and beyond. A team of staff, mentors and students selects the
best writing and images for publication. This week, we
present responses to the challenge, General writing.
Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a civil online
community of writers and photographers.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP
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.
YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses

and individuals who recognize the
power and value of writing. If you
would like to contribute, please go
to youngwritersproject.org/support,
or mail your donation to YWP, 47
Maple Street, Suite 106, Burlington,
VT 05401.
When I grow up
I want to still like waterparks
and blue and pink cotton candy
and songs on the radio that I only hear once
but still love.
Special thanks this week to
BURLINGTON TELECOM
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
When I grow up
I dont want braces
and I want a baby blue bike that I ride
around town
while wearing aviator sunglasses.
When I grow up
I want to write letters to the people I love
and honestly be able to say
that I am proud of where and who I am.
- ELLA STAATS, BURLINGTON
My mentor
My oldest sister Johannah has influenced me the most in my life. She has been
so powerful to me because she is a marvelous role model, a great listener, athletic and
very smart.
Johannah is a great role model because,
instead of being like a boring adult who always tells you what to do, my sister makes
everything fun. She is always laughing, and
just making the most out of every moment.
She is so understanding and kind. She always listens to me and pays attention to my
ideas. If I have a problem with someone or
something she helps me find a solution.
My sister is very smart. This year she
is a sophomore at Cornell University. I am
so proud of her for making it into such a
competitive school. But theres a downside
to everything: shes six hours away.
Its hard because we are very close, but
I know she misses me, and I miss her. We
keep in touch, and stay very close.
My sister is very athletic. Shes always
waking up and going for runs on weekends.
She asks me every time if I want to go with
her, and I always answer with a big fat no.
My sister is the biggest influence on my
life because she is just an amazing person
all around and she has taught me so much
about everything.
I would have to give her a present the
size of the moon to thank her.
- LILY MITCHELL, BURLINGTON
YWP NEWS
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Teenage life
As a teenager you go through a lot:
heartbreaks, friendships and family issues.
I have gone through a lot myself, losing
my grandma, losing a friendship and breaking up with someone.
Through these times I had to stay strong
even when I didnt want to. I had to show
people I was okay when I wasnt. But even
with these bad stories comes some good.
Even though my grandma died, I know it
didnt hurt when she died. Even though I
lost a friend, I lost a friend because of their
choices and the way they treated me and
my other friends. Even though someone
broke up with me, it was probably for the
best.
All Im saying is no matter where you
live, or where you are, you will have life
problems. You will have to deal with these
problems, and even if you think you cant,
you have to. You have to deal with coming
home and hearing bad news. You have to
deal with losing someone who didnt care
about losing you. You have to deal with a
breakup. All these things that you deal with
will help you later in life.
- CASANDRA PATTON, BURLINGTON
Tennis
Kevin Huang, Burlington
Face your fears

Your fear, it comes.
You turn; you hide.
Youre frightened of it,
deep inside.
You hide your face.
You turn away.
You wait until
its gone away;
you wait until
youre brave inside,
slowly peer upwards,
meet its eyes,

hold its gaze.
Dont back down;
stay strong.
Hold your ground.
Wait until IT runs away,
afraid of YOU,
afraid to stay.
So now you know,
with little tears,
a little courage can face your fears.
- Chlo GaGnon, BurlinGton
Knees bent at the baseline,

racket out in front of me,
I am ready to hit anything,
eyes concentrated
on my opponent,
mind ready
to coordinate.
The ball goes up.
She whacks it
into the service box.
Silence rings in my ears.
The ball whishes
near my racket.
Feet move,
fast and quick.
Heart beats
a mile a minute.
Hands clench
the soft but sticky grip.
Arms are ready
to wallop the ball.
Ears hear the sound
of silence.
Bam!
- EMMA LOWRY, BURLINGTON
THIS WEEK: Anthology 8
Riding dreams
Dreams are the wild stallions of our lives,
flying between
strength
and unreliability,
hard to find,
hard to tame,
hard to let go.
Every walker who stays clinging
to the earth
needs to
taste the wind,
grab hold of
adventures mane
and see where he takes you.
Stop trudging
through endless streams
when you could be
galloping free.
Yet only fools
refuse to choose a steed carefully,
for hope may take you
beyond
where you wish to go
or throw you into the mud
and grow bruises beneath your skin.
We mustnt pack our hearts away
where they can be
carried off
in a split-second of
indecision.
A foal
fed faith
will grow strong
even through everyones
doubts.
A yearling
who longs to be elsewhere
cant ever be
fully broken in.
An old mare
who cant hold any more
whippings
or pull your uncertainties
any further
deserves to rest.
- NEELIE MARKLEY, BURLINGTON
Look
Here I am,
standing alone in a crowded hallway,
craning my neck to see
above the many heads.
And there you are at the center of it all.
I can hear you even from here,
talking and laughing with the giant group
clustered around you, blocking you from
sight so that the only ones
who can recognize you know you well
or used to, anyway.
I push my way through
the loud throngs of people
and pass right into your line of vision.
You do not hesitate.
Your face does not change.
Your noisy chattering does not miss a beat.
You turn away as soon
as you get a glimpse of me.
You look, but do not see.
I see. I see your change,
who you used to be, who you are now.
I remember
when we ran and talked and laughed,
no matter what anyone else thought.
You look. You look at someone who has
taken too long to grow up.
You look at someone who is not good
enough for you. You look at someone you
will never acknowledge you miss.
You look, but do not see.
- CATIE MACAULEY, CHARLOTTE
Each year, Young Writers Project publishes an anthology

of the best writing and photography submitted to youngwritersproject.org. A team of staff, mentors and students
makes selections from thousands of submissions. This
week, we present some of the local writers and photographer Kevin Huang who are featured in the anthology.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
THE BAY AND PAUL

FOUNDATIONS
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Photograph
We all have things we dream of.
On nights when I close my eyes,
I chase the strands of colors on the back of
my eyelids.
My own galaxies;
I dont even have to stretch to meet them
We were close. At one point.
I used to fold the notes from my mind in
the small creases at the corner of my eyes;
I held those secret words there,
daring you to steal them away.
They all held the same three words.
Every time.
I hope they sometimes leaked out with my
laughs.
My heart called for shutter clicks every
time
I held your bitten fingertips in my hands,
tasted your lips after ice cream,
or found your smile.
My heart seized for a lot of things.
I used to remember them the way they
were,
but now I see them from your eyes,
and I see them from the outside
I suppose those are the moments where
Ive forgotten how I loved you then.
In the mornings,
I wait for new photographs to roll in,
ones of us on the beach,
or in the rain anywhere.
In the mornings,
my eyelids are pink,
semi-transparent shutters
I hope the light shining through doesnt
destroy the film.
And before I let go of the shutter release,
I imagine Ill wake to discover
I was taking a long exposure shot of you.
- ERIN BUNDOCK, SHELBURNE
MGMC (Muslim Girls Making Change), sponsored by Young Writers Project, will represent Vermont at Brave New Voices slam competition in Washington, D.C. in July. Left to right, Hawa Adam, Lena Ginawi, Kiran Waqar, Balkisa Abdikadir. Photo: Young Writers Project
Wake Up, America

September 11, 2001
Wake up, America, the enemy is here.
The terrorists. The Jihadists. Those A-rabs.
The womanizers. The monsters. Those Bin
Ladens. We are the ones to watch out for,
to surveil, to remove, to attack.
But actually we are the advocates, the
award winners, the bilinguals.
Hello. Hola. Bonjour. Guten tag. Assalamualaikum.
Were the 4.0 students, the honor roll students, the star athletes.
But were also the misunderstood, the ones
to watch out for, to surveil, to remove, to
attack.
(Kiran) The first day of the 10th grade was
my first experience with the hijab in public.
I was excited to wear it. I wanted to wear it
and was ready to wear it if it wasnt for
the small fact that I was terrified to wear it.
This small piece of fabric had the ability to
change my life. At that moment I was signing a contract that changed me from Kiran
Waqar, typical teen, to Kiran Waqar, an
ambassador for all 1.6 billion Muslims.
(Balkisa) I remember the woman crossing the street. She saw the scarf wrapped
around my head and decided I was dangerous. I saw her look of disdain as she came
near, as if the surface I walked on was too
hot and would scorch her if she came any
closer. Was going toward the road and
almost being hit by a car worth it?
(Lena) His eyes were filled with anger and
hatred, but his lips spoke those emotions.
I heard the words roll off his tongue, You
Moslems are the reason the airport lines are
so long. You bombers. He was drunk, but
a drunk mind speaks a sober heart.
(Hawa) I arrived the first day of school as
the first and only Muslim girl that wore
the hijab. I could feel everyones stares,
razor sharp, their lips moving to form the
questions they would soon ask me. Beads
of sweat rolled down my face; pain shot up
in my chest; time was taking its time; my
embarrassment was becoming more visible.
I just wanted to curl up in a corner.
Photos from Anthology 8 by Kevin Huang, Burlington
They terrorize Muslims and then blame the

victim. Our hurting is silent; we search for
the voice to say Islam is peace, stop being
so ignorant, please listen. ...
- HAWA ADAM, BALKISA ABDIKADIR,
BURLINGTON
- LENA GINAWI, KIRAN WAQAR, SOUTH
BURLINGTON
Read the complete version on youngwritersproject.org and find out more about MGMCs
upcoming performances.
ANTHOLOGY 8!
Buy your copy today! Details at
youngwritersproject.org/anthology8
The anger inside

The clouds are usually my place to
escape, the place where I wake up in the
morning. Ive never understood it. There is
no logic.
I go to sleep, and I wake up in the
clouds. Im able to breathe and walk. The
sky is different when Im up there. Even if
its raining on earth, its always nice and
fluffy and bright up there.
Today is different. When I wake up, the
clouds are gray. They are churning. I have
never experienced anything like it, but then
I realize, it is because I am angry or sad. I
feel misunderstood, something that somehow I have never felt before.
Thunder rumbles, and its so loud I fall
down. This just makes me more angry. I
stand up, my fists clenched. The clouds
become more dark. Mist swirls around me.
A sudden burst of light comes out
of nowhere. Lightning. Its followed by
thunder.
Shut up! I scream.
This causes more lightning. My blood
boils. Anger pulses through every part of
me.
Fine. Then bring it on! Bring on the
lightning! Bring on the thunder! Bring on
everything!
Mist starts swirling around me until
it forms a tornado, a tornado with me in
the middle. Lightning flashes and thunder
rumbles. I swat at the mist, but it does
nothing. Im in the center of a tornado. The
tornado spins and spins until I am nothing,
just part of the clouds.
THIS WEEK: Clouds & General

from students across Vermont, New Hampshire and
beyond. A team of staff, mentors and students selects
the best writing and images for publication. This week,
we present responses to the challenges, Clouds: Imagine you can walk on clouds; and General writing. Read
more at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
YWP NEWS & EVENTS

CELEBRATION OF WRITING
& RELEASE PARTY FOR
ANTHOLOGY 8
REMINDER!
ITS FRIDAY, MAY 13
7 - 9 PM
MAIN STREET LANDING
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PHOTO OF THE WEEK
- EVA TOBIAS, BURLINGTON
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About my name
I know most people dont think of
Olivia when they think of an olive tree, but
I do. I think about how I wish my name
meant anything else.
I think of hope, happiness, belief,
wisdom and faith. Those words all give
meaning to seemingly meaningless titles of
ourselves. I think of names that look better
than mine does, names that are more even
looking. They dont slide down across the
page like theyre late for their first day of
school. My mom says she chose this name
for me randomly, not thinking about how
I would not be just Olivia, but Olivia M.
because a name suffering from originality
needs another letter. Oblivious to the fact
that the letter v is very hard to master in
cursive, or that four syllables is three too
many to cheer on a sideline.
She tells me it made her think of trust
and uniqueness, and not the awkward moment when the teacher calls your name and
its not you. Its the other one.
I try to think of the bright side. Green
olives are nice, right? I think of how it
sounds in different ways. It can sound precise and accurate with staccato sounds and
sharp edges like a conductor casting spells
on sounds.
It can sound loose and sloppy like Sunday morning bagels. My favorite way to
say my name is the Sunday morning bagel
way. If you mumble Olivia with cream
cheese spilling out of the side of your
mouth it sounds like I love you and thats
the most beautiful part about it.
I still wish it meant spirit, love, kindness or compassion, but the meaning
behind it doesnt even scrape the surface of
what it actually says.
- OLIVIA MEAD, WILLISTON
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More than human

The air is full of quiet. My gaze seems
to extend forever: brilliant ocean intensifying toward the horizon, bright, burning blue
strewn with silky clouds. The view and
the sensation are so consuming, I forget to
breathe. My eyes focus on varying shades
of browns and greens. Rivers snake through
the earth like veins running through a hand.
The clouds look less fluffy now, more
ethereal and delicate. I take a deep breath
of cold air, lungs burning.
I feel my body descend and I let gravity
take over. My feet touch down and they
kiss the clouds, sending sprays of mist
around me before dissipating.
I take a step forward, silky wisps of
clouds spiraling around me, dampening my
skin and hair. My skin is wet, glistening
with moisture as my hair becomes limp. It
falls into my face, temporarily, cutting my
vision into strips. I brush it aside with the
back of my hand.
My gaze extends farther than my life,
my existence. The world unravels itself
for me. I dont only see the earth, vast and
unending, but I also see civilization. I see
into the hearts and souls of humans. Above
the earth, on these clouds, I am more than
human. I suppose this is what allows me to
watch humans more closely, observe them
better. Perhaps I know more about them
than they even know about themselves.
Humans crave only perfection, accept

only perfection. But there is no perfection,
so everyone is an outcast.
They search for perfection in others
although theres no perfection in them.
They purposely blind themselves to make it
easier to believe they are doing right. They
attempt to create and strive for perfection.
As I watch humans longer, I realize perfection does not exist in their world. They
may reach for perfection, but they will
always fail. They are flawed, and whatever
they create will also be flawed. Because
they are human.
But I am more than human.
- ELIZABETH MARTELL, ESSEX JUNCTION
Peace and quiet

My feet slowly lift off the ground. I
ascend into the white, fluffy, moist and
untouched piece of heaven. I use my time
in this world to meditate and experience the
only real quiet available to the world.
In our modern age, the earths surface
has been littered with machines and gizmos
that pollute the world with the endless hum
and drive of a motor or engine. In heaven, I
can absorb the world as it should be, peaceful and quiet.
- DALTON FITCH-OLEARY, BURLINGTON
I am
You will never know who I am until I tell
you.
I am not a ruler of the world who sits on a
high throne,
passing judgment and making impossible
laws.
I walk among you as one of you human
hidden as you are open, wild as you are
free.
I am not the chains that bind you to an
earthly grave,
not wielding the flash of a mortal blade.
I am the hand rising in the midst of the
battle,
bringing down the rain to quench the rage.
I am not the violent end you foresee.
I do not bring the war to end all wars.
I do not champion your bloody battles for
any cause,
for they only cause death and destruction.
Yet I am the burning fire and I am the
lightning ice,
turning opposition into harmony.
When you believe that all hope is truly lost
for a world of eternal peace and heaven on
earth,
for the beautiful journey of the true adventure,
remember me.
I am the love resurrected from fear. ...
(Read the complete poem at youngwritersproject.org/node/6954)
- LAUREN PALMER, WILLISTON
THIS WEEK: Sea-stairs & Stirring
Photo: Sea-stairs. Seapoint, Dublin, Ireland by Giuseppe

Milo. (Creative Commons license)
The staircase
Questions swam through my whirling
mind as I stared at the staircase to the sea
floor. Rusty metal railings disappeared
under the turquoise waves.
Just a moment before I had been looking at this very spot. I had glanced away,
and in that second, impossibly, the stairs
appeared. Where had they come from? The
only explanation was...
Magic, said a childs voice. I turned
toward the sound to see a small girl, maybe
8 or 9 years old. Her wavy auburn hair cascaded down her back, and a necklace made
of pearls hung from her neck. She looked
at me curiously with eyes the color of a
stormy sea. She wore a silky periwinkle
dress that shimmered in the late afternoon
sun. She approached me, her bare feet sinking into the hot sand.
Who are you? I asked, glancing from
her to the staircase. Did you make it appear?
Im Pearl, answered the girl, with a
small smile. And I come from the sea.
Her hair swirled around her, and at that
moment I believed in magic, for right before my eyes, she was changing, her body
arched and her slim legs joined to form
a tail. A fin sprouted from her back, and
her dress seemed to melt into her skin, its
grey-blue sheen spreading across her whole
body. She slid into the water and popped
her dolphin head up happily.
Wow, was all I could manage to say.
No, I didnt make it appear, said her
voice, inside my head. The staircase is only
visible to Shifters. You are one of us.
What? I breathed. But, the more I
thought about it, the more it made sense.
That time I fell off the ferry, I remember
sinking, dazed, under the waves, but somehow being able to breathe. I had kicked my
way to the surface and the doctors called it
a miracle. And the time I had taken swimming lessons, when I was 6. As soon as I
touched the water I knew how to swim, and
was faster than any of the other children.
According to the baffled instructor, I was
a natural. But neither of those instances
involved shape-shifting into a dolphin. I
told Pearl this. ...

we present responses to the prompts, Photo: Sea-stairs
& Sound: Stirring. Read more at youngwritersproject.
org, a safe, civil online community of writers.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
CHAMPLAIN INVESTMENT
PARTNERS
Caleb Dudley, Essex Junction
My childhood home
Slowly around the bowl the wooden spoon

stirs it all,
turning and turning until it is smooth.
I eat it all day and during the night.
Round and round the spoon goes,
ripples and swirls all through the bowl,
a bowl that is old from generations ago.
The creamy sound of sweetness
and the stirring of maple goodness.
The sound of fudge being made!
My favorite dessert of all!
As I see you stirring,

I know something is wrong.
You stare into space
with a sad, grim frown.
Slowly, my feet thud,
booming on the wood floors.
I stand next to you
with a question on my face.
You look up to me,
your spoon coming to a halt,
then tap your spoon on the pure, white cup.
With sadness in your eyes, you stand up.
My hand goes to your shoulder,
and you slowly turn around.
You cry and cry, and tell me whats wrong.
We think of someone who has passed,
ripe with old age.
I will miss him, but will slowly recover.
Then carefully, your hand comes up,
and cups my cheek.
I take that hand, holding it in my own.
We both cry and cry,
sadness in our eyes.
Then you give me a cup of tea, and I stir.
Clink, clink, clink.
The day we moved away,

the moon was full and shining,
even though it wasnt yet dark.
We got in the car, slammed the doors shut
and tried not to cry.
Look forward. Toward the future.
Remember the past. But dont live in it.
It was time to move on,
to go to a new house in a different state,
a seemingly different world
for my little 8-year-old mind.
I didnt want to go; I didnt want to forget.
I tried to capture the moment
so I could relive it every day:
The sky was a silky blue; a pale moon
floated low in the sky; the grass was
rippled by an invisible breeze; wind chimes
churned and twisted. Clink, clink, clink.
The engine roared to life. My father pulled
the clutch and we shot forward.
I looked back, pressing my hand to the
glass, waving goodbye
to my childhood home, my world.
What was once my life was now reduced to
memories, but they will never fade.
Clink, clink, clink went the wind chimes.
- TYLER CLARK, CAMBRIDGE
- EMILY WIDYAWATI, BURLINGTON
Maple goodness
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PHOTO OF THE WEEK
A cup of tea
- SADIE HOLMES, CHARLOTTE
YWP NEWS & EVENTS
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NEXT CHALLENGES
Back. Oh gosh, theyre back...
Write a story based on or using that
phrase. Alternates: Certain: Make a
list of 10 things you know for sure.
You can start your list with the words,
This I know It can be funny or
serious; or General: Send us your
best work of any category or type that
youve created in or out of school.
READ MORE YWP WRITING AT

YOUNGWRITERSPROJECT.ORG
THE VOICE
THE CROW ON MEDIUM.COM
COWBIRD.COM
VPR.NET
VTDIGGER.ORG
AND MORE...
Piggy Wiggy
A small girl and a boy sat on their beds,
separated by a wall and scratching their
heads.
As they sat and contemplated ways to
escape,
the quite sullen girl began to gape.
From the side of the wall popped miraculous gears,
clanking and turning, it began to appear.
With a chang-clang-bang, it popped from
the wall,
as if being called by someone to answer
their call.
With the blast of a cannon and dispersing
of smoke,
through the buoyant loud door, a hoof
began to poke.
Hello, dear child, it said to the girl,
as its nice, true image began to unfurl.
My name is Piggy Wiggy, it said from its
snout.
It seemed to be deaf because it always
needed to shout.
The girl stared hard at the fat giant pig,
who was rainbow all over and with a
George Washington wig.
Nothin to worry about my dear, dear
child.
For you, its about to get a little bit wild.
Let me go grab the boy and well set out in
a min.,
Its adventure time! Now put on that grin.
The girl stood frozen on the corner of her
bed,
her bushy brown hair standing up on her
head.
The odd giant pig stepped back through the
door,
its sparkly pink hooves clicking loud
against the floor.
It popped back through the door in a lickety
split,
while holding the boy. Its a surprise it
could fit!
Come on, dear chaps, its time to head
out,
it shouted at them from its excited snout.
The great Piggy Wiggy grabbed both of
their hands,
and with a very loud crack brought them to
a faraway land. ...
- SOPHIE DAUERMAN, SHELBURNE
Read the complete version at youngwritersproject.org/
node/3714
Diverse flavors
In a busy, small town
there was a big ice cream shop
where every treat got a cherry on top.
In a bin of flavors of all hues
there were Vanilla, Strawberry, Chocolate
and Caramel, too.
When everyone left,
Vanilla made a gesture
that he was the favored,
then the rest gave a lecture.
I am best, Vanilla said.
Thats why I am most tasty.
But I am fruity, Strawberry said.
I taste like a strawberry pastry.
Guys, theres no way to know, said
Chocolate, which ones best.
Maybe all of us are the favored, said
Caramel.
Then the flavors started to confess.
The very next day, Vanilla came to say,
As long as we are together,
we make everyone cool on a hot day!
-JASMIN TOWNSEND-NG, CHARLOTTE
THIS WEEK: Seuss & Perspective
YWP NEWS
Each week, Young Writers Project receives several

hundred submissions from students across Vermont,
New Hampshire and beyond. This week, we present responses to the challenge, Seuss: Write in rhyme like Dr.
Seuss; & Perspective: Tell a story from the perspective
of something unconventional. Read more great writing
at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
VERMONT BUSINESS
ROUNDTABLE
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Clocks view
Madi Cohen, Bolton
Red balloons
Watermelon
Gathered together, tied at the base, we

sway gently in the wind, our bright colors
adding variety to this affluent, yet oddly
dull suburb. I guess, even in the richest of
places, things can seem desolate, unloved.
Children dance along the canted garden
path, frolicking in the humid air, oblivious to the delicate string tethering me to
this earth. My relationship with them is
almost agnostic. I cant help but detest how
carelessly I am popped, but cant help but
be grateful for them. The very reason for
my existence lies in their greedy hands, the
children of these dilettantes, growing up to
fill their parents shoes, much too expensive, yet utterly useless.
Most of the time I remain unharmed,
ignored as just a decoration. I am happiest
like this. When the little devils do notice
me, my very existence is suddenly jeopardized, my life on the line.
A life as delicate as mine has such a
precarious existence, I am only ever barely
alive, even the slightest disturbance can
pop me into oblivion. Like a snowflake, my
life is governed by the wind; everything
and anything can kill me. Even as I am let
free to float through the sky, one in a million, Im just another red balloon.
One day in the superstore, a watermelon

was curious about what she was going to
do that day. She really wanted to get bought
so she could go home with someone. But
when the day was over, she was still at the
store, while five other watermelons next to
her had been taken.
The next day, the watermelon was
picked up, spun around and put down
again. The man did the same with the other
watermelon next to her and walked away.
It was then that she realized something
was wrong with her. She asked her friend
George if he saw something wrong and he
said he saw a big brown spot on the back
of her.
She realized that she was probably not
going to be taken. More brown spots came
and she understood that she would only get
older and she was expiring. She figured out
that she was not going to get younger, and
that she was not going to get chosen.
But then she realized that nothing made
her happier than being with her friends.
- ISIDORA BAILLY-HALL, BURLINGTON
READ THE LATEST ISSUE

OF YWPS DIGITAL MAGAZINE
- BEN LEONARD, WILLISTON
Time only goes forward; I know this.

Everyone knows this, but I know it the
most. Time keeps going; it never stops,
really. Humans may pause their lives; set
everything on freeze, but they will keep
living. They may stop for a moment to take
a rest because they are so tired. So tired of
living, even though they are filled with life.
Every second of their life is always moving forward. Humans are always getting
older, every second is one moment closer
to death. Every minute they spend on their
frivolous entertainments is a waste, a lost
memory.
Ive seen humans in action; always
on computers or TVs or staring up at me,
hoping that math class will be over or work
will be done. They always look back to the
past, but they never enjoy the present. They
always look toward the future, but they
never enjoy what they have. All they have
in the future is death; and then they will
never be able to live. They will never be
able to create memories, or share laughs, or
tell someone they love them.
Humans dont know how good they
have it; they have a life. They have a whole
world. ... I am only a clock, but I am much
wiser than humans. So look up at me, waste
away your life, hope for a tomorrow, but
tomorrow never comes today. I am a clock,
but I never go to the past. Yes, I go back to
the same spot, but only because my world
is so small, so compact. Yes, I am a clock;
but I live better than you, dont I?
Spider
Oh, come on! Theyre trying to kill
me again! I have to constantly be running
around hoping they dont decapitate me. ...
Finally I can sneak past without someone trying to behead me. But when I get
back to my web, I notice that it is cut in
half. This about sends me over the edge.
I have to remake an entire web. Do you
know how long it took me to build that
giant web?
- CHARLIE LEHMAN, WILLISTON
THIS WEEK: School & General
Luxurious Saturday
I love those luxurious Saturday mornings.
I wake up at 9 with the sun shining through
my window.
I walk down the stairs, greeted by my three
dogs.
I go outside and sit on the porch steps to eat
my breakfast.
The spring wind blows lightly through the
trees.
I stand up and grab a tennis ball,
encouraging my puppy to play fetch.
He sprints to the ball, grabbing it in his
mouth.
We have a game of tug-of-war as he refuses
to give me the ball.
Finally, we go back into the house.
- CAMRYN MUZZY, BURLINGTON
Real food, please

What is my favorite, and most importantly, least favorite thing about school?
I am, after all, a middle-schooler. So
I just have to say that my favorite thing
about school is when the bell rings at 3
oclock.
But my least favorite thing is when I go
to get snack at 10:15.
In elementary school, we had good
food for snack: carrot bread, bagels, and of
course, the famous breakfast bars (we all
know theyre donuts).
I remember the first time we were given
some of the pre-packaged stuff that we now
have almost every day. I think they were
breakfast burritos.
We had fun daring each other to try a
little bite of the food after we discovered
that the third ingredient was modified
food. Whatever that is.
Now, I understand that whatever modified food is, it might not be bad, but we
went from eating carrot bread and bagels to
modified burritos.
As we were 9 and 10 years old the first
time we noticed the difference, this was
about as hilarious (and gross) as anything,
but really, why cant we just have real food
for snack?

we present responses to the challenges, School: What
are the best and worst things about your school?; and
General writing. More at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
The worst thing about school is that you

cant bring a guitar to play.
Music helps me focus, and its very
stressful to not be able to do something
mundane like practicing chords to keep me
amused while I work.
It might be irritating to other students,
so I see why they dont allow it, but I
would love if our school had more time for
music.
It would also be amazing if we could
build a recording studio in the school basement.
Then kids like me, who had ADHD or
other learning blocks, would have a chance
to relieve their stress by taking some time
playing music in the studio.
I personally love guitars and everything
about them, and it frustrates me so much
being in school, unable to play one.
- MOON STEWART, BURLINGTON
BURLINGTON TELECOM
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
- SARAH PHILLIPS, BURLINGTON
Music would help
YWP NEWS
Breanna Johnson, Shrewsbury
50
The sweat dripping down my back
soaked the already melted chocolate bars I
had in the back of my bike shirt.
My arms collapsed on the handlebars
of my bike. I knew that I was almost done,
that I was so close to my goal, but it felt
like forever. Finally I could not take it anymore. I tumbled onto the grass.
My dad rode behind me on his road
bike and stopped to help me up and to refill
my CamelBak with new, colder water. I
sat down on the grass and stretched out my
legs while my dad rubbed my back until I
was feeling well enough to get back up and
ride again. He told me that we only had a
little way to go until we reached the last
SAG stop before the last stretch.
I got up and heaved my bike off the
ground as though it weighed 100 pounds.
I pushed off after one last chug of water;
then we were off. I rode on tirelessly until I
stopped again.
This time I knew better than to sit and
give up; that was not me at all. I shook the
sweat off myself like a dog with water and
caught up with my dad. We talked most of

the way and sometimes we rode over flat
terrain or high hills or tremendous down
hills where the wind whipped around me,
making me feel rejuvenated.
Finally, without realizing how much
time had passed, we were only a mile away
from Heartbreak Hill.
We continued riding, but at a much
slower pace, the whole time my dad telling
me to be in my highest gear and to take it
slow. Soon it came into sight, too soon. The
numerous other riders on the hill were scattered and we soon passed some of them.
Halfway up, my legs started failing and I
yearned to be at the top. I willed with all
the power I could muster to make it up the
hill.
My dad was not far ahead and I came
up in front of him before I knew it. He
yelled encouraging words while we conquered the hill.
At the top, I breathed a sigh of relief
and speeded ahead with a feeling of accomplishment and my newfound victory in my
body until I saw the finish.
- LUCY WOODWARD, SHELBURNE
to The Voice,
YWPs digital literary magazine!
Raining tears
Its raining tears
as I run away,
my composure stripped bare
as I hide away in fear.
Please let nobody notice
my nose plugged up,
my throat drawn shut.
I hide away.
I hide.
I find myself a place of quiet,
a bathroom with broken doors.
I run past the mirrors
that reveal my ugly,
blotched, red face.
I hide from the world,
from myself.
Calm my mind.
Quiet my stress.
Clean my face.
Shove my emotions back,
back to the Pandoras box,
the wretched box that keeps
opening
and opening
and opening.
I replace my tears
with a stone mask,
emotionless.
Time to go back to the world,
time to re-lock the Pandoras box,
time to hide inside myself
until the appropriate time
to rain tears presents itself.
- MADELINE EVANS, BURLINGTON
NEXT CHALLENGES
Blue. It was the most brilliant shade of
blue Id ever seen Work that phrase
(or concept) into a poem or story. Alternate: Framed: You have a photograph
of a meaningful moment. Describe
it. But wait, theres more now tell
a story about whats just outside the
frame. Post the photo! Due April 22
Passage: You find a secret passage
in the basement of your grandfathers
house. Where does it lead? How does
it change your perspective about your
family/grandfather? Alternate: Surveillance: What do you think about government or military surveillance? When
does it go too far? Due April 29
Amnesia road trips

Do you wish the days were as rainy as they
used to be,
when we stayed in and just looked at the
walls in silence,
felt the way each others thumbs curved to
our palms, then back out to our fingers?
Some days I wish for amnesia road trips,
so I dont have to find you in my paints,
or feel your hand shaking through mine as I
try to make a mark.
And though theres no way to run across all
those lines weve put down,
Ill still ask the questions I never should.
The cans we hung up still move with the
wind.
They used to hang above our heads in the
same way
the broken chimes once did before landing
between the grass patches in our backyard.
Id watch the colors change on the metals
while you stared at the clouds in the sky.
Maybe its from the way you watched the
weather
that made me think you had a timelessly
ragged heart,
how inextricably remarkable and worrying
you were to me.
Some days I wish for amnesia road trips,
to stop myself from asking,
Do you love me the way you used to?
So you wouldnt look at the skyjust look
at the sky
And say, who knows.
The sheets fall from the mattress to the cold
floor,
and I lie on top,
curled so my toes barely touch the folds in
the fabric.
I watch the unmoving holes in the partially
opened door,
thinking of how we used to play darts from
our bed
while drinking beers and talking about
tomorrows
as the sky sent tears down on our roof.
Some days I wish for amnesia road trips
to forget the inclusion of our intrinsic
comfort,
forget the way I loved stormy days with
you.
Forget all the days Ive spent wishing
I could tell myself to stay with you just one
more day.
One more day.
So when you finally looked away from the
sky
to answer my questions,
I could hear you say you still fell for me
every day.
The open oil tubes you bought me are still
sitting on my porch
next to the red and blue smears from when
you wrote
Regicide across our door.
I never set out to hurt you, and I never
called you King.
You never called me Queen.
Though you never meant to bring down the
rain,
youve stained every part of me.
I can trace our smiles in the grain of our
wood-paneled house,
in the reflection of the sky,
in my paints.
And now I ask myself if we were worth all
of that,
if you still are falling with me,
or if its the same type of drop it used to be.
I dont think it is.
So some days I wish for amnesia road trips.
But only some days.
THIS WEEK: General & I and You
YWP NEWS

we present responses to the General writing challenge
and the winning submissions to the I and You Poetry
Challenge with Vermont Stage!
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
PHYSICIANS COMPUTER
COMPANY
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
CONGRATULATIONS
TO THE WINNERS OF THE
I AND YOU
POETRY CHALLENGE!
Ben Maksym of Grand Isle

Kaytlyn Young of Shelburne
Peyton Cassel of Lancaster, PA
Winners receive two tickets to the
Vermont Stage play, I and You, at
FlynnSpace April 20-May 8. Their poems
will also be displayed at the theater during
the production. See two of the winning
poems on this page and read all submissions at: youngwritersproject.org/iandyou.
Tickets to the play: vermontstage.org
This is
I AND YOU WINNING SUBMISSIONS

CHALLENGE: WRITE A POEM THAT INCLUDES THIS LINE
WALT WHITMAN: I BELIEVE IN YOU, MY SOUL.
FROM
Lost and found

When the days come, dark and brooding, over the treetops and waves that are only
half frozen,
I believe in you, my soul, but I do not believe in myself.
I try to pull it all together, and to find you in the darkness, when I can,
but my physicality stops me, mortality chains me in, morality weighs on my conscience
like hot lead in the cold water.
And like steam, you escape.
Have to keep rhyming, to keep the right timing,
laughing and smiling, coughing and dialing
down my enthusiasm when I see you within reach,
lest you flit and flutter away.
I am lost, and you are my way of being found.
I need you, that which I can never have, to be me, that who I always am.
And I hope that, when the days come, dark and brooding, over treetops and waves
that are only half frozen,
youll rise above it all to find me.
I believe in you, my soul, but I do not believe in myself.
- ERIN BUNDOCK, SHELBURNE

- BEN MAKSYM, GRAND ISLE
You wish to think. You wish to be.

You wish to think of a time
when you knew everything was alright,
when the clouds of hell didnt roar under
you
and when you could still hear the angels
bells above.
You wish to be there,
back home with those you love;
you wish to be held by your lover,
the one who is now gone.
You hide behind a mask so strong,
your safety, your guard.
You dare not let anyone see
what lies beneath.
You act like a soldier,
a doll to be mimicked
with your button eyes,
polished and glazed
to keep others from seeing in.
Now your polish is wearing down,
the makeup washing away,
your mask of steel rusting
and your shell cracking.
It is now time for others to see who you are
and to hear your story.
I believe in you,
my soul.
To see the man you call yourself
is a small child scared of the dark.
Share your secrets,
those you never told.
Let people know
who you really are.
This is who you are.
- KAYTLYN ANN YOUNG, SHELBURNE
Get your FREE
subscription
to YWPs digital
magazine!
Go to
youngwritersproject.org
Tasting alive
They tell me its too early in the morning to
drink sunshine,
warn me that I will stay awake if this late I
drink raindrops.
One hundred songbirds arc,
upside down rainbow,
upside down adventure,
rolling past the ominous ravens,
gravely staring until the
morning submits to the dusk,
and the luck recedes beneath the
haze of splintered treetops, misty wisp clouds,
skittering across a ceiling of
water-colored glory and I
open my lips to the thunder-flavored raindrops,
as sweet as the liquid sunshine
I let fall on my tongue,
let the rays and the spray
burn the whispering hesitations from my
throat,
melt the apathies from my mind
until they drip from my eyes,
salting the pavement
like a finely seasoned steak
because nothing tastes as good
as feeling alive.
They say its too early in the morning to
consume the wind,
say Ill be wired all night if I take in
snow,
but I lift my arms to the coursing air,
undo my hair just to feel it
brush across the skin of my neck,
turn my back just to feel the unslacking
force pushing against my slight frame.
Untamable grants me wild,
unrelenting child,
sit upon my shoulder;
you wont push me over, I know,
soft friend.
Make me blind, you white flurries,
deafen the world with your
muting blankets,
obscure the land with your fang-sharp
icicles.
Deceive me;
purify us
for a little while,
style frosted-white,
the light-chambered radiance
until the warmth defeats
and the rain sheets stream
into my lungs
and pour out of my eyes
and I laugh with the sun because
nothing tastes as good as
being alive.
- ERIN LASHWAY, RICHMOND
NEXT CHALLENGES
Op-ed. Write an opinion piece based
on a current news story. Take a side
and make a persuasive argument.
Alternate: Awoke: I awoke to the
sound unleash a poem with this
line. Due April 15
Blue. It was the most brilliant shade
of blue Id ever seen Work that
phrase (or concept) into a poem or
story. Alternate: Framed: You have
a photograph of a meaningful moment. Describe it. But wait, theres
more now tell a story about
whats just outside the frame. Post
the photo! Due April 22
THIS WEEK: Myth & General
YWP NEWS

we present responses to the challenges, Myth: Write a
wacky urban myth; and General writing. Read more at
youngwritersproject.org, a civil online community.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
MGN FAMILY
FOUNDATION
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Kaleb Aiken, Essex Junction
Friendship
Remember
A meadow
Beautiful plants, happy animals
A paradise
Then, storms rage
Furious winds
A meadow
Ripped up plants, animals flee
No longer a paradise
Then, sun shines
Gentle rain
A meadow
Growing plants, returning animals
Becoming a paradise
Then, destructive hurricane
Devastating twister
A meadow
Muddy soil
No life
Far from a paradise
Then, construction crews
Rising buildings
A meadow
Steel, not plants
Humans, not animals
Not exactly a paradise
But its something
Humans are unable to react to death if

the numbers are too high to comprehend.
One death can mobilize a community,
even a country. Many deaths, hundreds or
thousands, can immobilize us , not freeze us
life continues as always but no one
acknowledges the deaths. People are too
scared, too shattered.
Thats the key. Lots of death insures that
ISIS is able to continue its killing sprees.
Humans are just unable to cope with that
amount of devastation. So we dont, like a
safety shutdown.
It seems ISIS is invincible, that the
evil will never cease. But there is always
hope. Even the blackest darkness can be
lit up with a pure light. Darkness can only
become lighter.
We will be able to defeat ISIS, but
we must start by remembering. Once we
remember, we can move forward. Once we
remember, we can also forget.
And perhaps this suffering will one day
be just a distant memory. But first, we must
remember.
to The Voice,
YWPs digital literary magazine!
Niagara Falls
Long ago, there was a goddess named
Sabinus who was very lonely. She desperately wanted a child. Every time a parent and a child walked by, she would she
get jealous and emotional. One autumn
afternoon, she went for a stroll, the leaves
crunching under her shoes with every step
she took. Crunch, crunch, crunch. It reminded her of the pitter-patter of little feet
she so wished to hear. She started crying.
Later that evening, she heard a knock
on the door. When she opened the door,
the person looking back at her was a baby,
right on her doorstep. The goddess was
astonished. The babys eyes were filled
with life. The goddess thought quickly and
brought the baby boy inside.
She cared for him and after awhile she
called him Ben. Her life was perfect; she
would do anything for little Ben. Before
long, the baby boy wasnt needing bottles
every five seconds and he could stand up
all by himself. The goddess was so proud
of him.
One day he realized all of his friends
were having fun on waterslides in their
backyards or at swimming pools. Ben
wanted one for himself. The goddess
Sabinus was in it all the way. Since Sabinus
was a goddess, she could do anything she
wanted to the beautiful Earth.
But there was a problem. Ben had
grown into an enormous giant.
Oh, my goodness, Sabinus said to
Ben one day. You have grown 20 feet, my
darling.
Ben still wanted that slide and Sabinus
was determined to get it for him.
Aha, she finally said. Ive got it.
The next day, she and Ben went for
a walk to a great cliff in New York state;
Canada was on the other side.
What are we doing here? Ben asked.
Youll see, said his mother.
Finally, Sabinus said, I brought you
here because I am making your dreams
come true. I am making you a waterslide,
my son.
Bens face lit up. Sabinus started lifting
rocks and Ben watched them tumble down.
Next she made the water travel through the
air from the ocean. Five days later, she was
done. She rested while Ben enjoyed his
exciting, new waterslide.
Sabinus had created Niagara Falls! It
was beautiful! Over the years, many people
would come and enjoy themselves there
and it would stay like that forever.

- AMELIA CANNEY, MILTON
- EMMA KASTNER, BURLINGTON
Backpack mix-up
The first thing I noticed when I walked into
school
was someone had played a trick for April
Fools.
The backpacks were not where they all
used to be.
I found my backpack inside of Grade 3.
The classs backpacks were all mixed up
today,
so finding them was like a new game to
play.
The funny part was when we sat down for
class,
my teacher was laughing as if hed had
laughing gas.
My books were all too easy for me.
One said to spell words such as tree and
see.
It took so long to get the backpacks back
that it made for a very long setback.
When finally we did sit down for school,
everything went smoothly,
everything was cool.
- KEIRA YARDLEY, CHARLOTTE
I was a fool
THIS WEEK: Fool
YWP NEWS

present responses to the prompt, Fool: Write about your
best April Fools prank. Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil online community of writers.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
AMY E. TARRANT
FOUNDATION
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Two simple pranks
- HUNTER NORTON, FERRISBURGH
Mrs. Krank
- MAKAYLA FOSTER, MIDDLEBURY
THE VOICE
I was a fool
to fall for the trick.
I was a fool;
the trick fell like a brick.
I went to my locker
to get all my stuff.
When I opened the locker,
down with a puff
a watermelon fell
straight at my face.
I dodged the melon
and was able to trace
that the watermelon
would land on a seesaw
and launch a pie
straight at my maw.
Splat went the pie,
straight on its hit!
I wiped the pie off
and began to smile, bit by bit.
I laughed and laughed,
and everyone else did, too,
even the principal, Mrs. La Rue.
The school bell finally finished vibrating against the drum of metal hanging
outside our classroom door.
The shrieking laughter toned down to
some muffled giggles and scattered conversations around the room.
Soon, our eyes popped out of our heads
as if they had springs in them. Our lips
sealed with the invisible glue that drifted
equally around the room when Sammy
delicately placed a round plastic circle on
Mrs. Kranks wheely chair.
He quickly scurried back to his desk
and slid into his seat while our ancient
teacher entered the room. Her pointed
glasses rested on the tip of her nose and her
curly hair poked out everywhere.
Our heart rates increased with every
step she took, and as she went to sit down
on her chair, she made the most amusing
noise. The laughter that bubbled from our
room was the loudest Ive ever heard, and
Mrs. Kranks face had never been so red.
DONT MISS THE APRIL ISSUE

Madi Cohen, Bolton
NEXT WRITING CHALLENGES

Experiment: Youve got a monkey in a cage, a basketball, a paperback of the
latest YA craze, and a bottle of pomegranate juice what kind of experiment
are you doing? What do you hope to learn from it? (Feel free to imagine your
own wacky scenario). Alternates: Gate: Use this phrase in a story: She slipped
out the gate and started to run or General: Send us your best work of any
category or type that youve created in or out of school. Due April 8
Op-ed. Write an opinion piece based on a current news story. Take a side and
make a persuasive argument. Try to keep it tight. Try to write it to just three
paragraphs. Alternate: Awoke: I awoke to the sound unleash a poem with
this line. Due April 15
This year on April Fools Day, I pulled

two simple pranks and my best friends
Katie and Jack planned them with me.
Okay, first order of business, I told
them. The first prank is called the Neck
Cracking Prank. We use a little thing
that makes the sound of a bone cracking.
Second order of business: the Broken Nose
Prank. We take a noodle and put it between
our back molars.
Okay, so what do we say to people for
the neck prank? Katie asked.
We ask them if its normal for our
neck to crack this way, and we put the neck
cracker on our neck and move our head to
the side, then after we see their reaction, we
tell them that it is just a prank, I explained.
Same for the nose one? Jack asked.
Yes, you tell them you think your nose
is broken and you move your nose from left
to right and bite the dry noodle at the same
time, I said.
When it was time to pull our pranks we
were ready and we walked into the school.
Katie and I approached a group of teachers
and asked them if our noses were supposed
to crack like this, and once we told them it
was just a prank, all of them laughed.
Jack did the Neck Cracking Prank. He
went up to a group of the most popular
girls and said, Hey girls, do you know if
the nurse is in today because my neck is
really hurting and it cracks strangely, like
this. CRACK.
The girls seemed so concerned. But
when he said that it was just a prank, they
laughed so hard.
We did this with both pranks throughout the whole day.
These were the best pranks we ever
pulled.
-ARABELLA HUNGERFORD, JEFFERSONVILLE
MORE GREAT WRITING AT

The Smiler
REAL NAME: Mark Sunshine

POWER: Makes everybody happy and
nice
AGE: 35
PERSONALITY: Happiest person youll
ever meet, shaped like a ball, clean-shaven
EXAMPLE OF CRIME STOPPING:
Put the diamonds down! said Mark.
Then everybody will be happy!
Never! replied the burglar. These
diamonds are mine.
I guess I have no choice but to use my
superhero power on you, said a smiling
Mark.
Go ahead. You think you can stop ...
think you can stop ... can stop ... the burglar trailed off, then grinned.
Can I have the diamonds? Sharing is
always nice, said Mark.
Sure! How many do you want? asked
the burglar.
Ill take them all, answered Mark.
The burglar handed the bag full of diamonds to Mark.
Thanks! Make sure never to do anything like this again, warned Mark.
Okay, said the beaming ex-burglar.
I wont ever do anything like it again,
he exclaimed, then walked off.
THIS WEEK: Superhero & General

present responses to the challenges, Superhero:
Create your own superhero & General writing. Read
more at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
VERMONT BUSINESS
ROUNDTABLE
WRITE A POEM! GET PUBLISHED!

WIN TICKETS TO THIS AMAZING
PLAY BY
VERMONT STAGE!
SUBMISSIONS DUE MARCH 31

More details:
youngwritersproject.org/iandyou
I have spent my life

folded between the pages of fairy tales,
trapped inside a beautiful world
where anything is possible
and impossible is a fantasy.
My world is black and white;
words and sentences
form my existence,
create me,
form me.
I am a being created from words,
strung together into sentences,
paragraphs, pages and books.
But now it is my time to leave,
to see the world as it was made to be seen.
It is my time to grow up,
leave behind my fairy tale world.
But know I will always remember you,
dear fairy tale world.
NEXT CHALLENGES
Tweet: Tell a story in a tweet
(140-character segments). Alternate:
Sound-Shower: Listen to the audio
link on this challenge on youngwritersproject.org/prompts15-16 and write
the story you hear. Due March 25
Humbling: I thought I knew the
answer, but finish the sentence in
a story of a real or imagined experience. Alternate: Expectations: You
meet your biggest idol. Describe the
meeting. Is the person everything you
had hoped for or ? Due April 1
Laina had planned to slip through the

back door unnoticed, but her mother was in
the kitchen when she arrived home.
She saw her through the window, the
pane giving her a glimpse of thick, black
hair and slim shoulders, the blades protruding beneath a black, ribbed turtleneck.
She could see her own face, too, reflecting back pale skin and high cheekbones.
The bags under her eyes seemed to droop
lower each day. She tried not to look at
them anymore.
She took a breath and straightened her
shoulders, lifting her chin and walking
briskly up the back porch and through the
door. She quietly slid off her clogs and
then passed through the mudroom and into
the kitchen. Maybe her mother wouldnt
notice. Lately, she wished more and more
that she had dull, preoccupied parents. The
kind that wouldnt see the subtle changes
in her figure: the paler skin, the skeletonlike fingers, the sunken eyes. The kind that
wouldnt worry.
Laina, is that you? Her mother turned
from the counter to greet her. She took a
few steps in her daughters direction, then
stopped and cocked her head. Are you
POETRY COMPETITION!
Fairy tale world
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
- ZANI LEWIS, BURLINGTON
Burdens
YWP NEWS

Madi Cohen, Bolton
SHE WAS A TAPESTRY WOVEN OF OTHER PEOPLES TROUBLES,

HER ONLY PURPOSE TO COLLECT THOSE DREADED THREADS AND
SPIN THEM INTO HERSELF.
feeling alright, love?

Laina swallowed. Yes. She gripped
the strap on her backpack tighter.
Her mothers soft, dove-like hand
cupped gently around Lainas chin, her
thumb rolling over the prominent edge of
her jawbone, coming to rest on the soft
flesh where her jaw met her ear.
You look pale. Did something happen
while you were walking home?
No.
At school, then? Her hand fell from
her daughters face and she stepped back to
observe her. I dont recall you looking so
shaken this morning.
Lainas memory flashed back to fourth
period, to watching Hazel cry as she leaned
over the bathroom sink, clutching her cell
phone with white knuckles as if holding it
tight enough would will them to call back.
Did something happen, Laina?
Hazels hair flowed over her tearstreaked face. Laina took a deep breath,
then extended her arm and wrapped it
tightly around the girls shoulders.

Hazel fell into her easily, and Laina
held back a cry of pain as she felt Hazels
sadness, confusion and hurt diffuse from
within her and come to rest heavily on
Lainas own heart.
The girl heaved a few last sobs before
straightening up and slipping her phone
back into her pocket.
Thanks, she whispered to Laina,
cracking a small smile. You always make
me feel better.
Laina nodded, and Hazel breezed out of
the bathroom. Laina turned to face the mirror. The shadows streaking her face were
already darker.
No, she said quietly, not meeting her
mothers eye. Nothing happened.
She turned and walked quickly up the
stairs to her room, shedding her backpack
and then locking herself in the bathroom.
She turned on the faucet as hot as it
would go and then pumped soap onto her
hands, scrubbing her skin as hard as she
could until it turned red and raw.

Maybe everyone elses pain would
wash down the drain. Maybe she could dissolve the burdens of everyone around her,
shed the worries she had collected, weave
the joy back into her face.
The steam from the water curled up and
collected on the mirror, until her reflection
was only a pearly haze.
This is what she had become. Every
bead of precipitation was someone elses
hardship, siphoned off of them and delivered to her. Every drop was a sacrifice she
had made, a hand she had held to take away
anothers pain, knowing full well it would
become hers.
She was a tapestry woven of other
peoples troubles, her only purpose to collect those dreaded threads and spin them
into herself.
She could relieve them of their burdens,
but she could not help herself.
She shut off the tap and waited for the
steam to dissipate. She reached out a thumb
and smudged the fog on the mirror, creating
a clear pool just large enough to reveal a
wide, brown eye blinking back at her. Then
she sighed, shut off the light, and stepped
out into the hallway.
- ELLA STAATS, BURLINGTON
Beautiful giants
You hear the footsteps
crunching on the ice beneath.
You see a beautiful bear
with three cubs.
You look at the beauty of nature in the late
winter months
cardinals with their songs and their majestic plumage,
the hares, oh, the hares, who flee in every
direction at the sight of a bear,
a mother bear with three cubs, drinking
from a thawed pond
and urging her babies to drink
for they have a long trek to find food.
They have been wakened early from their
slumber
by something of untold traits.
Only one thing is certain.
They must have been very brave to wake a
bear.
The bears must find food or else
something horrible will come upon them.
A great pain will arise and will hurt their
moral and physical presence.
There is nothing that the mother will be
able to catch
cardinals too high, hares too fast.
Everything seems against these beautiful
giants.
But the mother will find something.
She always finds something.
THIS WEEK: Ice & Voicemail

present responses to the challenges, Sound-Ice: Listen
to the sound and write; and more Voicemail: Write your
piece in the form of a voicemail.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
WILLIAM HARVEY, CAMBRIDGE
Ice Queen
The ice queen, she is beautiful.
Blue, blue eyes,
colder than her skin.
(And her skin is very cold.)
Her smile is dangerous and she only pulls it
out when she
truly hates someone.
There are very few people who are smart
enough
to wrap everyone around their little finger.
Those people do not tend to be good.
The ice queen is the worst.
She charms like the ringing of snow bells
on a sharp winter evening.
Thats what makes her so dangerous.
Because when you look through her icy
veil,
she knows you can see her bitter blue gaze.
She doesnt like it when people can feel the
cutting cold emitted from her.
Because their warmth poses a very real
danger.
She doesnt melt, oh no, she never melts.
But the people she touches have blue
around their lips
(Almost as blue as her eyes)
And she gets afraid that the warm might
melt them.
The only thing that can truly make her lose
is when everyone can see right through her.
Only the warm ones can
see that she is crystalline.
Thats why she does her very best to destroy them all.
She doesnt falter because blue-tinged lips
are spreading,
and the very few that have pink ones
are living in a cold, cold world.
But, you have to see that the
ice queen is just a regular girl
who has too much spare time
and a school full of people too blind
to see that
her cold heart doesnt beat anymore.
ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS-MONTESANO,
BURLINGTON
Message deleted
Hey! It was great to get dinner together!
I just wanted to make sure you got home
safe. Bye! ...
I sound like a freakin stalker.
Beep.
Your message has been deleted.
Im sorry about last week. What I said ...
Of course, I love you. Youre my life. Everything revolves around you. You are my
everything. ...
Oh, God. That sounds lame. I just ... I love
you. A lot. Yeah. A lot. Bye.
Beep.
Hey. I, uh, havent seen you in a while.
I guess I cant ... ugh, never mind. Can I

start over? Okay, I guess I wanted to call
to tell you... What did I want to tell you? I
dont know. I shouldnt even care. But I do.
Maybe thats why Im calling. Or maybe
its not. What I really wanted to say was ...
Beep.
Hey. I love you.
I think Ive always loved you. And I will
always love you. ...
Do you love me? Of course not.
Beep.
ELIZABETH MARTELL, ESSEX JUNCTION
(Complete piece at youngwritersproject.org/node/
5179.)
White Wolfs spirit
I hear it. I grip the spear tightly in my

hand. I know its there.
No more hiding. Come out in the
open, I say angrily.
Nothing happens, but I continue to hear
the crunches in the snow. I push through
more branches of pines and cedars. Most of
the trees are evergreen, but a few are just
bony branches.
I have to find it. Ive never seen it directly, but I know if I want to prove myself,
I have to catch it.
The White Wolf has terrorized our village for months. I must kill it. Bring its pelt
back and show it off. Hang it on the wall.
People will watch me in awe as I walk by.
A cool wind full of snow snaps me back
into reality. I pull my cloak tighter around
my shoulders and follow the steps. I finally
jump through the trees into a clearing, crying out.
Then I see it. The White Wolf! I grip
my spear so hard my knuckles turn white.
I hold the spear above my head and run
toward it. Then it turns around. I see its
eyes, glowing, pale, emerald eyes. I know
at once it is a spirit. I drop my spear.
Dont kill me, young one, says a
voice in my head.
The White Wolf stares at me. It looks
right into my eyes.
Youve terrorized the village. I must,
I say.
Its eyes shift from emerald to gold, then
back to emerald.
You have terrorized us, the wolf says
in my mind. Every day, our home is ruined a bit more. We are killed for food, and
our homes are destroyed.
It will only get worse with time. I am
not your enemy. You are ours. I speak for
all the life of the forest, White Wolf says.
I suddenly understand.
If you stop hurting us, we can live in
harmony and protect each other. We must
work together. We have never tried to hurt
you, it says.
I nod. Then all at once, as if the village
can speak in my mind too, all the memories
of White Wolf stealing food and making
holes in walls flood back to me. Then the
hopes of my hanging the white pelt on my
wall.
I stop looking into its eyes and my mind
is twisted. I pick up the spear, hold it over
my head, and bring it down over the wolf.
It collapses, dark blood gushing from its
neck. I pull the spear out. I hear its last
words.
We never hurt you. I am not your enemy, it says, and then its gone. Its green
eyes shift from emerald, to gold, to black,
as if its light has gone out. They stay open,
boring into me.
I suddenly realize what Ive done. I
pick up its limp body and start dragging it
to the village.
Its words were true. Now it will haunt
me forever. Ive ruined the harmony of
animals and people. The wolfs words echo
in my mind.
We never hurt you. I am not your
enemy.
And the words that hurt me the most,
It will only get worse with time.
EVA TOBIAS, BURLINGTON

Plaid shirt
Hey.
You probably didnt think
youd ever hear from me again.
Maybe you didnt pick up
because you lost my number
and the one flashing on your phone screen
is foreign to your eyes.
Remember when we used
to know those digits by heart?
I still do, I think.
You probably dont.
Thats okay.
I only called because I found that shirt
the plaid one with the beige buttons
that you left at my house
two summers ago.
It was under my bed
and it made me think about
how thats a perfect representation of our
friendship.
Swept under the bed.
Into the dark, the dust,
the place where no bothers to look,
unless theyre searching
for something theyve lost.
Sometimes things roll under
and you dont bother fishing them out
because in the moment
you dont need them.
Thats what happened to us,
isnt it?
We were kicked beneath the mattress
and neither of us bothered
to crawl back into the light.
I guess thats what Im doing:
trying to get back to that place.
But it was summer when we disappeared,
and the sun in the summer is brighter
than that of the winter,
and Im not sure I recognize
the snow-blanketed garden
or the icicle-trimmed rooftops.
If this is still the same place I left,
please call back.
Or even if you only want your shirt,
because I have that, too.
THIS WEEK: Voicemail & General

Each week, Young Writers Project receives submissions from students across the country. A team of staff,
mentors and students selects the best local writing and
images for publication here. This week, we present
responses to the challenges, Voicemail: Tell a story or
poem in the form of a voicemail & General writing.
Read more great writing at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
JOIN YWPS
ONLINE COMMUNITY!
FRIDAY, MARCH 11
BASEMENT TEEN CENTER
39 MAIN ST., MONTPELIER
PERFORMANCE WORKSHOP 5 P.M.
TEEN OPEN MIC 6:15 P.M.
MORE INFO
youngwritersproject.org/node/5128
THE BAY AND PAUL

FOUNDATIONS
PHOTO OF THE WEEK

Long gone
One phone call
TYSHON TUNNELL, SHELBURNE
TEEN OPEN MIC
ELLA STAATS, BURLINGTON
Ring, ring, there goes your phone.

Who is calling?
Its restricted, never known.
Whoever it is,
time to answer.
But he wont be greeted kindly, no sir.
Why a stranger is calling me
no one knows.
Could be a mistake, silly me.
So I answer it,
no trouble.
But I know my danger
has now doubled;
the problems faced
cant be solved in a day.
The things the person describes,
it cant be, no way.
They know me so well,
but dont know me at all.
Why so much trouble
over one phone call?
YWP NEWS & EVENTS
Emma Comeau, Shelburne
Heart monitor
I believe that people look at the lows
in their life, the negative times where you
just feel like breaking, and they think that
theyre being trapped and it feels like an
end is drawing near.
People might wish that their life was
a flat line with no hopeful high points
followed by a seemingly negative drop. It
feels like your world is burning and cracks
are blossoming in the foundation of your
youth and all that anger and sadness you
harbor inside is bursting out through the
fragments of a broken soul. The sinking
feeling you get when you sit down and
your thoughts swim around you. Through
all the cold, bitter touches of your own
thoughts, the whispered words, theres
simply nowhere to go, escape your
cracked, dry lips.
Its as if you can see a dark monster
creeping closer when you close your eyes
and its like the ups and downs of your life
signify not a life of adventure, but a life of
agony. When you feel lost and broken to
the point of succumbing to the tears falling
from your eyes and the whimpers residing
in your chest, think of this. Life is like a
heart monitor.
The line filled with the short rises and

ongoing dips shows signs of not death, but
life. When the monitor shows a flat line, it
shows not life but death.
A life with none of the rocky bumps
isnt considered life at all. Those negative
feelings, which bring the onslaught of those
trapped emotions, do not mean the end is
near. They mean it is only the beginning.
So next time your thoughts swirl around
inside your skull, telling stories of false
nightmares and fake realities, think of this.
Take a moment and look at that bumpy
lifeline of yours. Take a good look at all
the terrifying negatives and the seemingly
short glimpses into happiness.
Look at all the bright moments where
the light seemed to outshine the darkness
and the times where the darkness just about
swallowed you whole.
Take a look at the lifeline stretching far
back into your past and watch it extend into
your future. Dont look at the bumpy, long,
and deadly painful ride its been and think,
Im dying.
Take a look at all the things youve overcome and all the things that knocked you
down and think, Ive never been so alive.
Remember? All those years ago?

When we lay asleep on the side of the
road?
I showed you the stars and you found your
way home.
I followed you as I looked for my own
I think maybe Ive found home on the
road.
You probably wonder why I call you now.
You arent home Im aware.
You cant cry cant fix me with your icy
stare
Im free to go I only called to say goodbye. I know I didnt stay to say goodbye
I left I spread my wings and now I fly
over pastures over cities the road is now
my home.
Ill live in bliss without a thing to call my
own.
Dont call me a runaway
Im not running Im finding myself.
Soon youll see and that promise is binding when I return to you Ill have found
my place in the world on sea or the
ground
even as you search endlessly for me.
I think most would leave a number a way
to keep in touch
cause theyll miss you, oh so much!
I think Ill leave you fitful slumber you
can wonder
where I am and now you know
Im home Im on the road
restless beneath twinkling skies
Ive spread my wings and now I fly.
KYLIE SCHULTZ, ESSEX JUNCTION

ISIDORA BAILLY-HALL, BURLINGTON
Sunrise
The sun was just rising, casting a
musky golden light over everything and
highlighting the moisture droplets of the
grey mist, quickly receding.
The sun itself was a glow so cheerful
and warm that the drooping, damp mist
retreated reluctantly to the darkness from
which it came. The dew on the pale green
grass shifted joyfully under the gentle rays
of light, pulling the light into each drop and
then sending it out to the next single blade
and the drop sliding down its back.
The trees on the horizon were something sent down from the sky. Their crimson and deep purple leaves were dark in
contrast to the ever-lightening blue above
the wispy cotton clouds. The lighter leaves
absorbed the light and sent it out again so
that they glowed like the light in a yellow
tent in darkness.
I stepped out onto the porch with my
ancient grandfather. His gnarled hands,
spotted faintly with age, clasped mine as
he sat down in his old rocking chair, which
was almost as old as he was. It groaned
slowly, as if welcoming him into the
frayed wicker of its sagging lap. I sat on
the banister, carefully avoiding slivers of
disagreeable wood that bristled from it like
a curmudgeonly hedgehog. My grandfather took a breath, and I looked into his
pale brown eyes that held secrets like a
river stirred up by bare feet in the summer.
Slowly, he spoke.
Look at the games the dew plays with
the rays of sun, and the air of soft severity
about the trees standing above. They are
guardians, too proper and dark to partake in
the play, but reveling in the light spreading across their broad limbs. The world is
waking up and perfectly at peace. You are a
piece of the whole puzzle, watching, letting
the golden joy seize your heart like all of
them.
Grandfather gestured with a skinny
arm across the scene before us, then turned
to look deep into my eyes. I nodded with
complete understanding. He smiled at me
from the tiniest corners of his wizened
eyes. Never forget this moment, my
child, the old man said.
With everything I was, I whispered,
Never.
THIS WEEK: Moment & Persist

from students across Vermont, New Hampshire and beyond. This week, we present responses to the challenges, Moment: Use this phrase, Never forget this moment, my child, the old man said & Persist: Write
about a character who persists and succeeds, despite
the jeers of others. More at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
JANES TRUST
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
FRIDAY, MARCH 11
BASEMENT TEEN CENTER
39 MAIN ST., MONTPELIER
PERFORMANCE WORKSHOP 5 P.M.
TEEN OPEN MIC 6:15 P.M.
MORE INFO
youngwritersproject.org/node/5128
Dying request
Never forget this moment, my child,

the old man said as he took his last look
upon this world and said, Goodbye.
Tears started to drip from my eyes. I felt
empty inside, a feeling I had never experienced before.
Just looking at his face reminded me of
how much fun we had had together.
This old man had taken me around the
world, from the forests deepest parts to the
mountains top.
I felt the cold touch of the wind and the
warm touch of the waterfall; it was like a
paradise.
I guessed this feeling of emptiness was
because he was not here anymore.
I hadnt known what would become of
me when he died, but one thing I did know
was that I had to continue living and experiencing the part of the world that he had told
me about but had never gotten to show me.
Keep trying
sparkle. A patch of her hair is covered with

pollen from the flower that she is peeking
out of. That second, the one second I see
her, feels as if I am watching a thousand
sunsets: a picture of beauty and eternity. I
give a squeak, not so much in fright as in
amazement.
The fairy puts her finger to her lips and
flies off. As she does, I get a glimpse of
light purple wings and a green blur before
she is gone.
I rush out to the patio with the crowd
of adults. A fairy, I almost yell, A real
fairy! The adults chuckle at my outburst,
and my parents look slightly uncomfortable. But an old man sitting next to me
smiles, his eyes bright, Never forget this
moment my child, never forget it.
Something is not right in the world.

You feel the need to change it.
You make a plan. You tell people.
You expect support, loyalty.
But all you get is foul comments and jeers.
They laugh; you cry.
Crying fixes nothing.
You have but one choice: to persist.
You have a dream that seems impossible.
But nothing is impossible.
It could be flying cars; it could be anything.
You try to make them understand, but still
they laugh.
They call you a fool; they call you a nobody.
You try once... failure.
You try twice ... failure.
The people laugh harder.
You feel the urge to cry, but again, crying
fixes nothing.
Try and try again. It could take years.
Just ignore the people and keep trying
harder.
You want to quit, but finally your hard
work turns into something remarkable.
You have done it.
You have proven the people wrong.
They stand there, eyes wide, jaws dropped,
just staring at what you have done.
A rush of pride and adrenaline comes over
you. You have but one thing to say: Strive
for your dream to become reality. Failure
and success are two different things, but
both can change the world.
ISABEL VIVANCO, BURLINGTON
TJ WHITE, CAMBRIDGE
Remember
IRIAN ADII, CAMBRIDGE
TEEN OPEN MIC
RUPESH GURUNG, BURLINGTON
EMMA BARKER, BURLINGTON
Never forget this moment my child, said

the old man,
for these moments are what help build up
the huge moments in your life.
You may think that these are worthless, wasteful minutes of your protracted
moment-filled life.
But trust me, my child, I only speak the
truth.
I tell no lies; every single breath you take is
one more step to your last breath.
You must remember every inhale and
exhale.
Every time you take a step, you are leaving
a mark on Mother Earth.
She has no choice but to remember that
moment.
You should remember the scars you left on
her.
The same with every thought. Your
thoughts might make you want to explore
the world, see it with your own eyes.
Remember, just remember, my child,
remember.
YWP EVENTS
Madi Cohen, Bolton
Fairy encounter
Sprinkles of light dance around me in a
shimmery waltz. I lie, hidden in the underbrush of the garden, out of sight from the
murmuring people on the patio.
The grass is soft on my back, and
leaves caress my face while the flowery
perfume tickles my nose. A thorny rose
bush to my left sways as the wind blows,
and it momentarily grazes my face. A small
scratch is all that is left, but it feels as if I
have been struck by a sword. I turn around
to hide the tears from nobody.
A sudden shimmer through my blurred
vision distracts me. A small fairy, the size
of my hand, is gazing at me through a gap
in the petals of a flower. Her small face
is delicate, and her eyes, a golden brown,
THIS WEEK: Fanfiction
The Hidden Cave

I felt the wind grab my hair, swirling it
around in the blustery breeze. A blue and
gray striped scarf, wrapped around my
face, shielded me from the crisp winters
air.
I ducked around a wall. The tall stacked
stones that formed the outer courtyard of
the castle provided welcome shelter from
the howling wind. Strings of ivy crawled
up the rock, curling and twisting so that
some of the golden-gray stone was completely covered in thick, waxy leaves.
I glanced furtively around before pulling out my wand. It was about five inches
long and stiff. It was a wand made for
combat. A single dragon heartstring rested
in its center.
I pulled it out and waved it in a sharp
upwards movement, muttering the spell
under my breath. The curtain of ivy curled
away, revealing a dark tunnel that sloped
dramatically downward. I climbed inside,
ducking to get into the small opening.
With a swift tap, the ivy curtain curled
back into place, sealing me in utter and
complete blackness.
Lumos, I muttered, and white light
erupted from the tip of my outstretched
wand.
The tunnel itself wasnt very pleasant.
Its walls were wet and slimy, and the harsh
light from my wand cast shadows and left
reflections, some of them making me jump.
After a good 10 minutes of climbing
down, my back hunched and my knees
bent, I came across a mighty oak door. The
tunnel had opened up into a huge cavern.
The door in this cavern was magnificent. It
reached the height of about 15 feet, and a
width of maybe 10. An iron knocker hung
in the center of the door. I moved toward
it with trembling fingers, and grabbed the
cold metal with my bare fist.
Nox, I said under my breath, and
the wand went out. Healthy golden light
streamed out from under the door, making
the cavern not so sinister, but more magical. Small black crystals were embedded
in the rock over my head, and when they
caught the light, it felt like I was standing
underneath a night sky, filled with millions
of winking stars.
The light from underneath the door
brightened and began to escape in small
streams, swirling and glowing around me,
lazily drifting up to the ceiling and touching a crystal, making it glow a faint deep
purple. This was real magic. Forget about
the wave of a wand or an utterance of a
spell, nature had its own magic, infinitely
more powerful and beautiful than a humans. ...
(Fanfiction: Harry Potter series; read the complete
story at youngwritersproject.org/node/3656.)
LEXI ANDERSON, SHELBURNE
NEXT PROMPTS
Clouds: Imagine you have the ability
to float up to and walk on clouds -- and
not fall through. What do you do with this
newfound power? Alternates: Photo-SeaStairs: Use the photo, Seapoint, Dublin,
Ireland, by Giuseppe Milo to write a
story. Due March 4
Wishes: You come upon a wishing
well. What kind of magic happens at the
bottom of a wishing well? Who handles
all these wishes and how? Alternate:
Sound-Stirring: Listen to this sound and
write the story you hear. Due March 11
YWP NEWS & EVENTS
Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students across Vermont, New
Hampshire and beyond. This week, we present responses to the challenge, Fanfiction: Place yourself in one of
your favorite fictional tales. What kind of trials are you
and your beloved characters facing today? Read more
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
BURLINGTON TELECOM

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

SLAM TEAM TRYOUTS
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 2
MAGLIANERO CAF
47 MAPLE STREET, BURLINGTON
6:30 P.M
CALLING HIGH SCHOOL POETS, RAPPERS,
EMCEES & SPOKEN WORD ARTISTS!
Denise Casey & Rajnii Eddins,
legendary poets and teaching artists, host
an open tryout for a teen slam poetry team
that will meet regularly to write, riff and
perform. Deliver your best rant, poem or
spoken word piece!
MORE INFO: youngwritersproject.org/
SlamTeam2016
The graveyard
through and noticed three cats. One was a

large brown tabby. Hawktalon, he recognized, a smaller but very muscular orange
tabby whose name he didnt remember,
and ... no, he thought, it couldnt be ... not
Breezepetal. He gulped, looking at the
black she-cat who bore a resemblance to
him. And perhaps he had been staring for a
moment too long, but the she-cat caught his
eye and looked away quickly, almost with
an ashamed look.
What was that, Breezepetal? growled
Hawktalon, his voice gruff.
Nothing, she replied, looking away.
Nightdash let out a silent exhale of
relief. Silverstar shot him a glance, holding up his tail. He took that to mean a little
bit longer. Nightdash gazed longingly at
his sister, wishing she would come back to
ThunderClan.
It was Tom, Huck and me, all at the

graveyard. We had waited until midnight
for this, and we were about to do something with a dead cat to get rid of a wart
(its a superstition of ours).
Then just as we were walking into the
graveyard, three people showed up. We
all ran behind a bush. We recognized the
people right away: it was Injun Joe, Muff
Potter and the doctor.
According to the conversation they
had, they were about to rob a grave for the
doctor to study the body. I was about to pee
my pants. I said we should run, but Tom
and Huck said that if we made a noise, then
they would see us, so I stayed still.
Then something happened. Im not sure
why he did it, but I did hear talk about not
enough money coming from Joe.
The next thing we knew there was a
dead doctor; Muff Potter had passed out,
and there was a knife in his hand.
Watching the whole thing, we knew that
Joe had done it. We all swore to never tell a
living soul. We all knew that if we told anyone Injun Joe would be after us. The next
day I told my aunt about the whole thing;
that was a big mistake.
HANNAH FRASURE, SHELBURNE
CELIA RUTTER, BURLINGTON
Dylan Sayamouangkhua, Burlington
Warrior Cats
Silverstar held up his tail for silence, his
large grey ears twitching as they yearned
for any sound: a slight rustling in the
brambles or the crackling of leaves beneath
paws.
This is where I heard he said they
would be, muttered Nightdash, anxiously
shuffling his paws.
Then as Silverstar turned his body to
head back to camp, the two cats heard
meowing several fox-lengths away, bodies
concealed by the branches.
Come on, quietly, hissed Silverstar,
his large silver body pressed against the
earth. Nightdash followed, his black-furred
belly almost grazing the ground.
Their camp is a gorge, a little ways
into the forest past this hill, said one of the
hushed voices.
Crawling forward, Nightdash glanced
THIS WEEK: Hallway
Hunch your shoulders

Wasnt my fault.
Nothing I could do.
Kid brought it on himself, shouldve just
hunched his shoulders and hid, thats what
I do
(easier that way, too).
Flashbacks of the fight played back in the
boys mind.
Kids shouting their sick, Romanesque war
cries, egging him on,
and one voice standing out, a young boy
crying out, Leave me alone!
You can almost imagine someone stepping
forward, thumb down, and the sudden end
of a life
(shouldve kept his head down, then there
wouldnt be any strife).
Looked out at the bloodied face of a kid
who was
not that much older than he
but had yet to learn the golden rule.
Learn to be invisible, at least at school,
(it works for other situations, though).
Begging eyes,
they cry,
HELP ME.
Looking away, a shake of the head,
shouldve hunched your shoulders,
is silently said.
Each week, Young Writers Project receives submissions from students across Vermont, New Hampshire
and beyond. A team of staff and students selects the
present responses to Hallway: Theres a confrontation
in a school hallway in which there is a blatant injustice.
What happens? Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
JANES TRUST
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
EMILY FOSTER, SHELBURNE
Late for chemistry

I rush to my locker, late for my chemistry class. I need to grab my textbooks and
my notebook for that class. I glance at my
watch Im running three minutes late. Mr.
Gilbert is going to kill me. He hates when
people are late more than anything else.
I frantically open my locker, spinning
my light-green lock right to 15, left to 27,
and right again to nine. It pops open with
a satisfying click, and I shove my books
inside, grabbing my chemistry materials. I
slam the locker closed, push the lock shut,
and pull on it a few times to make sure it
is totally locked. People have been stealing
things lately, and I dont want to take any
chances.
My brisk walk down the long, echoing hallway turns into a grounded run, and
some teacher shakes her head and snaps at
me to slow down. I dont have time to slow
down! Im five minutes and 13 seconds
late! Mr. Gilbert is going to have my head!
As I turn the corner, I trip over my
own feet, falling onto my face, my books
and papers spilling everywhere. I lie there,
groaning and thinking that I might as well
give up now. But I take a breath and sit up
after feeling the sensitive bruise that has
already formed on my cheek. Lovely.
I collect my scattered papers and stand
up. I can faintly hear a thud and then
moaning, and I can see two boys way
down at the end of the hallway, somewhat
concealed by the open door to the janitors closet... The larger boy is whispering
something into the skinny boys ear, and
the larger boy has a menacing look on his
face. The larger boy winds up and pounds
his fist into the skinny boys stomach, and
the skinny boy drops his glasses, which
shatter on the ground.
My heart begins to race. I cant just
stand here and let this happen. We are always told to refrain from being a bystander,
to stand up for the person being bullied, but
it never seems this hard...
AMELIA MASON, BURLINGTON
Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.
org/node/4063.
YWP NEWS
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AT YOUNGWRITERSPROJECT.ORG
Hospital hallway
Darkness lingered in the air.
My breath fogged up the glass windows
leading to disturbing windows.
I kept walking.
The light flickered
on and off, on and off.
A mouse scurried in the distance.
On and off.
Old surgery tools were thrown about.
Dried blood stained the walls.
On and off, on and off.
The end was coming.
My footsteps click-clacked,
on and off, on and off.
BLAYNE FITZGERALD, BURLINGTON
In the bus corridor
At The Generator in Burlington by Kevin Huang, Burlington (See more photos in The Voice)
Sunglasses man
It was 8:05 on Friday morning; the halls
were empty. All the teachers and students
were in homeroom; I could hear the faint
chatter from behind the door of each room
I passed.
The muffled voices flowed through the
hallway, but a pair of voices seemed louder
than the rest. The voices were surely still a
whisper, but not in one of the classrooms.
They sounded closer.
I rounded the corner of a row of lockers to find Mr. Dennis standing a few feet
away, talking to a man I had never seen
before. They both turned around, surprised
as if they had forgotten that they were in a
school and that there would be students.
I pulled out my blue pass that Coach
Thrane had written for me and quickly
walked away. As much as I wanted to stay
and find out who the man with the sunglasses was, I had to deliver the attendance
to the main office.
I hurried down the empty halls, running
across the smooth floor, then slowing every
time I passed an open door.
By the time I reached the office, only
one minute had passed since I had bumped
into Mr. Dennis. I gave the attendance to

the main office and started running up the
stairs to the third floor. I rounded the same
corner as I had a brief second before. The
sunglasses man was walking away from my
math teacher but still facing him. I caught
the last bit of their conversation.
This isnt a new hope kind of thing,
Dennis, the sunglasses man growled. It
was weird hearing him use my teachers
last name. He must be mad.
I wont fail you this time, Mr. Dennis
called after him.
The sunglasses man nodded his head
and walked swiftly down the hall.
Before Mr. Dennis returned to his classroom, he quickly slipped something into
his pocket.
Did the other guy give it to him? I only
saw it for a second, then I blinked and it
was gone.
It was silver and thin. A lightsaber? No,
Star Wars isnt real. But if it is, could my
teacher really be a Jedi?
Good thing I have math next.
SKYLAR CLARKE, BURLINGTON
Mark was riding the bus home after

school as he usually did when ... Crash!
The whole bus shifted forward. Someone
had rammed right into the back. Thankfully, it didnt look like anyone was hurt.
The bus driver pulled the bus over, and the
guy in the Toyota followed; the bus driver
got out. What the hell do you think youre
doing! he yelled at the driver.
What do you mean? You couldnt have
been driving any slower, old man!
It was pretty clear how aggravated our
bus driver was. He walked away and back
into the bus, pulled out his phone, and immediately the other driver got out of his car
and walked up to the bus entrance.
You cant call the police! Please, Im
already on two strikes; I have money; I can
pay you!
The bus driver started to close the door
so he didnt have to listen to the stranger
beg for mercy, but right before the door
was about to close, the man stuck his hand
in and grabbed it before it locked.
Im not going to let you do this, said
the Toyota driver and he grabbed the phone
and launched it as far as he could.
The bus driver shoved him, and the
man fell down the stairs, smashing his head
against the pavement, and a pool of blood
started forming around his head.
Everyone was looking out the window,
astonished. Then the kids started screaming. Someone opened the emergency door
in the back and everyone started running.
That was the last anyone at my school
ever saw him again; some say he went to
jail, and others say they saw him take off
into the woods. But no one really knows
what happened to him.
LUKE ARENAS, WINOOSKI
THIS WEEK: Cant you see it?
Wishes
Cant you see it? my father whispered.
I smiled.
Yeah, Papa. I feel like I can see everything.
He shifted in the grass next to me,
turned his head to look me in the face.
Youve got one heck of a mind, child.
He grinned.
Im lying down and everything, but
the sky must just be everything there is,
with how big it is and all. It just stretches
in every direction, and I can see the whole
great arc of it. Its like
I looked back up at the stars, searching
for the right words.
Its like nothing I can explain.
I took a breath, then added, I bet you
all the words in the world couldnt explain
that good enough.
One heck of a mind, Papa said again,
staring at the darkness around him and
shaking his head.
Do you think Mamas up there? I
whispered without moving my eyes from a
star that seemed to be, somehow, watching
over me with an orange glow, warmer and
gentler than the other stars.
I didnt wait for an answer.
I think she is.
I made a silent wish on that star, an ifonly wish that felt surer and stronger than
ever as I felt it fly from me up to the dark,
enormous sky.
A firefly darted in front of my star, led
my eyes away from it and made me giggle
as it landed in the grass next to my hand
and lit up.
I heard a rustle in the rushes beside
the pond and closed my eyes, imagining
a proud mama duck nestling into her soft
feather bed with her little ones all around
her.
I rested my head down on the soft pillow of grass behind me with a contented
sigh and whispered, Good night.

hundred submissions from students across Vermont and
New Hampshire. A team of staff, mentors and students
selects the best writing and images for publication. This
week, we present responses to the challenge, See: Write
a story that begins with the phrase,Cant you see it?
Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
PARTNERS
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
EMMA BARKER, BURLINGTON
Flawless painting
Cant you see it? she asks as she
stands in front of the art piece. She, the
visage of the Upper East Side, of fashion
itself, stands before the painting with no
words.
A grin slides onto my face. Staring
at the painting, I see the most attractive
colors, glowing in the midday light coming
from the window.
I, too, admit that the strokes of the
brush are flawless, that the position of the
painting above the sapphire blue couch is
perfection.
The contrast between the heavy eggshell wall and the dark lustrous colors of
the painting is what makes me love my job.
I see it, I quietly murmur, not wanting
to disturb the angelic moment between the
painting and the woman.
It is in this moment that she will grasp
the beauty of the painting most, cherishing
it.
Oh, youve outdone yourself this time,
Lucille.
She clasps her hands and holds them up
to her mouth in that dramatic Cinderellawhen-she-sees-her-prince sort of way. I
love it!
YWP NEWS
Whale Tails by Kevin Huang, Burlington
Stray cats
Ready to pounce
Cant you see it?

Lying cozily on a warm, handmade rug,
white and soft
like an angel with a shattered halo,
peaceful breathing, the chest rising and
falling
oh so gently,
tiny paws grasping at the air,
seeking the invisible yarn
thats rolling around in its mind.
Whats the difference?

Two cats in need of love,
a safe home,
good food,
a pleasant place to lay their heads,
lonely fallen angels who lost all they had
and a cozy lap to cuddle in
to make it all better.
Cant you see it

through the fog, over the hill?
There it is, just lying there,
a lion with her cubs.
It lies while the cubs play.
It is still in the wild,
ready for anything.
Is that the father
sunning itself on the rock?
Yes, yes, it is.
Can you believe it?
There is a whole family there,
ready to
pounce,
play,
sun and sleep.
Nobody has seen lions in our village since
1969,
so rare
but they are just sitting up there.
Lets hope the children dont go and play
on the hill
or they might become dinner for the lions.
I wonder why they are here,
just up the hill
through the fog.
MOON STEWART, BURLINGTON
ADDIE DURANT, WILLISTON
Cant you see it?

Hungry and shivering,
matted black fur and watery eyes,
gaunt and on the brink of death,
stumbling to your doorstep,
eyes startled by the light and warmth.
RUBY GUTH, BURLINGTON
The darkness
Cant you see it? he had said. Four

simple words. Four words that changed my
life forever.
You see, I was just a normal kid, living
in the normal town of Larksboro, in the
normal state of Kansas.
I was walking home from school when
my mom called and said she wasnt going
to be home because of a meeting and that
I should maybe go visit the neighbors who
had just moved in. New neighbors were not
a new thing to me because the house next
door to ours was a rental. So after I had put
my school bag down in our house and eaten
some Goldfish, I headed next door to see if
the neighbors had any kids my age.
When I knocked on the door, an old
lady appeared. She faintly resembled my
grandma, with a kind, crinkled face that
smiled down at me.
And who are you, my lad? she asked.
The mover? You look much too young to
be working.
I live down the street, I replied, pointing to my house. I wanted to welcome you
to our neighborhood.
Suddenly the ladys smile faded. Oh,
no! she muttered. The time must have
come.
This time when she talked, her voice
was different, much lower and younger.
Then I saw her changing. Her body grew
a couple inches, and the wrinkles on her
face disappeared. Her skin got darker and
tighter. Her flower-patterned dress switched
to jeans and a T-shirt. The lady had become
a teenage boy, about the same age as me.
The boy said, Cant you see it?
And the problem was I could see it.
I could see the darkness, the waves of
sadness, broken dreams, shattered hopes,
cascading ominously down on the house.
In a few moments it would consume me. I
screamed for help, felt the other boys presence beside me. The time had come. The
darkness swallowed me like the jaws of a
python. I screamed but nothing came out. I
felt that all that was left of me were the bad
memories and the pain. Then it stopped.
The life flooded back into me.
I was standing at my neighbors door.
The lady was there. She spoke to me.
Now come inside, dear, or your vision
of The Darkness will become reality.
QUINCY MASSEY-BIERMAN, BURLINGTON
THIS WEEK: Eyes
Lioness
It was the eyes, chocolate brown and
always searching, that warned me to stop,
to listen to my instincts and think about
what I was doing.
She stared at me, and her soft gaze was
like a knife to my heart. I took a step back.
She didnt move, but another member of
the pack slunk forward menacingly and
growled. Her tail twitched, but nothing
happened.
Suddenly, she snapped around, baring
her teeth and pinning her ears at the one
who offended her. He shrunk back, cowering below her. Satisfied, she turned back
to me, ears perked forward and eyes alert.
I tensed but didnt move, afraid that even
blinking could set her off. Slowly, I opened
my beak and let my offering drop to the
ground, the rare flower between us.
Her eyes widened but she didnt move.
I tentatively pushed the orchid forward,
toward her. Slowly, her eyes never leaving mine, she bent down and picked up the
flower. I relaxed.
She nodded to me, then turned, motioning for the pack to follow. Slowly, surely,
the lioness left.
ISABEL COHEN, AGE 13, CHARLOTTE

hundred submissions from students. A team of staff,
images for publication. This week, we present responses to the challenge, Eyes: It was the eyes, chocolate
brown and always searching, that warned me to
Finish the scene. More at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
THE AMY E. TARRANT

FOUNDATION
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
ISIDORA BAILLY-HALL, AGE 14,

BURLINGTON
VERMONT WRITES DAY

IS WEDNESDAY, FEB. 10!
Stop everything to write for just seven minutes! Find out more at youngwritersproject.
org/vtwritesday2016.
Haunted forever
always searching, that warned me to stay;
the fear in those eyes kept me rooted to the
spot, though I knew I should be running as
fast as I could away from that spot.
I knew I should be protecting myself.
I knew I shouldnt have even been there
in the first place, and now all the shouldhaves floated around in my head like birds
trapped in a cage trying to break free.
I let out a soft cry, longing to go back to
that moment, to go back and run, go back
and save myself from the pain and misery.
But every time I think about going back, I
cant help but picture the eyes, the fear in
them, the eyes of someone who has experienced the pain and suffering of someone
much older, the eyes with the look of someone who has been brave for far too long.
It was the eyes that kept me there when all
my senses told me to flee; it was the eyes
that will haunt me forever.
On my way to school
always searching, that warned me to look
back. I had always thought walking to
school was relatively harmless. Other than
the omnipresent threat of being run over by
a car, the daily trek to school seemed monotonous, boring. Sometimes I would even
wish for a little danger, a little spice in my
incredibly flat life.
I was walking to school as I always did,
bundled to the point of being unrecognizable in hundreds upon thousands of layers
of fleece, wool, and everything in between.
My round form tottered along the icy
sidewalk, slipping to and fro, and I was
generally making a fool of myself in my
ridiculous winter attire. It was just another
winter day, a Monday like any other, until
he came.
Out of the blue I saw him appear, only
his face and midsection visible through the
tiny slits my eyes had in my gargantuan
outfit. He appeared slightly deranged at
first, clothed in only a T-shirt and jeans on a
sub-zero day, a crazed look in his eyes, the
most notable feature on his gaunt face.
His head was turning side to side at
an extremely fast rate and his eyes were
darting faster. He seemed to be running,
probably away, if my superb intellect could
be counted on.
I was the smartest in my fifth grade
class, for goodness sake. I knew all of my
multiplication tables; what else signifies a
genius? I mean, really!
Then, unexpectedly his eyes focused
in on something; just over my shoulder his
gaze stopped.
A cloud passed over his face, his eyes
switching from nervous and paranoid to
deathly afraid, not just any afraid, the youbetter-run-for-your-life variety that you only
see in extra special incidents such as when
the teacher catches you writing on your
desk in Sharpie.
Thats when I knew to run.
YWP NEWS & EVENTS
ZALEY DELEONARDIS-PAGE, AGE 13,

BURLINGTON
Zuzane
Kevin Huang, Age 17, Burlington
Eyes tell stories

always searching, that warned me to look
out for what was coming. They would tell
me the future.
You can tell what is happening to someone by their eyes. Always.
When someone says or hears something that genuinely makes them happy, or
touches their heart, their eyes will show it.
Our facial expression shows what we are
feeling, but not our story, the deep tale that
eyes tell.
Our eyes define us; we dont even know
it. Those dark brown eyes have told me
many times to look out for the future, to
make sure it doesnt come falling out of the
sky right onto our heads. They have always

been right.
Those eyes are a magic 8 ball, a crystal
ball, and a calendar. They are little windows into a mind full of ideas, knowledge
and science.
They see things that our minds cant.
Eyes see other views and perspectives and
personality in people that your mind cant
tell are transparent, simply see through.
Eyes tell the story of our lives, events,
emotions, opinions, care and fear.
All you have to do is look straight at
someone, and you will see their story, as
beautiful as life.
EMMA LOWRY, AGE 12, BURLINGTON

always searching, that warned me that she
was so tired.
My aunt, she was so kind and always
happy. She had a beautiful face like an
angel. She liked to make people feel good
about themselves. She loved kids. She
played with them.
Every time she was coming home she
always brought us something. Now she
is dead. People in the family loved her so
much. We miss her. Her name was Zuzane,
Aunt Zuzane.
CECILE YANGAMBI, AGE 14, BURLINGTON

Planet
Oh, to launch myself into space
and find myself in a brand new place,
my very own planet, on which to live,
a most precious gift the universe gives.
Oh, to launch myself into space,
leap through galaxies with so much grace,
find myself in a new atmosphere
where my thoughts are no longer filled with
fear.
Oh, to launch myself into space,
move on my own, at my own pace,
remove all context for my current state
so I can finally, finally think straight.
SOPHIA CANNIZZARO, AGE 16, W. GLOVER
THIS WEEK: Space Travel

images for publication. This week, we present responses to the challenge, Photo-Space Travel: Write about
the photo, Greenwood Space Travel Supply Co. Read
more great writing at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
VERMONT BUSINESS
ROUNDTABLE
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
YWP NEWS & EVENTS

INTERACTIVE AUTHOR TALKS
Young Writers Project and the VT Department of Libraries present the first in
a series of Vermont Interactive Author
Talks featuring S.S. Taylor, author of
The Expeditioners.
SATURDAY, JAN. 30, 2 P.M.

KELLOGG-HUBBARD LIBRARY
MONTPELIER
&
VIA VIDEO CONFERENCE AT
FLETCHER FREE LIBRARY
BURLINGTON
More info: youngwritersproject.org/taylortalk
Photo-SpaceTravel.Greenwood Space Travel Supply Co., by

Los Paseos. (Creative Commons license.)
Space hardware
The bell over the door jingles merrily as
I enter the Greenwood Space Travel Supply
Co. The space-hardware store, as it were, is
chock full of everything one would need to
travel to a galaxy far, far away.
As it happens, the Greenwood Space
Travel Supply Co., has a share in a space
travelers expedition to find the planet
Tatooine. He has promised all shareholders
a light saber, a hyper-drive, a desert-planetmust-have moisture vapor, and some clone
armor. His last transmission sounded kind
of promising. I might get a share; theyre
only 50 cents.
I digress: back to the stores contents.
Theyve got copies of the Hitchhikers
Guide to the Galaxy and they take pre-orders for the Hitchhikers Guide to a fraction
of the universe.
Other merchandise includes, but is not
limited to, a large collection of space suits
with varying degrees of use and several
million ration packs ranging in age from
the Apollo missions up to the international
space station. They do sell space and sci-fi
movies, but these generally have large
Whatever you do, dont try this at home
stickers plastered over the front. Theyve
lost several customers to black holes after
they started selling interstellar, and the
stickers have been attached to the movies ever since. Im here for a copy of the
Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, several
hundred ration packets, a patented biggefier, and a five-sided Allen wrench.
I am planning a trip to one of the Mars
colonies and have to do a couple of minor
repairs to my spacecraft. I will have a blueprint for my spaceship and a copy of my
flight log for any shareholders who would
like one. Until then, this is Commander
Richards: Over and out.
SEBASTIAN HOLCROFT, AGE 13, BURLINGTON
Kaleb Aiken, Essex High School
READ THE JANUARY ISSUE

THE VOICE
Inside Greenwood
Excitement is bursting from my fingertips. I cant believe were really here. The
Greenwood Space Travel.
As soon as I heard that I would be in
Seattle for break I made sure I could come.
My family looks at me, slightly weirded
out.
Are you going to go inside? my sister
says.
I take my first step inside. It just looks
like a cute museum gift shop, but I know
its more.
I race to the back of the store as my
family mills around, looking at posters,
shirts and other junk.
Crossing my fingers, I hope I can get
this right. Ive heard you only have one try.
My dream is to go to space and this is
my chance.
People say the experience is unreal at
Greenwood; you are transported to an alternate dimension. Into the universe.
I look around the back wall, searching
for the so-called code hidden there.
I desperately scramble around, constantly looking back at my family to make
sure that theyre still distracted.
I pull the paper out of my pocket with
the instructions. Find the code hidden on

the wall farthest back in the store.
A feeling of disappointment falls over
me; maybe it really doesnt exist.
I look up as a woman walks out of the
back.
You seem like youre looking for more
than just a key chain. Come with me, she
says as she leads me into the back of the
store.
MAIA VOTA, AGE 14, BURLINGTON
The future
Space ships flying everywhere
I know the future will bring me there.
Zooming on a one-wheeled device.
Where will we be in all that time?
In a train would be a good place.
And not just a train,
but a train in space.
Take me to the place
where I belong
a space in a place were future is not so long.
HENRY PARSONS, AGE 11, SHELBURNE
NEXT WRITING
CHALLENGES
School: What is the best thing and the
worst thing about your school? Suggest
a practical solution to fix the negative.
Alternates: Sound-Typewriter: Listen to
the sound on youngwritersproject.org and
use it to inspire a story; or General: Send
us your best work of any category or type
that youve created in or out of school. Due
Feb. 12
Seuss. Write in rhyme! Create a cast of
crazy characters! YWP honors the late
Dr. Seuss, who would have turned 112 on
March 2. Alternate: Perspective: Tell a
story from the perspective or viewpoint of
something unconventional: a chocolate bar,
a houseboat, a spider, etc. Due Feb. 19

Teenage torture
He was like OMG, why are you like
this? And I was just like Like what? You
got a problem with me? And he was like
Yes, I do! You are so stupid! and I was
like What? And he was like Whaaat?
and I was like What? and he was like...
How slow is this elevator? I thought.
... and I was like, Dan, are you breaking up with me?!
Why cant she just shut up? I said to
myself.
I was trapped with this girl on her
phone in an elevator that didnt seem to be
moving.
... and hes like Im sorry, but I just
cant be with someone like you. You spend
my money on things you dont need and I
was like No, I dont! Thats such a lie!
Suddenly I couldnt stand it anymore.
Miss, can you be a little more quiet,
please? Thanks.
The girl looked at me for a while then
said into her phone, Wait, I just met a cute
guy in the elevator. I looked up at the ceiling. Then she asked, Whats your name?
I looked at her. Who, me?
Yes, you, silly.
Uh, Dante.
And his name is Dante! she squealed
into her phone. Oh my God! Isnt that just
such a cute name? Should I ask him?
Then, like heaven to my ears, the ding
of the elevator sounded. Finally, the ninth
floor! I said out loud. Even though I needed to get to the 11th floor, I decided to take
the stairs. Itd probably be faster anyway.
THIS WEEK: Monologue

images for publication. This week, we present responses to the challenge, Monologue: Write a monologue of
a person who is troubled or conflicted about something.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
BURLINGTON TELECOM
SATURDAY, JAN. 30, 2 P.M.
SANIYAH HILL, AGE 13, BURLINGTON
TON
Young Writers Project and the VT Department of Libraries present the first in
a series of Vermont Interactive Author
Talks featuring S.S. Taylor, author of
The Expeditioners.
Prom was coming up and I was deciding whether or not to ask Lydia.
Should I ask her? No, no, I shouldnt.
She might not like me back. You know
what? Im gonna do it. Wait, no. Damn, she
might not like me back. Sigh.
The undecided part of me was winning.
But the part that loved Lydia was runnerup...
LUCY KRAUS-CUDDY, AGE 13, BURLING-
THE VOICE
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Prom
What am I doing here? I dont know,

I dont know. My hands are shaking; my
teeth are chattering, and drops of cold
sweat are descending down my back. I am
pale-faced and scared as a chicken ready
for slaughter.
What am I doing here? I dont know; I
dont know. I cant do this. I just cant. I am
not mentally ready, physically ready and
certainly not emotionally ready. No, I have
to do this. No, that doesnt work. I cant lie
to myself. I know that I cant do this, but I
know I should.
What am I doing here? I dont know; I
dont know. With every moment passing,
I become a bit more worried, a bit more
scared. My stomach twists and turns, and
my heart is beating so fast that it would
match the acceleration of a hummingbirds
tiny wings.
I hold my head in my hands and begin
weeping like a small child. What am I doing here? I dont know, I dont know. ...
READ THE JANUARY ISSUE

INTERACTIVE AUTHOR TALKS
ZANI LEWIS, AGE 12, BURLINGTON
I dont know
YWP NEWS & EVENTS
Balloons
Perhaps were all just like balloons, a
million indistinguishable red balloons.
Some, however, cling to their strings
with a persistence that exhausts them to the
point of bursting.
Others float peacefully, some preferring
to linger slightly closer to the comforting
ground more than others, but all within the
same general vicinity.
A few wayward balloons struggle
against their strings.
They reach longingly for the elusive
and promising sky.
It is their white whale, their only
reason, and yet they think no further than
the sky.
They do not consider what lies beyond;
they simply grasp at the clouds first hopefully and then with a building, audacious,
and sometimes lengthy infatuation.
Most break free of their strings eventually or they simply go mad trying.
Those who do break free float meaninglessly among the clouds until they simply
burst.
When we are young, we have a growing
need to break free.
KELLOGG-HUBBARD LIBRARY
MONTPELIER
&
VIA VIDEO CONFERENCE AT
FLETCHER FREE LIBRARY
BURLINGTON
More info: youngwritersproject.org/taylortalk
WHEN WE ARE YOUNG,

WE HAVE A GROWING NEED
TO BREAK FREE
As we age, the need drains from most,

but some simply continue to strain against
the norm.
Perhaps were all just bound to burst
at some point too filled with our own
troubles and thoughts.
Sometimes I think that those who do
break away to float among the clouds might
have a more subdued passing, so that when
they pop, they do so with eloquence and
grace.
ZOE CUDNEY, AGE 13, BURLINGTON

& THE VOICE
NEXT WRITING
CHALLENGES
Myth: Invent the wackiest urban myth you
can think of. Alternate: Love: They said I
shouldnt love you, but I couldnt help myself Why? What happens? Due Jan. 29
Voicemail: Write a poem in the form of a
voicemail message. Make it rhyme! Record
it! Alternate: Superhero: Create your own
superhero. Keep it classic with a comic
strip; make a slideshow or soundscape;
draw a portrait or write a descriptive story.
Due Feb. 5
School: What is the best thing and the
worst thing about your school? Suggest
a practical solution to fix the negative.
Alternates: Sound-Typewriter: Listen to
the sound on youngwritersproject.org and
use it to inspire a story; or General: Send
us your best work of any category or type
that youve created in or out of school. Due
Feb. 12
Somethings off
A picture is a portal into someone elses
universe. This is the universe of three girls
three women sitting together at a table,
all experiencing a different emotion.
The one on the left, blonde. She almost
looks as if shes happy.
Dont let that deceive you. Her smile
is fake, false, phony. At first glance you
wouldnt see it. But its in her eyes. The
loneliness, almost a little bit of fear. But of
what? What does she have to fear? Is it the
cameraman? The outdoors? Her friends?
Her friends. What are they doing; what
are they thinking? Why arent they even
trying to smile for the camera?
Somethings off. Why would the girl on
the left try so hard to look so happy if the
other two are just going to frown and hide
their faces?
Maybe a fight or a tragedy pushed them
to this separation. So many possibilities.
But we will never know. For us, its just a
picture, a photograph. For them, its a story,
a story from their universe.
DALTON FITCH-OLEARY, AGE 14, BURL-
THIS WEEK: Photo-Women

week, we present responses to the challenge to write
about the photo, Three Different Reactions Facing a
Photographer. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
BLUEBIRD BARBECUE
INGTON
CHALLENGE: PHOTO-WOMEN
Three sisters
The youngest
blonde hair
and a flirty smile,
always desperate for attention,
and happy
to have her picture taken.
The middle child
used to being ignored,
simply blending in,
a flower on the wall,
and no one takes pictures
of the wall.
The oldest
simply bored
with her sisters
childish responses.
Let him take her picture.
Who really cares?
Lea sees the camera first. She vaguely

recognizes the face of the man holding it
the press badge around his neck reveals
him to be a member of the Hardwood Report. The Report is a sucker for soft news
they probably heard about the cafe opening
and sent over someone to get a couple shots
to fill tomorrows paper.
Lea cant help keeping an interested eye
on the photographer as she folds her legs
and straightens her collar. She tries to smile
a little, to look like shes enjoying brunch
with her friends. Maybe shell get her picture in the paper. Shes the kind of person
who no one really notices, who doesnt
get her photo in newsletters or graduation
slide-shows, no matter how many events
she attends or how many attempts she
makes to be seen. A regular wallflower.
The Hardwood Report photographer
probably wont take her picture he probably wont even notice her presence but
just in case he does, shell be ready.
Samantha notices the camera second.
Instantly, she unfolds her sunglasses and
slips them onto her face in an attempt to
appear disinterested and perhaps unnotice-
YWP NEWS
Challenge: Photo-Women: Three Different Reactions Facing a Photographer, by Pedro Ribeiro Simoes (Creative Commons license)
CHECK OUT THE JANUARY ISSUE!

to get your FREE subscription
Secret meeting
We sit down at the table outside the
cafe with our lattes in hand. I sip my drink
and look at the two girls sitting next to me.
The one to my right has blonde hair,
pulled up in a bun, and brown eyes. I remember seeing her during the meeting that
was held last year. She was very confident
and always had something to say. Im
pretty sure she talked for half the meeting.
The girl to my left has black hair with
bangs and she has blue eyes. I dont think
I have ever met her before. She must be a
newbie. She hasnt even taken a sip of her
drink and shes just looking at it like its all
she has.
After examining the two girls that Im
probably going to have to compete with I
look back at the blonde girl. She is staring at something in front of us and I turn
my head to see that its Alexander with his
black suit and briefcase. He comes toward
us and sits down at the table while putting
his briefcase next to his chair.
OK girls, I am here to discuss a crisis
that needs the best of the best and you
girls are the best we have for this job.
But in order for this to go smoothly,
you will have to get along with each other.
JOYCE KE, AGE 14, SHELBURNE
Through the lens

AS SHE SHADES HER FACE WITH HER PALM, SHE TAKES A DEEP
BREATH AND WAITS FOR THE PHOTOGRAPHER TO MOVE ON.
able. Everywhere she goes, she draws
attention. She doesnt try to, but like everyone is constantly reminding her, people
gravitate to her beauty. She has her dads
tan skin and height and her moms thick,
dark hair and contoured cheekbones.
When she was 13, she went to New
York City for a weekend and a lady on
the street tried to convince her to be in a
clothing advertisement. From then on, she
couldnt help noticing how people seemed
to be drawn to her. Shes not mean, but
lately shes felt like shes become more dismissive. Its just that so many people want
to talk to her and be around her. She feels
badly turning them away, but she just cant
be everyones friend.
When she and her friends went out for
brunch today, she prayed she wouldnt
meet any acquaintances. All she wanted
was to enjoy a few hours alone. And
yet, her natural charisma has drawn another

nosy photographer. She cant count all the
times she has appeared in the Hardwood
Report enough to make her cancel her
subscription, thats for sure.
Alyson is the last to see the camera.
When she finally does, she instinctively
brings a hand up to cover her face from
view. Realizing what shes done, she
silently curses herself. She spreads her
fingers slightly and takes a better look at
the photographer. Hes from the Hardwood
Report.
She closes her fingers again and bites
her lip. She knows she should lower her
hand, but she cant help herself from
shielding her face.
Growing up in a family of plastic surgeons, she has always been very aware of
exterior flaws. Her mom and dad constantly
talked about proper nose and cheekbone
shape, about Botox and wrinkle prevention,

about acne and scarring.
As she got older, Alyson couldnt help
but be acutely aware of her appearance. It
got worse in high school, especially when
Carla Bell started to tease her about her
pointy nose. She started to avoid all cameras. She hasnt had a photo taken of her
voluntarily since she was 16. Even though
she knows she shouldnt be ashamed of
anything, she cant help it. Now, as she
shades her face with her palm, she takes a
deep breath and waits for the photographer
to move on.
Ben crouches down on the pavement
and steadies his camera lens, trying to get a
better angle. Theres a really cute chipmunk
right behind that table, but those three girls
are blocking his shot. The chipmunk snaps
its head up and then scurries behind a tree.
Ben clucks his tongue and stands up. Oh
well. There will always be another chipmunk to star on the Natures Nibblers
page.
ELLA STAATS, AGE 15, BURLINGTON
YOUNG WRITERS PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGES
January May 2016
Photo-Veggies.Artisan by Apionid. (Creative Commons

license)
18
Moment. Use this phrase in a

story: Never forget this moment,
my child, the old man said Alternate:
Photo-Veggies. Some people like their
vegetables to look just so Use the photo
above, Artisan, by Apionid to tell a story.
(Creative Commons license.) Due Jan. 15
Students, Grades 3-12, are encouraged to participate in Young Writers

Project by submitting best work done in or out of school, and by responding to these weekly challenges. Go to youngwritersproject.org to
start an account and join this community of writers and photographers.
Work is published in this and other newspapers, YWPs digital magazine, The Voice, VPR, VtDigger.org, cowbird.com and other media.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
30
Experiment. Youve got a monkey in a cage, a basketball, a paperback of the latest YA craze, and a bottle
of pomegranate juice what kind of experiment are you doing? What do you hope
to learn from it? (Feel free to imagine your
own wacky scenario). Alternates: Gate.
Use this phrase in a story: She slipped out
the gate and started to run or General.
Send us your best work of any category or
type that youve created in or out of school.
n any genre. Due April 8
20
Myth. Invent the wackiest urban

myth you can think of. Alternate:
Love. They said I shouldnt love you, but
I couldnt help myself Why? And what
happens next? Due Jan. 29
21
Voicemail. Write a poem in the

form of a voicemail message. If
possible, make it rhyme! Now record it!
We want to hear it! Alternate: Superhero.
Create your own superhero. Keep it classic
with a comic strip. Make a slideshow or a
dramatic soundscape. Draw a portrait. Or
write a descriptive story. Due Feb. 5
31
Kevin Huang, Age 17, Burlington High School
ago. What did it look like then? Tell a story

Alternate: Sound-Train. Listen to the
sound clip on this challenge on the site and
write the story you hear or create a soundscape using the clip and adding others. Due
Feb. 26
23
Seuss. Write in rhyme! Create

a cast of crazy characters! YWP
honors the late Dr. Seuss, who would have
turned 112 on March 2. Alternate: Perspective. Tell a story from the perspective
or viewpoint of something unconventional:
a chocolate bar, a houseboat, a spider, etc..
Due Feb. 19
24
Before. Think of one of your

favorite places -- an old building
in town or a barn or a house. Now imagine
this place 100 years ago or even 200 years
Tweet. Tell a story in a tweet

(140-character segments). Alternate: Sound-Shower. Click on the audio
link on this challenge and write the story
you hear or use the sound clip and others to
create a soundscape. Due March 25
29
19
School. What is the best thing and

the worst thing about your school?
Suggest a practical solution to fix the negative. Be proactive. Take charge! Alternates:
Sound-Typewriter. Listen to the sound in
this challenge and use it to inspire a story
OR use this sound clip and add others to
create a soundscape; OR General: Send us
your best work of any category or type that
youve created in or out of school. Due
Feb. 12
28
Humbling. I thought I knew

the answer, but finish the
sentence in a story of a real or imagined
experience. Alternate: Expectations. You
meet your biggest idol, --insert celebrity/
public figure here. Describe the meeting. Is
the person everything you had hoped for or
? Due April 1
Connection. You open a love letter that isnt addressed to you, and
the writer seems so familiar its as if the
letter was written just for you. What goes
through your head? Do you write back?
What do you say? Alternates: Ad. Create
a commercial advertising any product, real
or made up. Really sell it! Add a sketch of
the ad or product if you like! OR SoundIce: Listen to the sound in this challenge
and write the story you hear or use the clip
and add others to create a soundscape. Due
Jan. 22
22
Fog at the Train Station, by Tambako the Jaguar. (Creative

Commons)
Seapoint, Dublin, Ireland by Giuseppe Milo (Creative

Commons)
25
Clouds. Imagine you have the

ability to float up to and walk on
clouds -- and not fall through. What do you
do with this newfound power? Alternates:
Photo-SeaStairs. Use the photo above,
Seapoint, Dublin, Ireland, by Giuseppe
Milo to write a story. (Creative Commons
license) or General: Send us your best

work of any category or type that youve
created in or out of school. Due March 4
26
Wishes. You come upon a wishing well. What kind of magic

happens at the bottom of a wishing well?
Who handles all these wishes and how?
Alternate: Sound-Stirring. Listen to the
sound in this challenge and write the story
you hear or create a soundscape using this
and other sound clips. Due March 11
27
Fool. Its April Fools Day and

your character plays a trick that
has everyone at school laughing -- including the teachers. What is it and why is it so
funny? Alternate: Photo-Station. What is
the mood or atmosphere of the photo above
right, Fog at the Train Station, by Tambako the Jaguar? (Creative Commons)
Due March 18
Op-ed. Write an opinion piece

based on a current news story.
Take a side and make a persuasive argument. Try to keep it tight. Try to write it
in three paragraphs. Alternate: Awoke. I
awoke to the sound unleash a poem
with this line. Due April 15
32
Blue. It was the most brilliant

shade of blue Id ever seen
Work that phrase (or concept) into a poem
or story. Alternate: Framed. You have a
photograph of a meaningful moment. Describe it. But wait, theres more now tell
a story about whats just outside the frame.
Post the photo! Due April 22
33
Passage. You find a secret passage in the basement of your

grandfathers house. Where does it lead?
How does it change your perspective
about your family/grandfather? Alternate:
Surveillance. What do you think about
government or military surveillance? When
does it go too far? Due April 29
34
Back. Oh gosh, theyre back...

Write a story based on or using
that phrase. Alternates: Certain. Make a
list of 10 things you know for sure. You
can start your list with the words, This
I know It can be funny or serious; or
General writing. Due May 6
Chipmunk!
THIS WEEK: Embarrassed & Things
I am going to tell you a story, but you

must be sworn to secrecy. This story is going to make you laugh. It is going to make
you have tingles all through your body.
Once when my sister and I were little
me 4, her 2 she had just figured out
how to roll down the window in the car.
She thought it was the coolest thing ever.
All she would do is roll it up and down, up
and down. As we pulled into our driveway
she was still playing with the window.
My mom turned off the car and we went
inside. We didnt realize the window was
still open. That night, some chipmunk that
must have felt chilly decided to jump in my
sisters window and go under her car seat
and make a little nest.
Early the next morning, my mom, my
sister and I got in the car and started to
drive. The movement of the car must have
woken up the chipmunk because he came
crawling out from under my sisters car
seat and scared us half to death.
We were all screaming and the chipmunk ran under the passenger seat and onto
my moms lap! The chipmunk tried to get
out of her window but it was closed. So
then it tried to go out through my sisters
window which was also closed because she
was messing with the windows again!
My window I am not sure how was
open, so the chipmunk scurried over to my
side of the car, ran up the side of my arm,
landed on my head and jumped out of the
window.
Meanwhile my mom was trying to
drive, but the chipmunk interfered with that
process. We ended up parked on the side
of our lawn, just sitting there for a minute,
letting what just happened sink in.
While we were in the car getting attacked by a chipmunk, my dad was inside
wondering what the heck was going on. He
quickly walked over to the car and said,
What the heck happened?
We just sat there, explaining the event.
It was quite an embarrassing moment
because he thought that we got stung by a
bee or something when it was really just
us screaming about a chipmunk.
To this day we always roll up our windows every time we get out of the car.

from students across Vermont and around the world. Our
team selects the best local writing and images for publication. This week, we present Embarrassed: Whats
the most embarrassing (true) story that youre willing to
share?; and Things: You have to move and have one box
for all your things. What do you bring?
IRIAN ADII, AGE 11, CAMBRIDGE
Two events
1. I was 8 years old, and my family

and I were walking on Church Street, heading toward Ben and Jerrys.
I wanted my dad to pick me up, so I
pulled on his arm hard, may I add and I
said, Daddy, Daddy, pick me up!
He looked down, and that is when I
realized that it was not my dad.
I ran up to my real dad, held his hand
and kept walking. I was so embarrassed, on
the edge of tears.
2. Everyone fears the awkward walk
in This one was different, because I was
the one walking in. I knocked on the bathroom door; I heard nothing. So I opened the
door and I saw a tall man in the womens
bathroom, sitting on the toilet staring at me
with big eyes.
I really had to go! he said.
I quickly shut the door and walked out,
pretending that nothing happened.
ABBY OSMOND, AGE 12, BURLINGTON
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
YWP NEWS & EVENTS
PHYSICIANS COMPUTER
COMPANY

THE VOICE
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Apple sauce
Kevin Huang, Age 17, Burlington, VT
MOWLID ABDI, AGE 12, BURLINGTON
What I left behind

It began with fire,
wood and paper
against enveloping orange flames
that ate up the world
that was my own.
The flame and smoke tangled and curled
round its plentiful prey,
pulling them down into the fallen beams
and gleaming embers,
the cries of those caught in its trap
piercing the night.
And I took my socks and shoes and ran.
I ran from the flames which chased me.
My world
was left behind
lighting the night
till it was no more than
a golden glow
of what was left behind.
Years later
when life was worthless
and I sat behind walls,
which were only an expiration date of law,
I waited.
I waited while the people spoke in my ear,
kind words,
good words,
but all I ever heard was run
run to forget what was left behind.
So when the day came
and I thought I was free,
I took my socks and shoes and ran.
The most embarrassing thing in my life

was when I was eating apple sauce in fifth
grade.
One of my friends made me laugh in
lunch. I was laughing so hard that my apple
sauce came out of my nose.
I was embarrassed; my friends were
disgusted. They all moved to another table.
Everyone started to laugh. Then it happened again. It was disgusting. I grabbed a
napkin and wiped it off.
Next time when someone makes me
laugh, I need to wait before I eat.
I ran to get away

from the walls and people
that held me prisoner
and I left it all behind.
When hearts were one
and verses of love were sung to me
I only heard the clock,
a powerful beat.
And when the ground grew cold
I felt the ice burn my feet
and the heart,
which once held love,
filled with terror.
And I took my socks and shoes and ran.
I ran because I was scared.
I ran so far my socks and shoes
became worn by earth.
It was not until I stopped
and let my body sink into the ground
that it occurred to me
what had always been so clear.
I ran because the flames never stopped
chasing me.
It was not what I brought,
but what I left behind.
ERIN ZUBARIK, AGE 15, CHARLOTTE
Wind in the Willows
The most embarrassing thing that has

happened to me was when I was performing
in the play, The Wind in the Willows.
It was almost my turn to go on stage to
do my scene. I had had a solo in the play
and I felt really happy about it. I was feeling confident about doing my scene after I
had finished the song.
I was in the wings peeking at the audience to see how many eyes would be on me
when I went on stage.
I could see maybe 100 or more people
in the audience. Butterflies started to appear
in my stomach when it was my queue.
I went on stage and said my first line. I
felt pretty good. Once I said that line, Toad
said his line, and then Horse, who would
give me the queue to say my next line, said
her line.
But I didnt say my line. My mind went
blank. I could not remember anything.
People stared at me and all I wanted to do
was run off stage and cry.
It was very embarrassing and I will
always remember that moment.
RUBY LABATE, AGE 13, BURLINGTON
Chair hockey
Introducing a new sport to the U.S.:
chair hockey!
Chair hockey started as regular hockey
that was played in Russia on frozen ponds
and lakes. One day, the third tzar of Russia
was invited to play in a hockey game at
beautiful Lake Vidvacove. Once he got
there, the powerful tzar said, Ah! Thou
has remembered the game. Now where is
my chair?
Everyone laughed loudly.
My lord, said one person. Thou does
not need a chair in hockey.
However, said the tzar, I am the tzar.
I insist!
The men had no choice. One man ran to
his house and came back with a chair. The
tzar was delighted.
Thou has served me well, said the
tzar to the man.
Word leaked out about the kings chair.
Soon, other hockey teams began to use
chairs to play hockey. So that was how
chair hockey was born.
The chairs in chair hockey are soft,
fluffy chairs. Sticks are attached to the
armrests. The sticks are used to propel the
chair across the ice. The motion is similar
to rowing a boat. Players also hold a golf
club to shoot the puck toward the goal. The
first team to score 10 goals wins.
There are many high school chair
hockey leagues in arenas around the world.
The players like gliding fast on the ice.
To play chair hockey, players have to
have sharp eyesight. Players still need to
wear skates but they dont have to be great
skaters. Teams also need to practice strategy to score 10 goals.
One last thing, kids! Watch out, because
the 2016 Chair Hockey World Championships might be coming to your country. The
first-prize winner wins the Golden Chair!
THIS WEEK: Sports, Fame & General

from students in Vermont, across the U.S. and other
countries. A team of staff, mentors and students selects
the best local writing and images for publication here.
This week, we present responses to Sports: Invent a new
sport; Fame: Write about a character who is suddenly
famous; & General writing in any genre.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP
Young Writers Project is an

independent nonprofit that engages
students to write, helps them improve
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 is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses and

individuals who recognize the power
and value of writing. If you would
like to contribute, please go to youngwritersproject.org/support, or mail
your donation to YWP, 47 Maple St.,
Suite 106, Burlington, VT 05401.
Grave tag
This sport is a hide-and-seek and tag
combo. It is played at night in the cemetery.
The seeker covers his/her eyes and
counts to 20. The remaining players go and
hide somewhere in the cemetery.
After the seeker counts to 20, he/she
tries to find the hidden players.
The seeker must tag the hidden players once they are found. When a player
is tagged, the player must go and lie on a
grave. When the seeker has successfully
tagged all the hidden players, a new round
begins with a new seeker.
ZANI LEWIS, AGE 13, BURLINGTON
YWP NEWS & EVENTS
MAIN STREET LANDING
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
SUBSCRIBE TO THE VOICE!

YWPS MONTHLY DIGITAL MAGAZINE
YWP WRITERS AT
WINTER TALES
HUNTER NORTON, AGE 11, FERRISBURGH
Found
In a cold, little orphanage down by the
stream, there was a little girl named Eve.
Every year kids would get adopted even
though theyd been there only four days or
so. Eve was the only one who didnt get
adopted. She was an outcast and no one
even knew her name, but that was all about
to change.
One morning, she woke up thinking she
heard the headmaster calling. When she
walked downstairs, no one was there, so
she took a seat and turned on the TV. The
news flickered on and she saw a picture of
herself and under it, it said FOUND. She
walked into the kitchen to get the newspaper. All this confusion was getting to her
head so she went to take a nap.
When she woke up, she walked downstairs and turned on the TV again. She saw
yet another picture of herself.
Things started to get weird when she
walked down to the news station.
I demand you to tell me why I am
always on the TV, she said to a reporter at
the station.
The news person told Eve she was a
very rich kid and she had been lost since
she was a baby. Eve asked the reporter to
take her back home to her parents.
They were so happy to have their little
girl back, and that is where Eve stayed for
the rest of her life.
HANNAH DE LIMA, AGE 11, CAMBRIDGE
Lydia Smith, Age 18, Charlotte
My feet hurt
It was as if the whole room was moving. Chalk swirled through the air and the
lights flashed, illuminating the wall.
The announcer bellowed my name to
the audience. It was my turn. I pulled my
shoes onto my sore feet.
Earlier in the day, I had bust a hole in
my old shoes and was forced to go on an
epic chase for a spare pair.
My heels were already bloody and blistered after only a few climbs, but I pulled
them onto my feet anyway, gritting my
teeth and limping to the climb.
I shoved my hands into my chalk
bag and dusted the excess chalk off as I
surveyed the wall. I could picture each
movement in my head, like a delicate dance
with the climb. As I stepped up and placed
my hands on the first hold, the screaming
crowd faded from my mind. I pulled myself
up onto the wall and reached for the first
hold.
My feet were screaming in pain but

I ignored it and just focused on the next
hold. As I climbed, everything else disappeared as if a fog had covered everything,
muffling all sound and blanketing the world
in a peaceful bliss.
I lunged for the next hold and felt
myself slipping. I dropped onto the mat and
the world came swarming back in, but with
it came a new realization.
Only one other person had gotten farther than that, which meant I had come in
second. I felt myself swelling with happiness, and then the pain in my feet returned.
READ MORE GREAT WRITING

&
The Voice
PRESENTED BY VERMONT STAGE COMPANY

FLYNNSPACE, BURLINGTON
INFO & TICKETS: vtstage.org/winter-tales
Friday, Dec. 11 @ 7:30 p.m.
Briggs Heffernan, Newbury
Lily Novak, Burlington
Saturday, Dec. 12 @ 2 p.m.
Eden Howort, Essex Junction
Chlo Gagnon, Burlington
Saturday, Dec. 12 @ 7:30 p.m.
Oliver Halberg, Shelburne
Olivia Brunelle, Essex Junction
Sunday, Dec. 13 @ 2 p.m.
Anna Pringle-Corcoran, Essex Junction
Fern Sullivan, Burlington
Isabel Vivanco, Burlington
Tim Crocker, St. Albans
Mackenzie Marcus, Shelburne
Unforgettable
I haul my gear out onto the ice, my
skates clattering against my back. With frozen fingers, I attempt to tie the laces on last
years hockey skates but it feels as if Im
tying iron into a knot. My toes reach the
tips of the skates, pinching uncomfortably.
With barely functioning limbs on this
subzero February day, I stand up and
attempt to navigate my way through the
cracks in the bumpy passage.
I nearly trip on a jagged piece of ice
protruding from the gleaming surface of
the lake. Once I make my way out onto
smoother ice, I gaze down in amazement.
The water has frozen solid, and the ice is as
clear as glass. I can see the very bottom of
the lake, enshrouded in millions of tan and
grey stones. I feel as if I am skating on air,
the ground beneath my blades not the usual
bumpy ice, but instead a sleek, untouched
bowling lane.
My skates clatter at first as I settle into
a rhythm. Powerful gusts of wind blow me
from side to side and I struggle to stay upright. As I begin to recall everything I have
been taught, my movements start to flow
fluently. The ice becomes my canvas as I
create magnificent strokes with my skates.
Silvery fish embedded in the ice shimmer in the sunlight and bore their frozen
eyes into mine. The frigid wind nips at my
face, stinging like a swarm of indignant
wasps. My back aches as I hunch over to
lessen the power of the wind.
A perfect day for skating? Far from it.
An unforgettable experience? Undoubtedly,
one of the best!
THIS WEEK: Winter Tales

from students in Vermont, across the U.S. and other
countries. This week, we present some of the local
pieces that were selected for Winter Tales to be performed by the Vermont Stage Company at FlynnSpace
in Burlington Dec. 9-13. For more information and tickets, go to vtstage.org/winter-tales.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP
Young Writers Project is an

independent nonprofit that engages
students to write, helps them improve
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 is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses and

individuals who recognize the power
and value of writing. If you would
like to contribute, please go to youngwritersproject.org/support, or mail
your donation to YWP, 47 Maple St.,
Suite 106, Burlington, VT 05401.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
INFO & TICKETS: vtstage.org/winter-tales

Wednesday, Dec. 9 @ 7:30 p.m.
Grace Adams-Kollitz, Burlington
Faduma Haji, Burlington
Thursday, Dec. 10 @ 7:30 p.m.
Claire Cook, Bradford
Natalie Barton, Bradford
Friday, Dec. 11 @ 7:30 p.m.
Briggs Heffernan, Newbury
Lily Novak, Burlington
Saturday, Dec. 12 @ 7:30 p.m.

Oliver Halberg, Shelburne
Olivia Brunelle, Essex Junction
Anna Pringle-Corcoran, Essex Junction
Fern Sullivan, Burlington
Isabel Vivanco, Burlington
First winter
FADUMA HAJI, AGE, 14, BURLINGTON

Performance: Wednesday, Dec. 9 @7:30 p.m.
PRESENTED BY VERMONT STAGE COMPANY

FLYNNSPACE, BURLINGTON
Saturday, Dec. 12 @ 2 p.m.

Eden Howort, Essex Junction
Chlo Gagnon, Burlington
GRACE ADAMS-KOLLITZ, AGE 13, BURLINGTON

Performance: Wednesday, Dec. 9 @7:30 p.m.
It was our first winter in Vermont. In

fact, it was our first winter ever. My family
and I had come from Kenya, Africa.
My older brother and I were getting
ready to go to school. I was dressed head
to toe with many layers of clothing. I was
very hot; I wondered what all this clothing
was for.
My mother told my brother to put on
his gloves. He refused.
Its snowing, my mother said. Your
hands will freeze.
Ill beat up the snow! my brother
replied courageously.
My mother persisted, but there was no
changing his mind, and so we started our
first winter adventure.
The walk to the school from home was
not far. As soon as I stepped outside. I
could feel the cold air rush at me. I looked
back at my brother and he had his hands
in his jacket pockets. Other than that, he
looked fine.
We had one more street to cross when
I heard my brother scream out loud. His
hands were pink, but not any kind of pink
Id ever seen. There were tears rushing
down his face.
My mother reached in her pocket and
took out his gloves. He eagerly took them
and put them on. Still the tears were running down his face.
To this day, my brother always wears
gloves on a cold, winter day.
SCHEDULE OF YWP WRITERS

WINTER TALES

Tim Crocker, St. Albans
Mackenzie Marcus, Shelburne
Branches by Sophie Dauerman, Shelburne
Its winter, after all

The snow slowly drifts to the ground,
piling up and up. It is night, but the snow
reflects into the sky making it a light
purplish grey. Snowflakes shimmer as they
pass under the beam of streetlights.
All is silent except for the crunch of
snow beneath your feet.
Slowly, you lie down and adjust the
snow into a position softer than a pillow
and let the snow fall onto your face.
Cold crystals attach themselves to your
eyelids and everything you see glitters. It
is so quiet and relaxing, you no longer feel
cold, just relief to be lying on the ground.
Laughter echoes in the distance and a
back door slams.
You almost jerk up, but feeling lazy,
you focus on the sleepy sky above you.
The light crunching of snow makes
its way up to you, but theres no need to
worry, just
WHAM!!!
Something white obscures your vision,
and drips down the back of your coat in a
freezing, unforgiving line.
You sputter and detach yourself from
the snow around you as you try to leap up.
Laughter rings like a bell nearby.
Slowly you kneel down in a position of sur-
render, hiding your hands.

The laughter echoes louder and the
footsteps crunch closer.
But now youve got them where you
need them.
In a quick swipe, the ball in your hand
is released and the laughter soon turns to
shock and outrage.
But before you can leap to your feet,
something else hits you squarely in the
shoulder and you shriek and trip backwards.
The laughter starts up again and soon,
the night is no longer the silent, relaxed one
from before.
Now its the one where snow pierces
your face, the one where snowballs, wet
and packed, fly around you, where the air is
fun and lighthearted. Its winter, after all.
ISABEL VIVANCO, AGE 14, BURLINGTON
Performance: Sunday, Dec. 13 @ 2 p.m.
READ ALL YWP POEMS AND STORIES

TO BE PRESENTED AT
WINTER TALES 2015

youngwritersproject.org/winter15
Winter friend
I look high up from the tallest pine
tree. I look down below all the way to the
ground and only see snow. I keep looking from the top of the pine tree. There! I
see a girl come out of the cottage. She is
short and has a bright blue hat. I watch her.
She walks out to a snow mound. It looks
like she is building something, but what? I
watch her as she rolls a big snow circle. A
snowman! She is making a snowman!
After a while she seems to wander off
to the back of the cottage. As curious as I
am I want to see what she is up to. I climb
down the tree cautiously and hit the ground
with a thump. I try to stay hidden as I approach the cottage.
I peek around the corner and see her.
She is sledding down the hill on a cherry
red sled. As she approaches the bottom she
falls off the sled. Ouch, I think. Then I take
a closer look. She is laughing and appears
to be doing something in the snow. A snow
angel. She seems like a snow angel.
I watch her stand up. Then I see she has
noticed me. She starts bolting up the hill. I
dont know what to do. So I stand still and
act like she didnt see me. She comes over
and just stands in front of me. Im a little
taller than her, but I think were about the
same age. Then she smiles at me. I smile
back at her. I think I have found a friend.
MACKENZIE MARCUS, AGE, 12, SHELBURNE
Performance: Sunday, Dec. 13 @ 6 p.m.
The one with the

skinny sister
It started out with some words about
how hunger evaded her that night.
Are you sick?
my mother asked because no one refused
her famous mac and cheese.
No,
my big sister replied.
(I think she meant yes
but in a different way than
my mom could ever know.)
I noticed a scale in her room
when I went in to ask her for help on my
homework;
she couldnt help because she was exercising. (Cheerleading tryouts are coming up,
she said.)
About two weeks later I called her down
for dinner
and noticed the way she winced
as I told her we were having pizza.
Everything OK? I asked.
Yes, she answered.
(I think she meant no
because the sparkle of fear
she felt when she looked at food
was growing in the pit of her stomach.)
THIS WEEK: Photo-Ghost

images for publication here. This week, we present responses to the challenge to write about the photo, My
Ghost. Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe,
civil online community of writers.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
BURLINGTON TELECOM
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
I asked my mom if my big sister was starting ballet

because I saw a box of ballerina tea on her
dressing room table.
No, my mom said and yelled for my
sister to come downstairs.
One night I was walking down to my bedroom and
I glimpsed my big sister getting changed
into her night clothes.
Her ribs were like knives sawing their way
through her body.
My friend asked me if my big sister
was super popular.
I asked why she would think that.
Shes so skinny,
Sarah replied and tugged at her own
bony stomach.
I found my big sisters notebook
in her room.
I felt bad about snooping
but when I opened the pages I saw
the whiteness of her skinny, skinny
bones as they poked and prodded through
thin veils of skin.
I saw counts of how many calories she had
every day,
and sentences about how fat
and ugly she was.
I rushed to my mom and told her
about how skinny my big sister was.
She sucked in her cheeks and took her
notebook from me.
Now my skinny sister is beeping away
in the hospital room surrounded by
walls almost as white as she is.
Youre the one with the skinny sister,
right?
Yes.
(What I meant was,
I am the one with the ghost
of a sister,
who needs people to tell her
that food does not hurt her,
who needs people to tell her
that she is already skinny.)
AGE 15, BURLINGTON
Audrey Ely, Age 14, Barre
My ghost
Everyone has a ghost.
The skeleton in your closet, the lies you tell
so much that it almost seems like truth,
the hurt you can never shake,
so much that your bones tremble and your
lip quivers and you want to stop everything
and sob.
My ghost.
My ghost is made of heated arguments in
the heat of summer as mosquitoes lick my
skin and crickets chirp, as if its an ordinary
occurrence, part of nature.
My ghost.
Made of fear in the dead of night, waking up from a bad dream where everyone
leaves because they never really loved me
anyway.
My ghost.
Made of I hate yous and heartbreak,
abrubtly ended phone calls and then lashing
out at the person who ended it because
I will never let anyone make me cry.
My ghost.
Made of the sickening realization that I was
never enough, that I never could be.
My ghost.
Pressing its cold lips and hands to the
Glass heart
Held captive by my glass heart, she

stares
out at the world,
her view distorted by the curvature of the
wall she leans against.
Her hands press on it; she imagines the way
it must look from the outside,
like the scene from Titanic, with the two
lovers in the car.
Except she is alone
and there is no passion in her soul
and the moisture in my glass heart is not
like the moisture on the car window.
The condensation on the car window is
caused by the collective warmth of two
people.
The moisture in my glass heart is caused by
loneliness.
Every tear I do not shed is broken into a
thousand pieces, each of which begins its
descent
into the bottom of her cage,
my heart.
On their way down, the droplets mingle
with her hands,
chill her bones,
until she is shivering, leaning against the
wall,
wanting only to be let
out.
But my heart has many locks, and no corresponding keys, certainly none that she
can reach.
All she can do is watch
as the water rises, millimeter by millimeter,
first unnoticeable, then tickling her soles,
making the hair on top of her toes stand up,
creeping up to her ankles, dampening the
hem of her dress.
If she could make herself warm enough to
spur evaporation,
she might have a chance.
But my glass heart is too small for dancing,
too slippery for climbing,
too round for running.
She can do nothing to keep her heart beating,
and therefore, nothing to keep her flesh
warm.
Once, her heart beat faster than the wings
of birds.
Now, her heart beats slower than my glass
heart.
Once, my glass heart was a prism.
Now, its a prison.
SOPHIA CANNIZZARO, AGE 15, W. GLOVER
YWP NEWS
SUBSCRIBE TO THE VOICE!
Read YWPs best writing
Photo-Ghost. My Ghost, Matt Wilson. (Creative Commons license.)
See amazing photography

Hear the writers voices
window, whispering in my ear about everything I fear.

My ghost.
Made of the knowledge that hurts and the
ignorance that hurts more.
My ghost.
Made of memories I repressed and emotions I cannot.
My ghost.
Me.
EMILY FOSTER, AGE 13, SHELBURNE
YWPS MONTHLY DIGITAL MAGAZINE

Right now
Im sunken in a sea of
white creases breaking
the round curves of my puffy.
Huddled in warmth, only
my fingers reaching
out to splatter the keyboard,
Im aglow in the
brightness pouring from the
screen, forcing back the dark,
ignoring the
numbers with PM and y=mx+
and struggling to stay busy.
Im uncomfy, my
hair and glasses and skin
all jumbled up,
waiting for inspiration to
strike, then diving to the
words, but still wondering.
Im about finished
now, still not satisfied but
too tired to care.
NEELIE MARKLEY, AGE 13, BURLINGTON
THIS WEEK: Forest & General
YWP NEWS & EVENTS
images for publication here. This week, we present a
winning submission to the Town Forest Writing Challenge and General writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil online community of writers.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
DISH CATERING
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Grounded
I walked to the edge. There was nothing
but empty space after that. I watched as the
bird soared this way and that.
I wished; I closed my eyes tight and
wished with all my might that when I
opened my eyes wings would spring from
my back. I knew it was silly, but it was all I
wanted to fly.
I was 18 and I was one of those guys
who needed to have something that wasnt
quite realistic. I opened my eyes but nothing had changed. Grounded. Thats all I
was. Grounded.
COOPER CUDNEY, AGE 13, BURLINGTON
Writers block
My mind goes blank
a blue sky covered by drifting white clouds.
I stare at the blank sheet of paper in front
of me,
not knowing what to write, what to do.
I absentmindedly doodle on the corner of
the page.
Random words float across the empty river
of my mind.
Hyperbole... falling leaves... pi... apple
pie... blue...
I shake my head in a futile attempt to clear
it.
Nothing makes sense. What should I write?
I dont know.
I fiddle with my pencil,
tapping an irregular rhythm on the empty
white page.
I look at my watch: 20 minutes until lunch.
I stare at the page.
A thought comes to me:
If I had heat vision, this page would be
toast.
I have no idea where the thought came
from, but it gives me an idea
I pick up my pencil, and begin to write.
At last, I am free!
Free!
Free from the dreaded writers block.
OLIVER HALBERG, AGE 14, SHELBURNE
My town forest
My town forest is Oakledge Park. The
first person to own what we now call Oakledge Park was Adam Brinsmaid, a jeweler
who settled his business along Church
Street. He bought the estate in 1793, not
using it for a park, but for a living space.
He built a grand mansion that is called
Oakledge Manor.
As years wore on, Oakledge was passed
down, until one day in the early 1920s the
property caught the eye of a group of 10
men or so, who were interested in the real
estate business. The land was sold to them
and the idea of turning Oakledge into a
hotel sprang to life. Outhouses and a barn
built by Brinsmaid were torn down and the
timber from the buildings was used to add a
small dining room to the manor. Eight cottages were built along the water and small
repairs were done to the manor.
After all the work was done, the 10
businessmen opened Oakledge Hotel with
a bang. Unfortunately for them, the stock
market had a huge crash and the hotel business was almost abandoned because of the
sudden depletion of money.
During their second year in business more small cottages were built, the
cost rounding out to about $600 (about
$7,454.34 nowadays). After successfully
completing this project, two of the owners decided that they would each like a
lot of land near the lake. So they built the
Clarkson House and the Appleyard House.
THIS IS ONE OF THREE WINNERS OF THE

TOWN FOREST WRITING CHALLENGE
Read all: youngwritersproject.org/forestwinners
The Clarkson House was passed down

to Clarksons daughter, Mrs. Ralph Hill
as a present. The owners of the hotel and
the land came up with a plan for the land
and gave out flyers to people in the area,
expecting they would want to invest in the
new plan, but no one did. About that time
the great Depression hit and a lot of the
owners were occupied and could not put
their money into the plan. Faced with a
lack of money, one of the owners sold part
of the railroad track that they owned. After
getting the $10,000 for that, they proceeded
to restore the manor. After a while, the
owners sold the property to a man who
renamed the hotel Hotel Sipican. Luckily
that was short-lived and the hotel part was
bought by the Hill family. Over the years
the Hills collected the properties, piece by
piece, until they owned all of them. The
Hill family looked after Oakledge for a
long time, adding a tennis court where the
volleyball court is now.
By 1962, Oakledge was abandoned. It
was then sold to the state in 1970. In 1971
the Burlington Fire Department burned
down the Hill Manor as a firefighting practice. In its place, there is now a pavilion.
All that remains of Oakledges famous
hotel era are the six chimneys that are
in the woods; they are from the original

six cottages near the lake. Oakledge has a
huge and interesting history that you can
see little remnants of as you walk around
the park. Flowers and fauna are plentiful
in Oakledge. Probably the most prominent
would be the poison ivy that speckles the
dense woods around the pathways. If you
travel up the cliffs that overlook Lake
Champlain, you see a variety of bushes,
some with berries. There are wild raspberries and buffalo berries.
In fall, the trees change from greens to
reds, yellows, oranges and brown. Most of
the trees at Oakledge are oak and maple,
and some pine. Around the paths the trees
grow more dense and you can see chipmunks jumping around fallen logs. Dogs
bark at the squirrels that jump from tree
to tree collecting from trees and bushes
near the cliffs. Additionally, there are some
unwanted invasive plants like buckthorn
that spread quickly and are overtaking
the natural growth. Various types of moss
run freely, making the forest floor a good
place for snakes to slither and small ground
animals to scurry across.
Oakledge Park is a beautiful and historically rich town forest that provides the
people of Burlington with a charming place
to go and wander around. Being so old, it
has a certain mystique about it that most
people find alluring. It is a very special
place, and also a tourist destination.
AGE 15, BURLINGTON
Who am I?
Who will I be when I am 35?
Will I stand before them,
held in the light,
and as I speak
those broken lines,
the people hold on to every word
of something that is more than human
and less than a being?
When I bend to take my bow,
red roses might be thrown at my feet.
How strange to think
they will never be for me.
How to know
what youll be
when you dont know who you are.
I guess its easier
to just be a star.
Or maybe
the room will be dark
and in my hand
I will hold the light,
the room so clean,
hiding the smell
of death,
spending my days
closing wounds,
holding hands.
But life is so fragile
I would rather not meddle
where hands might tear
something so delicate
or perhaps I will be ripping them apart
and watch blood trickle down the earth
as bullets fly at my brothers,
a pawn for my country.
But I dont know
because taking lives isnt all that interesting
to me.
THIS WEEK: 35
YWP NEWS & EVENTS
images for publication here. This week, we present responses to the prompt, 35: Who will you be when youre
35? Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil
online community of writers.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
ADVANCE MUSIC

THE VOICE
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Will someone stand by my side

who holds my hand when life is cruel
and sees me as beautiful
and worthy of love?
Will I hold a person in my arms,
a person that is a part of me
in a way no one has ever been before?
But this fantasy,
these dreams,
seem like nothing more
because all I see right now
is a puppet,
hollow,
and an exterior that seems so different
from what is inside,
and each scene of this act,
a jumble of arbitrary events
that seem to be greater in telling.
So who am I?
I guess I dont really know.
Maybe 20 more times
around the sun
will shine through
the clouds
which seem so grey
and reach me where I sit today.

&
THE VOICE
When Im 35
Long time
Mets catcher
I do not know who I will be at 35.

I know who I will be at 25
working in some slightly off-beat cafe or
pursuing my dream as a writer,
on a trip around the world,
posting everything I see.
I know who I will be at 15
still probably procrastinating,
still probably interested in the bands no one
has heard of
but are really good,
and looking at colleges
and hoping for a scholarship because
student loans seem to suck.
I do not know who I will be at 35, but
I have an image in my mind of 35-year-old
me,
older but maybe not wiser,
picking up this poem
and laughing.
When I am 35, I think that I will be

making plays as a Mets catcher in the
World Series.
Playing for the Mets has been my
dream for years.
Watching all the fans rise up and
scream when we win the pennant would be
a dream come true. Even better, four days
later, they would be watching us win the
World Series ...
I will still live in Vermont in the offseason. I will still love to ski and mountain
bike and a whole bunch of fun stuff.
Cambridge is the place where I am
growing up and I could never give that up.
Vermont is like water to me. Without it, I
cant survive.
EMILY FOSTER, AGE 13, SHELBURNE
TJ WHITE, AGE 10, CAMBRIDGE
When I am 35 I will be out on my own,

somewhere...
When I am 35 I will have my own house,
somewhere...
When I am 35 I will have a job, somewhere...
When I am 35 I will have pets of my own,
somewhere...
When I am 35 I will travel, somewhere...
Somewhere where I am happy.
HANNA GUSTAFSON, AGE 11, SOUTH BURLINGTON
Future family
When I am 35, I think I will be in
Vermont in a beautiful house with two to
three kids. I will have a husband who is
kind, loving, not demanding, and nice to
the kids ...
We would have sleep-overs for the kids
on Fridays. That is where I think I will be
when I am 35 years old.
HALIE LADUE, AGE 10, CAMBRIDGE
THIS WEEK: 802
Vermont
Sunshine on the bricks
and a cold ice cream cone
that drips
and slides down your arm.
Kids sprinting,
sand flying up behind their
small, wet feet.
Tourists entranced
with swirling, dancing leaves.
Hot cider
sweet taste
sits in your mouth
long after its gone.
Born from ice,
early morning rides
up to the
ski mountain.
Christmas lights dot everything.
Curled under a blanket,
protected from the cold outside.
Mud everywhere,
on your boots
and your clothes.
Early morning sunlight
that coaxes the buds
from the damp soil
and painted eggs
dotting the yard.
Come see our
Ben and Jerrys,
festive leaves,
icy ski slopes,
and muddy gardens
in the Green Mountain State.

from students across the country. A team of staff, mentors and students selects the best local writing and images for publication here. This week, we present responses
to the prompt, 802: Whats it like to be a teenager in
Vermont? Read more great writing at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil online community.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
BURLINGTON TELECOM
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
YWP NEWS & EVENTS

SATURDAY, NOV. 7
Featuring Vermonts new Poet Laureate

Chard deNiord, left, and 2015 Vermont
Book Award winner Kerrin McCadden,
right.
FULL DAY OF WORKSHOPS

& RELEASE OF ANTHOLOGY 7
VERMONT COLLEGE OF FINE ARTS
MONTPELIER
To register and for more information:
A teen and a state

Vermont: a love-hate relationship between a teenager and a state.
Teenagers are known for being crazy,
always wanting to have fun, and just doing
outrageous things. On the other hand, Vermont is known to be quiet, calm and having
a natural landscape. Put them together and
you get a slightly irritated teenager.
With a state that practically starts shutting down at 6 p.m., it can be very hard to
find a place to hang out with your friends
and just enjoy life.
Knowing that there are places around
you, such as New York City or Boston, cities that are known to never sleep, teenagers
start feeling like they are trapped in a city
where everyone goes to bed at around 9
p.m., and they must adapt to such a boring environment.
Walking down the street, you expect
to see people your age but you come to
the reality that everywhere you go, you
will always come across a ton of seniors. I
mean, dont get me wrong, we all love our
grandparents, but seeing people your age is
always a good way to start an adventure.
Every Vermont teenager cant wait for
the best 10 days of summer where we
finally have a place that we can spend some
time with our friends and family and still
be outside of the house after 9 p.m. These
10 days are when the fair finally comes
to Vermont after waiting for about two
months of boredom...
But when you finally escape your state
and go to a place where people never sleep,
you realize that you couldnt bear to live
anywhere other than the Green Mountain
State.
SAMA ABDULSAMAD, AGE 13, BURLINGTON
Kevin Huang, Age 17, Burllington
Its home
The lake, the cheese
Whats it like growing up in Vermont?

Its hard to say, really; sometimes youll
love it, other times youll hate it.
If you grow up in Vermont and you try
to go anywhere else in the world it will
always feel weird.
When you look at the horizon and you
dont see those big, slumbering Green
Mountains in the distance, youll feel out
of place. You will probably eat way too
much maple syrup and Ben and Jerrys ice
cream than the average person should. Also
youre officially in the only state that says
jeezum crow.
Growing up in Vermont means youll
always love nature. Each year you will see
the leaves turn red, orange and yellow.
You may adjust to the smell of manure,
but probably not. Youll love milking
and petting cows until you step in one of
their homemade pies (one of my favorite
memories.)
But in the end, you will probably stay,
because when youre snuggled up in front
of a crackling wood fire, eating some
homemade ice cream, youll know that
youre home.
Vermont is a wonderful place to be; it

has a large variety of perks. In Vermont,
you have the best of both worlds. You have
hot summers and cold winters.
To be a teenager in Vermont, there are
many things to do and see. We have it all!
We have museums; we have beaches, ice
skating rinks, roller rinks, go-carting. We
have Lake Champlain. We have Cabot
cheese. We have Church Street!
Vermont has a lot of opportunities for
children in my generation. There are many
locations in which there is homework help
and hands-on activities, like the King Street
Center, the Boys and Girls Club of Burlington, and even at school.
There are also programs at colleges
such as UVM and Champlain College,
where students volunteer to chill with
kids over the week days and sometimes
weekends. I go to one of those programs,
DREAM (Directing through Recreation,
Education, Adventure and Mentoring
Program). We do things like apple picking,
scavenger hunts on Church Street, costume
making, etc. Vermont is a great place for
anyone looking for a bright future.
ADAM MORGAN, AGE 13, BURLINGTON
SKYLYNN MEAD, AGE 12, BURINGTON
READ THE NEW ISSUE

COMING NOV. 12!
Through the seasons

Winter: Why do we even have winter?
Like, who wants it? I mean, yes, I get endless hot chocolate, but its so cold and overrated like, uhhh ... winter wonderland. Who
even cares? More like summer wonderland.
Spring: Oh, finally the dreaded winter is
over and what do we get? Mud. Ongoing,
never-ending mud. All happy flowers and
fresh air. Nope. Not here, never here.
Summer: Finally, summer has come ...
ahh ... paradise and salty hair Nope. We
get a lake, no paradise, only blue-green
algae.
Fall: Look up at the clouds. Thats what
we are saying in fall. Only boring, dreary,
lousy clouds. Oh, look at the leaves! What
about the brown ones?
Overall: Lets move to California.
ABBY OSMOND, AGE 12, BURLINGTON
Always at your side

The dog has stood by your heel from day
one,
puppy fur that makes your heart warm,
big brown eyes that make you melt.
You know she will never leave your side.
First night, and all you hear are the wails,
the whimpers.
It is a lonely call,
the call of sorrow;
the sound makes your insides churn
until you cant stand it
and you rush to where she lies.
When she spots you, at first
she feels relief,
but just like any child
when the day becomes dark
and the ghosts come out,
a stranger doesnt save you from your
fears.
And with your touch,
fingers running through her puff,
she whimpers.
Those soft brown eyes
that once warmed your heart
make your skin prickle.
But it lasts the night,
you standing by her side
God, those cries.
Until one day
when she cries no more
and you are no longer a stranger.
Fluff is gone,
replaced with golden hair
that shines in the sun.
When you go swimming
in the cool creek
she jumps in right after you,
fearing the unknown,
saving you from the cool, dark waters.
And when you push her away
because the claws might actually pull you
under,
she circles right back to you
and then it is a race to shore.
But she is forgotten
when you cant think of anything in the
world
but yourself,
when letters are more important than the
world.
But even then
those big brown eyes
can make your veins run dry
and you cant resist running your hands
through the coat,
which you held many years ago,
because the dice are in your hands
and theyre loaded
cause you know you are in control
because life is a game
and you can beat it
until its not
and you stand
with your back toward the angel
and your front toward the beast
and for the first time you feel your heart
beat.
But you should have known that there is
nothing to fear
because she always has your back
and you always have hers.
You hold her when she is alone
and she holds you when the gun is pointed
at your face.
The dog will always stand by your heel.
JOIN YWPS
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THIS WEEK: Loyalty

images for publication here. This week, we present
responses to the challenge, Loyalty: Tell a story where
loyalty plays a key role. Read more great writing at
youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
PARTNERS
YWP NEWS
SATURDAY, NOV. 7

Also: Meet Vermonts new
Poet Laureate Chard deNiord
PHOTO OF THE WEEK

MONTPELIER
The pull of loyalty
Madi Cohen, Age 13, Bolton
The truth of support

Loyalty is defined as a strong feeling of support or allegiance. It is something
that everyone can do when you choose to be there for someone when they need it.
In the last six months, I have gone through things I never imagined, something
most people wont go through in their lifetime, especially not at such a young age.
I found out I had a tumor and would have surgery to remove it. It was serious,
and the pain of this growing had been plaguing me for months.
Through this, I have learned that loyalty is a key characteristic in life. Its something I try to do for my friends and something people have done for me, especially
my friends and family.
My parents were there every step of the way. They were there to encourage me
to be brave and strong, and they were there to catch my tears and pull me up.
My parents couldnt have been better at pushing me to recover the best way I
could. They were loyal to me, and they were there through the good times and the
bad.
My friends and family were there too, rooting for me and giving me encouraging
words of wisdom and strength! They sent me cards and gifts and they visited. These
surprises helped me feel better, having my friends and family around and getting
reassurance from them.
Being loyal is something everyone should do, no matter what. Standing by someones side is a kind of medicine that everyone needs sometimes.
ABIGAIL HARKNESS, AGE 13, SHELBURNE
I go. I follow.
I trace your footsteps.
I am there for you
through rain or shine,
tears or happiness.
I am loyal to you.
Of course when I need a hug, you are too
busy to care.
One day I wander off; you do not seem to
notice.
But as soon as you fall, you expect me to
catch you.
Loyalty.
You talk to me; I try to talk to you.
Everything is about you.
I want to run. I want to scream. But loyalty
pulls me back in.
Loyalty.
IRIAN ADII, AGE 11, CAMBRIDGE
Cambridge sports
I am loyal to the Cambridge Elementary
School sports program. I play soccer, basketball and baseball for Cambridge. I have
played for Cambridge for six years.
The Cambridge Recreation Board gives
us money so that we can get uniforms and
have new balls and equipment. If we didnt
have the recreation board, we couldnt
afford to play sports, and I would be home
sitting and playing video games.
We also have some nice coaches ... I
am loyal to them because they have given
me confidence and skills, which have given
me more chances to win. I have had those
coaches since I was in kindergarten.
When we play other schools, I realize
how proud of the team I am and all that we
have.
TYLER CLARK, AGE 10, CAMBRIDGE
Photo-Nuclear. Morning Glory, by David Blackwell. (Creative Commons license)
Smog
Clumps of clouds waft out of the squat,
gray tubes and into the clear, blue sky,
held back only by his gaze. He watches the
deep hue wane into the upward stretches of
azure, clenching his stomach instinctively
at the stirrings of old yearnings, those wishes for his own fate for himself. Wistfully,
before he recalls his own adulthood, he pictures the people inside, holding shimmering
instruments, gently spinning air into strands
of cirrus and gobs of cumulus, releasing
them up the tubes and into the sky. What
would it be like to fill a blank, blue slate
with swirls of cirrus and fat, black rain
clouds? To give, instead of take?
He wouldnt know. He, out of most
people, has been inside the factory, a grimy
place of arduous labor and faces fissured
with torment. He would know its harsh lessons better than most.
He hadnt wanted to take the job. Hed
dreamed of pristine lab coats and intricate
equations, but money was money. More
than that, even. With hundreds of other kids
swarming the neighborhood, he was lucky
to have a job at all. He sighed, a thin, quiet
puff of air that escaped his lips almost unnoticed. But it didnt, not for him anyway;
he was hyperaware of billions of molecules
bouncing around and in him, sensitive to
their quiet vibrations.
School hadnt been much; hed been
forced to give it up around 10th grade. But
the image of organisms living breathing
creatures! startled him. Hed tingle as he
pictured them resting on the curve of his
eyelashes, the pit of his stomach, the dirt
beneath his nails.
He had never spoken in class much, but
sucked in his biology teachers every word,
waiting for the chance to glimpse the tiny
worlds. Another gust of air flowed from his
nostrils, burning in the arid atmosphere. He
imagined the clump of air exchanged for
poison. Then he remembered the sky-fulls
released through the pipes every day, tainting the rest of his morning.
But no more than usual.
NEELIE MARKLEY, AGE 13, BURLINGTON
Once a lake
This was once a beautiful lake in northern Virginia with lots of fish. Bears came
for drinks; ducks paddled around; frogs
leaped everywhere. It was also a place
where people came to swim in the summer.
Then one day, a big businessman came
to the wonderful lake and thought it would
be a great place for a huge, nuclear power
plant. So he got a building crew and a year
later they had a power plant. Yes, it may
have created jobs for some people and provided cheaper electricity, but it only took
one year to destroy a perfectly good lake.
Now, no one swims there and you hardly
see any animals besides a few crows.
CYRUS PERKINSON, AGE 12, BURLINGTON
THIS WEEK: Photo-Nuclear

images for publication here. This week, we present responses to the challenge to write about Photo-Nuclear.
Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil
online community of writers.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
THE BAY AND PAUL

FOUNDATIONS
YWP NEWS
SATURDAY, NOV. 7

Also: Meet Vermonts new
Poet Laureate Chard deNiord
PHOTO OF THE WEEK

MONTPELIER
Lost stories
Emergency
Power plant
The town emergency siren woke us at 4

in the morning: Wee-woo! Wee-woo! Weewoo! My whole family my mom, my
dad, my sister and I knew what was going
on because of all the drills town residents
were forced to take. We got out of bed and
met in the hall; my father ran over the plan
and as soon as he finished, we got straight
to it! I ran into my room, packed my bag,
got dressed and was out the door.
As we were getting into the car I could
hear screams of terror and people crying,
but I knew that this was no time to have a
mental breakdown; we needed to get out
of there and fast! Just five minutes after
we started driving, I heard a boom! It was
the sound of the first explosion from the
nuclear plant ... I started thinking about my
friends, hoping they were able to make it
out alive... It wasnt long before we saw
the military vehicles zooming past us. I
saw things flying from the nuclear plant at
incredibly high speed! Smash! A barrel had
fallen on our windshield. My dad pulled
the emergency break, and we swerved and
started to tumble. I couldnt believe what
was happening; could this be the end?
The power plant continues to belch

chemicals into the sky and it seems to have
no end.
What was once a beautiful marsh has
become ravaged by the forces of industrialism. A marsh that was once inhabited by
animals of all kinds has become a home for
cockroaches and whatever waste the power
plant dumps out.
A pickup sits in the once beautiful
marsh; it has been there for ages and has
developed enough rust that one cant guess
its original color. Like a slap in the face to
Mother Nature, no one bothers to remove it
from the marsh.
One must wonder if the owners of the
power plant think their motives to be just,
or even if they think what theyre doing
could hurt no one. The marsh disagrees.
The animals disagree.
Nonetheless, the power plant continues
to belch chemicals. The once beautiful
swamp has been consumed by the greed
of man and the power of industrialism. It
is one of the many, many marshes that has
been consumed, and if we continue to expand at this rate, there will be no marshes.
LUKE ARENAS, AGE 14, WINOOSKI
JAKE MORAN, AGE 13, BURLINGTON
Fog rolls in around the swamp. The

industrial smokestacks are haloed in it,
making the scene look both beautiful and
foreboding.
A sunken car, a rusty oil can, a screwdriver broken long ago. The swamp is
filled with the remnants of long-forgotten
disasters.
Through the trees, you see a city built
around the smokestacks, gleaming and
bright, filled with joy and happy ignorance.
Most of the citizens dont even know the
swamp is there. The ones who do know
dont care.
Drooping trees conceal the swamps
biggest secrets, protecting them from the
prying eyes of treasure hunters. Branches
sway slightly, pushed by a phantom breeze,
and a lone bird spreads its wings and flies
out into the open air.
The fog stirs slightly, and suddenly new
objects, a boulder, a metal bar, stand out
sharper than before. Other objects fade until they have no meaning to the human eye.
A crow calls in the distance and another
replies, surprisingly close by, as if to say,
Yup, the human is still here.
A crashed boat lies half sunken in the
water, its hull split around a tree. There is a
story behind the boat. And the car. And the
screwdriver, broken and forgotten. A story
behind the shoe, floating sodden in the water, and the marble, sunk into the mud.
A persons life, feelings, emotions, now
all gone, leaving only an object, rejected, in
a forgotten swamp. In the fog.
CHLOE GAGNON, AGE 12, BURLINGTON

THIS WEEK: General

week, we present responses to the prompt, General
writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe,
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
THE BAY AND PAUL

FOUNDATIONS
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
YWP NEWS & EVENTS

TOWN FOREST
WRITING CHALLENGE
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 have their work published.
HOW TO SUBMIT: Any genre: poetry,
prose, essay, letter, and no more than
750 words. DUE: OCT. 25
For more information, go to youngwritersproject.org/forest15.
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Toy cars
When she was six
she zoomed around the backyard
in her little toy car
powered by her tiny, bare feet.
She wove through the grass,
laughing hysterically,
imagining she was a race car driver
whipping around the track.
Her mother watched from the back porch,
sipping sparkling lemonade and smiling
at this outside glimpse into a first-graders
world.
When she was eleven
she sat in the front seat of the Subaru
for the first time
and ate Swedish Fish and pretzels,
her feet crossed on the dashboard,
as the countryside rushed by outside.
Her mother tapped her fingers on the steering wheel
and listened to NPR,
her eyes flickering every now and then
to where her daughter sat beside her,
a young woman masked by messy hair and
skinned elbows.
When she was fifteen
she sat stiff in the drivers seat of the
Subaru,
biting her lip in concentration
as she slowly backed out of the driveway
and inched down the street
her eyes darting back and forth in search of
danger.
Her mother, in the passenger seat,
did her best to give calm instruction
while her heart buzzed in her chest,
half proud of her daughter
half terrified of what this all meant.
When she was eighteen
she drove the Subaru to college
with her duffle bag and her suitcases in the
back
and her hair in a messy bun.
Her mother let her drive
because she knew she could trust her
and she wasnt sure she could keep her
eyes
from welling up while on the road.
The radio was playing NPR
and neither of them were talking
because there wasnt much to say anymore.
When she was twenty-five
she bought herself a car of her own
because she was living in Los Angeles
and she had a little money and an apartment
and she was tired of taking the bus.
She visited her mom
who looked a little older
and they had coffee and scones
and talked about their lives.
Her mom told her about a day when she
was six
and she was pretending to be a race car
driver
in the backyard of their house
and they both laughed.
When she was forty-four,
she got a call from her cousin
in the middle of the night.
A few days later she went to her old house
to pick up the wheezing Subaru
and bring it to the junk yard
because nobody needed it anymore.
On the way home,
she listened to NPR
and thought about a little girl
who drove a toy car around the backyard
while her mother sat on the porch
and drank sparkling lemonade
and she smiled.
THIS WEEK: Self-portrait & Engine

Each week, Young Writers Project receives submissions from students across the country and a team of
staff and students selects the best writing and images
for publication. This week, we present responses to the
challenges to listen to the sound of an engine and tell a
story around it; and to create a self-portrait. Read more
ABOUT THE PROJECT
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YWP NEWS & EVENTS

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Well deliver it to your email every month
no charge!
PHOTO OF THE WEEK

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and more!
Dylan Sayamougankhua, Grade 12, Burlington High School
Excitement
Feel of the waves
Im in the start gate, feeling excited. I

have my pole planted in the crunchy snow,
feeling my boots airtight around my feet.
My mind is thinking about the path I
will take, watching as the skier in front of
me swiftly moves into the crowd of cheering people.
I hear the countdown. Three, two,
one, go!
I push with all my might onto the
course, turning around each gate, smiling through my neck warmer, feeling the
freezing wind burning my cheeks.
Out of the corner of my eye I see ski
tips coming closer. My heart pounds faster;
my mind swirls with thoughts.
I push myself harder, crouching into
my tuck.
I race to the finish line, stopping with
a cloud of snow coming from my skis and
blocking my view.
Im in the sea, floating on my board,

my best friend beside me. I smell the salty
sea air, feel small waves gently rocking my
board, water rushing all around me.
Now comes the perfect wave. I start
running, my heart pounding. Right as it is
about to crash over me, I launch onto the
wave on my board. The wave lifts me up
and I laugh. I feel as if I can do anything. I
experience the feel of the waves.
KEIRA YARDLEY, AGE 10, CHARLOTTE
NOAH MACAULEY, AGE 10, CHARLOTTE
DONT MISS IT!

NEXT SLAM: FRIDAY, NOV. 6!
TOWN FOREST
WRITING CHALLENGE

write!
PRIZES: 1st: $100; 2nd: $75; 3rd:
Escape
THIS WEEK: Bookshop
Tip, tap, tip tap. My feet hit the sidewalk, one, then the other, my toes jamming
down, my heels sliding down second.
Behind me, I can hear the furious tapping of my pursuers shoes as they hit the
sidewalk, growing nearer and nearer.
Quickly I dash around a corner, desperately hoping there might be another one I
can skip around before he catches up.
The wind rushes past my ears, and my
shins ache from colliding so jarringly with
the sidewalk.
I chance a glance over my shoulder, and
by some stroke of luck, he is not there.
I start; I had expected him to be
breathing down my neck, that hot, sticky,
I-havent-bathed-in-weeks type of breath
that makes your bones shiver.
Quick! Before he turns the corner I
must find a place to hide; a sideways glance
confirms my suspicions.
I am next to a store, of what I have no
clue, but he wont find me here. So I rush
in. The cold autumn breeze chases me like
an annoying sibling, entering right behind
me and disturbing the cozy air this bookshop seems to contain.
A little old lady looks up from her book
at the counter, glances at me and returns to
her book.
My raucous entry and bewildered expression seem to annoy her. Her serendipity
has been interrupted, and I am the culprit; it
is only logical.
Are you here to buy a book? Or, as I
would presume from your entry, are you
here to annoy the elderly of the community? A dare perhaps? she asks waspishly,
looking over her glasses that have slid
down her nose, an air of superiority all
about her.
Under her breath, she adds, Young
people these days dont know a thing about
politeness and decency.
Annoyed by her attitude and probablypretty-good assumptions, I reply, Im here
for a book. Why else would I be here?
with a sneer at the end for good luck.
If shes going to be rude, why cant I be
as well?
Well, dont dawdle, move along, the
book wont find itself, you know, she
replies before returning to her book, glasses
slipping even further down her nose, her
frown only deepening as I hesitate for a
second.
Treading carefully, I tiptoe into the
next room where high bookshelves tower
overhead. Back in the corner, I spot a curious sight: the shelves seem to spiral around
each other, continuing on into the distance.
Assuming it is some clever artwork placed
to fool and mess with curious customers, I
step forward and stretch out my hand.
It goes right through!
I reach with my arm and it continues to
reach in, all the way up to my shoulder. As
though the shelves had been on pause, the
bookshelf starts to spin, spinning around
and around, mesmerizing me. And I find
some force pulling me forward.
Panicked, I fight to move back, but
the books keep pulling me in. I am pulled
around and around, on my own personal
book-themed roller coaster (annoyingly
with none of the fun and excitement that
comes with the public ones). Like Alice in
the rabbit hole I tumble further and further
into the abyss ...
(To be continued, we hope!)
ISIDORA BAILLY-HALL, AGE 13,

BURLINGTON

week, we present responses to the prompt to write about
the photo, Recursive Bookshop, below. Read more at
youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil online community.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
VERMONT BUSINESS
ROUNDTABLE
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Recursive Bookshop, by Alexandre Duret-Lutz (Creative Commons)
The bookshop
The old man shuffled through the store with a sluggishness that suggested the dust
covering the floor was a swamp, one composed of grime and traces of people left behind
memories that enveloped the old man and pulled him down as if to drown him, only to
spit him up again.
He ran his fingers gingerly over the fraying spines of the books, letting the soft impressions of fingertips left in the dust swirl gracefully to the ground.
As he walked, the books fluttered softly, as if they were aware of his presence. He
stopped and the whole wall seemed to ripple, as if the old man had dropped a stone into
the glossy surface of the shelves.
The pages ruffled and their breaths swept the store clean, clean of the memories and
feelings of those who had walked here, pondered here, touched here. Clean of the thoughts
and fingertips left on the shelves and displays.
Slowly, gingerly, as if afraid the books might lash out at him, the old man reached
up and snatched a book off the shelves. There was another breath, one that swept the
street bare. That caused the houses to quake silently, and the street itself to shudder. Then
silence.
Pressing the book tightly under his arm, he shambled into the depths of the store, letting the books envelop him in their embrace.
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Fall fantasies
In my head, fall came gracefully.
Hot summer days melted into crisp fall
mornings
where I shrugged casually into a sweater,
listing effortlessly off one shoulder,
and drifted out into the world,
my skin glowing under autumns golden
rays.
In my mind, I was an Urban Outfitters
model,
relaxed onto the steps of an NYC brownstone,
wearing oversized overalls and a drooping
beanie,
doe-eyed, hair tousled, lips pouted perfectly.
Fall was perfection.
In reality, fall came begrudgingly.
I woke up shivering, in a dark room,
and found it too warm for my sweater
fantasy
and too cold for the common tee-shirt.
My misremembered autumn crumbled
away,
leaving fickle weeks of hot to cold and
back again,
of apple orchards where the grass was too
dewy
and I got yelled at for climbing the trees,
and the satisfying crunch of the perfect
apple
broke every bracket on my braces.
Fall was deceiving.
THIS WEEK: General

ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
JANES TRUST
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
TEEN PHOTOGRAPHERS
Join youngwritersproject.org today and

submit your photos for publication on the
site, in this newspaper and YWPs digital
magazine, The Voice!
More info: sreid@youngwritersproject.org
Madi Cohen, Age 13, Bolton
Birds nest
There is a birds nest that was made
right underneath the deck at my house. It
was made by a robin and rests on a wooden
beam.
Once, there were birds in it.
I could look through a crack in the deck
and see the mother making the nest. Then I
watched her sit on the tiny, pale blue eggs
that could fit in the middle of my palm.
Four of them; there were four little, blue
robins eggs that hatched into four little
robin chicks.
I would look through the crack and see
them huddling together, keeping warm, as
they were still small and not yet covered in
soft, fuzzy feathers.
Their heartbeats pounded against their
tiny ribcages so hard that I could see their
chests beating up and down.
I would whistle and they thought I
was their mother, bringing food, and they
stretched their little necks upwards, toward
the sky, eyes still closed, showing their
blue and purple eyelids. I could hear them
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Maybe fall is a give and take.

Maybe fall isnt all red lips and sundrops
or drizzling days and muddy sneakers.
Maybe its a leaf burning scarlet on the
blueberry bush
and a cider donut consumed in the back of
a pickup truck
but also new leather boots squelching
through swampy puddles
and spider webs sprawling across dusty
beach chairs.
Fall is the smell of apples boiling down on
the stove.
Fall is using every last bit of energy to
wake up in the dark.
Fall is sweatpants and hot chocolate and
Netflix,
but also ugly raincoats and wilting gardens.
Regardless of what fall encompasses,
it has tapped on my shoulder once again,
reminding me that seasons change and time
passes.
I will appreciate autumn for whatever it is;
Im done living in a golden, 2D fantasy.
Fall is here, and so am I.
YWP NEWS & EVENTS
peeping, waiting for food to be dropped

into their pink, open mouths.
That was two springs ago. I watched
them grow feathers over their yellow, down
ones. I watched them open their eyes and
fly away. It really was an amazing experience.
I wished they would stay, but I figured
mother robin would be back next year to
lay more eggs. But she wasnt.
Two springs have passed and now in
mid-September, I stare up at the mangled
and deformed nest from underneath the
deck.
Its sad, really. The once lively and
inhabited nest now just sits there and rots
away. I look at it and think about the metaphor in this. Its just straw and grass and
moss, but it was wonderful when it served
its purpose, and now its useless and just
sits. Now in mid-September, I find myself with a sad story of life and living: the
lonely, empty, abandoned, scraggly birds
nest.
OLIVIA HOLMES, AGE 14, ESSEX JUNCTION

write!
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THIS WEEK: General
Dear Reader
I write to remember who I was and so
people can see who I am.
I write to those forgotten moments,
the ones they will only hear in an echos
residue,
the ones I still hear screaming in my mind.
I write to the infinities of my dreams,
write when Im half asleep so later I know
how I feel,
what I see in the midst of now,
so I can read how I felt at the heart of then.
I write to the I love yous I forgot to say
so I can feel my heart thunder and hope
yours is too
in the silence we have created with distance,
no matter how it came about,
no matter how far away.
I write to rip my heart out of my chest
so I can see what I have left,
which parts need stitches.
I write to pick myself up,
to tell myself itll be okay.
I write to discover that
maybe we think too much of ourselves in
the way we love
isnt it jealousy searching for something to
be purely ours?
But isnt that okay?
I write to feel,
let it show,
then let it be.
And its all in these letters,
signed only with sincerity.
Love,
Me
ERIN BUNDOCK, AGE 17, SHELBURNE
Sunset running
I disappear into the setting sun, my feet
carrying me at a fast, steady pace.
The trees glow, almost like they are
welcoming me into the forest.
My feet pound down on the dirt road,
but the pain doesnt come. Instead, contentment floats through my body like the
feeling I get when I hit the finish line. Birds
chirp and the crickets have started their
nightly songs as I hit mile two. Two and a
half more to go.
I smile. Water from the lake laps up
against the rocks. A few people who share
my love of sunset running pass me we
nod a quiet exchange, acknowledging the
beauty surrounding us. My feet hit the
ground with a rhythmic pattern sending up
little plumes of dust after each step.
I turn around and start my journey back
home, saving a bit of energy for that last
hill. After recovering from injuries, this just
hits the spot.
STORY AND PHOTO BY ABHI DODGSON, AGE

13, SOUTH HERO

ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP

VT 05401.
THE BAY AND PAUL

FOUNDATIONS
Crossing roads
Pardon me if you find me rude, but this
just ticks me off so darn much.
How could you allow a city to endanger
school children especially on a crossing mobbed by cars, where the school bus
doesnt visit?
I was 5 when I started crossing there
daily, and at least once a week I watched a
car zoom by just feet from my feet.
We had a light, a crosswalk, a guard,
and still we were threatened weekly if not
daily.
Our guards quit because they felt
unsafe; anyway, what good would they
be protecting our safety if they spent the
whole time fearing for their own?
When I was in kindergarten, my mama
wrote a grant to buy signs that would
inform drivers of their speed as they approached our crossing, so maybe they
would think before they ran over a 6-yearold.
She organized it, paid for it, and waited
and waited and waited.
I was in sixth grade and no longer
crossing there daily when they placed them.
Six years later.
Now our neighborhood has shifted
focus to the traffic circle down the road, the
circle I will cross daily throughout middle
school (now) and high school (later).
The most dangerous street I cross daily
had no crosswalk until a few weeks ago.
Still there is no guard, no light, no anything
else.
YWP NEWS & EVENTS

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WRITING CHALLENGE

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WRITING CHALLENGE
Im told they made plans to renovate

and make the circle safer in 2008, but well
still be waiting and waiting and waiting and
waiting until 2020, the year I graduate from
high school.
Maybe I am selfish. All this will benefit
kids, but not me. I will live a jeopardized
life, commuting to school.
Maybe you find me rude, but this still
ticks me off so darn much.
Write to win $1,500 and a trip to

NYC to be honored at a reception!
Young Writers Project partners with the
Calvin Coolidge Foundation to promote
and help curate entries for the 2015
Calvin Prize for Vermont Youth.
This years theme: DO YOU THINK
HIGHER EDUCATION IS WORTH THE COST
TO YOU AND YOUR FAMILY?
Submit writing (fewer than 1,000

words) in any genre and address the
question above. DUE: SEPT. 25
More details: coolidgefoundation.org.
STORY AND PHOTOS BY ISIDORA BAILLYHALL, AGE 13, BURLINGTON
Go to youngwritersproject.org for your

FREE subscription!
CHECK OUT YWPS

NEW WEB SITE
A safe, respectful community
of writers and artists who take
creative risks and have fun doing it.
General writing from the summer in

any genre. Due Sept. 4
YWP NEWS & EVENTS
Young Writers Project, an independent nonprofit that engages

students to write, helps them improve and connects them with
authentic audiences, encourages all writers, Grades 3-12, to create
an account on our new web site, youngwritersproject.org, and
write to these and other challenges on the site. Best work is published in this newspaper, in YWPs digital magazine, The Voice,
and other publications and sites. Join today and start writing!
THE CALVIN
WRITING CHALLENGE
September 2015 - January 2016
Mentor. Who has influenced and

encouraged you most in your life -- in
or out of school? Why has this person been
so powerful for you? Alternate: PhotoBookshop: Write a story based on the
photo, Recursive Bookshop, by Alexandre Duret-Lutz. Due Sept. 11
Write an essay and win $1,500 and

a trip to NYC to be honored at a reception! Young Writers Project partners
with the Calvin Coolidge Foundation to
promote and help curate entries for the
2015 Calvin Prize for Vermont Youth.
Forest15. Explore a town forest in

Vermont -- and write to win cash
prizes. All details at youngwritersproject.
org. Alternate: Spooky: Write a story that
makes your readers scream! Can be real or
imagined. Due Oct. 16
This years theme:
Photo-Bookshop.Recursive Bookshop, by
Alexandre Duret-Lutz. (Creative Commons
license. Must be linked and attributed.)
Self-portrait. Tell a story that you

think shows your essence, your most
important trait(s). You can write or use
visual media or sound. Or a combination.
Alternate: Sound-Engine: Click on the
audio link for this challenge on youngwritersproject.org and write the story you hear,
or use the clip and add more sounds to
create a soundscape (or sound story.) Due
Sept. 18
Impressions. Has your first impression ever been totally wrong about
someone or something? Tell a story about
a first impression that was wrong OR how
someone had the wrong impression of you.
How did it turn out? Alternate: PhotoNuclear: Write about the photo below,
Morning Glory, by David Blackwell.
Due Sept. 25
Photo-Nuclear. Morning Glory, by David

Blackwell, Morning Glory. (Creative Commons license. Must be linked and attributed.)
802. Whats it like to be a teenager

in Vermont? In words, images and/
or sound, describe your life in this rural
state. Share your best and worst stories.
Do you want to stay or flee? (This is part
of a project with medium.com.) Alternates:
Loyalty: Tell a story where loyalty plays a
key role, either in a heroic way or by getting your character in trouble (going along
with a friends bad idea or not heeding
warnings). OR Sound-Cheering: Click on
the audio link for this challenge on youngwritersproject.org and write the story you
hear, or use the clip and add more sounds
to create a sound story. Due Oct. 2
WRITING CHALLENGES
One-sided. Your character can hear

only one side of a phone conversation,
but it sounds important; tell the story using
one-sided dialogue. (If you have trouble
with this, listen in on a conversation and
create the other side. Also, go to youngwritersproject.org and try a Lab about creating
dialogue). Alternate: 35: Who will you
be when you are 35? Will you be living in
your home state? What will you be doing?
(This is part of a project with medium.
com.) Due Oct. 9
Winter Tales. What is your experience of winter? Tell a story in short

descriptive or narrative poetry or prose. No
clichs, please. The best will be selected for
presentation by the Vermont Stage Company at its annual Winter Tales production
at FlynnSpace in Burlington in December.
Alternate: General writing. Due Oct. 23
Photo-Ghost. My Ghost, Matt Wilson.

(Creative Commons license. Must be linked
and attributed.)
Six. Write a complete poem/story in

six words. (Write as many as youd
like.) Alternates: Photo-Ghost: Write a
story in response to the photo above, My
Ghost, by Matt Wilson; OR Art: Call for
visual artists! Send us your very best photos and scanned art. Due Oct. 30
DO YOU THINK HIGHER

Photo-Women.Three Different Reactions
Facing a Photographer, by Pedro Ribeiro
Simoes. (Creative Commons license. Must
be linked and attributed.)
14
Eyes. It was the eyes, chocolate

brown and always searching,
that warned me to Finish the scene.
Alternates: Persist: Describe a character
who persists -- and succeeds -- despite the
doubts and jeers of others. Focus the story
on how the character moves forward with
an idea. OR General: Send us your best
work. Due Dec. 4
15
Misheard. You overhear a startling

story and retell it to others, only to
discover youve misheard some key points.
What happens next? Alternate: Fanfiction:
Extend one of your favorite fictional tales.
What kind of trials are you and your beloved characters facing today? Due Dec. 11
EDUCATION IS WORTH THE COST

TO YOU AND YOUR FAMILY?
You may submit writing in any

genre essay, fiction, prose or poetry.
Your writing must address the question
in bold above and must be fewer than
1,000 words.
Use the letters of Calvin Coolidge
and other Coolidge-related sources to
compare and contrast your situation
today to that of Coolidge in his time.
DEADLINE: SEPT. 25
More details: coolidgefoundation.org.
YWPS NEW WEB SITE!
10
Things. You have to move out of

your house suddenly and are allowed only one small box for your things.
What would you put in the box and what
do these things say about you? Alternates:
Fame: Write about a character who is suddenly famous. The paparazzi are outside
the window and the characters face keeps
flashing on the TV screen, but s/he has no
idea why! What happens? And why the
sudden fame? General: Send us your best
work of any category or type. Due Nov. 6
11
Sports. What sport would you create if given the chance? You could
explain the rules, the history, describe an
amazing match, tell why it was invented ...
anything! Or, tell the story of an epic sports
moment you were part of. Alternate: Embarrassed: Whats the most embarrassing
(true) story that youre willing to share? (If
it involves someone else, change the names
to protect the innocent!) Due Nov. 13
Photo-SpaceTravel.Greenwood Space Travel

Supply Co., by Los Paseos. (Creative Commons license. Must be linked and attributed.)
16
Photo-SpaceTravel. Use this

photo by Los Paseos, Greenwood
Space Travel Supply Co., to tell a story.
Alternate: See: Write a story that begins
with this phrase, Cant you see it? Due
Dec. 18
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12
13
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YWPS MONTHLY
17
Hallway. Your character observes

a confrontation in a school hallway
in which there is a blatant injustice. What
happens and why? Alternates: Resolution: What is one New Years resolution
you want to tackle this year? OR General:
Send us your best work. Due Jan. 8
Sound-Footsteps. Click the audio

link for this challenge on youngwritersproject.org and write the story
you hear or use it to create a soundscape.
Alternate: Monologue: Write a monologue
of a person who is troubled or conflicted
about something. Reach a resolution. Due
Nov. 20
Photo-Women: Using the photo
above right,Three Different Reactions Facing a Photographer, tell a story
about the women. Alternate: Foil: Create
a foil or an opposite for a character. Throw
both characters into a story. How do their
differences conflict or complement each
other? Due Nov. 27
A safe, respectful community

of writers and artists who take
creative risks and have fun doing it.
Photo-Veggies.Artisan by Apionid. (Creative Commons license. Must be linked and

attributed.)
18
Moment. Use this phrase in a

story: Never forget this moment,
my child, the old man said Alternates:
Photo-Veggies: Some people like their
vegetables to look just so Use the photo
above, Artisan, by Apionid to tell a story.
Due Jan. 15
Connection. You open a love letter

that isnt addressed to you, and
the writer seems so familiar its as if the
letter was written just for you. What do you
do? Alternates: Ad: Create a commercial
advertising any product, real or imagined,
in any format (words, sound, images). OR
Sound-Ice: Click the audio link on youngwritersproject.org and write the story you
hear or use multiple sounds for a soundscape. Due Jan. 22
20
Myth. Invent the wackiest urban

myth you can think of. Alternate:
Love: They said I shouldnt love you, but
I cant help myself Why? And what happens next? Due Jan. 29

Burlington Free Press 15-16

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THIS WEEK: General

Each week, Young Writers Project receives submissions

ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses

Special thanks this week to

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

Kevin Huang, Burlington

Face your fears

meet its eyes,

Knees bent at the baseline,

THIS WEEK: Anthology 8

Each year, Young Writers Project publishes an anthology

ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses

Special thanks this week to

THE BAY AND PAUL

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

Wake Up, America

Photos from Anthology 8 by Kevin Huang, Burlington

They terrorize Muslims and then blame the

The anger inside

THIS WEEK: Clouds & General

ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses

YWP NEWS & EVENTS

Special thanks this week to

PHYSICIANS COMPUTER CO.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

- EVA TOBIAS, BURLINGTON

READ YWPS DIGITAL MAGAZINE

Kevin Huang, Burlington

More than human

Humans crave only perfection, accept

Peace and quiet

- LAUREN PALMER, WILLISTON

THIS WEEK: Sea-stairs & Stirring

Photo: Sea-stairs. Seapoint, Dublin, Ireland by Giuseppe

Each week, Young Writers Project receives submissions

ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses

Special thanks this week to

Caleb Dudley, Essex Junction

Slowly around the bowl the wooden spoon

As I see you stirring,

The day we moved away,

- TYLER CLARK, CAMBRIDGE

- EMILY WIDYAWATI, BURLINGTON

YWP CELEBRATION OF WRITING

MAIN STREET LANDING

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

- SADIE HOLMES, CHARLOTTE

YWP NEWS & EVENTS

- ELIZABETH MARTELL, ESSEX JUNCTION

READ YWPS DIGITAL MAGAZINE

READ MORE YWP WRITING AT

THIS WEEK: Seuss & Perspective

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several

ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses