Documenti di Didattica
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Documenti di Cultura
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.
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.
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.
BURLINGTON TELECOM
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
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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
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
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.
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
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.
ANTHOLOGY 8!
Buy your copy today! Details at
youngwritersproject.org/anthology8
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.
REMINDER!
ITS FRIDAY, MAY 13
7 - 9 PM
MAIN STREET LANDING
BURLINGTON
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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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)
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. ...
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.
CHAMPLAIN INVESTMENT
PARTNERS
My childhood home
Maple goodness
FRIDAY, MAY 13
7 - 9 P.M.
A cup of tea
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.
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
YWP NEWS
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
VERMONT BUSINESS
ROUNDTABLE
Go to youngwritersproject.org
to get your FREE subscription!
Clocks view
Red balloons
Watermelon
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
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
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.
BURLINGTON TELECOM
YWP NEWS
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
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to The Voice,
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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
YWP NEWS
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
PHYSICIANS COMPUTER
COMPANY
CONGRATULATIONS
TO THE WINNERS OF THE
I AND YOU
POETRY CHALLENGE!
This is
FROM
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
YWP NEWS
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
MGN FAMILY
FOUNDATION
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
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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.
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
YWP NEWS
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
AMY E. TARRANT
FOUNDATION
Mrs. Krank
THE VOICE
Go to youngwritersproject.org
to get your FREE subscription!
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.
The Smiler
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.
VERMONT BUSINESS
ROUNDTABLE
VERMONT STAGE!
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
POETRY COMPETITION!
Burdens
YWP NEWS
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.
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.
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.
Your message has been deleted.
Hey. I, uh, havent seen you in a while.
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.
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.
JOIN YWPS
ONLINE COMMUNITY!
youngwritersproject.org
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
Long gone
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.
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.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
JANES TRUST
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
Keep trying
TJ WHITE, CAMBRIDGE
Remember
YWP EVENTS
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,
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
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
at youngwritersproject.org.
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.
BURLINGTON TELECOM
The graveyard
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
Each week, Young Writers Project receives submissions from students across Vermont, New Hampshire
and beyond. A team of staff and students selects the
best writing and images for publication. This week, we
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.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
JANES TRUST
YWP NEWS
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
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
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.
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.
CHAMPLAIN INVESTMENT
PARTNERS
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
Stray cats
Ready to pounce
Go to youngwritersproject.org
to get your FREE subscription!
The darkness
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
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.
Haunted forever
It was the eyes, chocolate brown and
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
It was the eyes, chocolate brown and
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.
Zuzane
Kevin Huang, Age 17, 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
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.
VERMONT BUSINESS
ROUNDTABLE
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.
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
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 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
Go to youngwritersproject.org
to get your FREE subscription!
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.
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.
BURLINGTON TELECOM
TON
Go to youngwritersproject.org
to get your FREE subscription!
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...
THE VOICE
Prom
I dont know
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
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-
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.
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?
ZOE CUDNEY, AGE 13, BURLINGTON
YWP NEWS
Challenge: Photo-Women: Three Different Reactions Facing a Photographer, by Pedro Ribeiro Simoes (Creative Commons license)
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
18
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
21
31
Kevin Huang, Age 17, Burlington High School
23
24
29
19
28
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
25
26
27
32
33
34
Chipmunk!
Two events
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.
PHYSICIANS COMPUTER
COMPANY
THE VOICE
Go to youngwritersproject.org
to get your FREE subscription!
Apple sauce
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!
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 WRITERS AT
WINTER TALES
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
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.
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!
First winter
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.
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.
BURLINGTON TELECOM
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
YWP NEWS
SUBSCRIBE TO THE VOICE!
Read YWPs best writing
Photo-Ghost. My Ghost, Matt Wilson. (Creative Commons license.)
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
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 a
winning submission to the Town Forest Writing Challenge and General writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil online community of writers.
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.
DISH CATERING
READ THE LATEST ISSUE
OF YWPS DIGITAL MAGAZINE
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
Go to youngwritersproject.org
for your FREE subscription!
Kevin Huang, Age 17, Burlington
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.
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
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 prompt, 35: Who will you be when youre
35? Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil
online community of writers.
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.
ADVANCE MUSIC
THE VOICE
Go to youngwritersproject.org
to get your FREE subscription!
When Im 35
Kevin Huang, Age 17, Burlington
Long time
Mets catcher
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
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.
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.
BURLINGTON TELECOM
Its home
JOIN YWPS
ONLINE COMMUNITY!
youngwritersproject.org
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.
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PARTNERS
YWP NEWS
CELEBRATION OF WRITING
SATURDAY, NOV. 7
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
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
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 NEWS
CELEBRATION OF WRITING
SATURDAY, NOV. 7
Lost stories
Emergency
Power plant
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.
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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.
ELLA STAATS, AGE 15, BURLINGTON
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.
Go to youngwritersproject.org
for your FREE subscription!
Well deliver it to your email every month
no charge!
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Dylan Sayamougankhua, Grade 12, Burlington High School
Excitement
TOWN FOREST
WRITING CHALLENGE
Escape
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!)
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.
VERMONT BUSINESS
ROUNDTABLE
PHOTO CHALLENGE
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YWPs dynamic new website to share
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and more!
Its a safe, respectful place where
writers and artists take creative risks,
find the support of peers and mentors
and have fun doing it.
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.
ZOE CUDNEY, AGE 13, BURLINGTON
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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.
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn
more, go to youngwritersproject.org
or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
JANES TRUST
TEEN PHOTOGRAPHERS
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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AN INVITATION TO
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and more!
Its a safe, respectful place where
writers and artists take creative risks,
find the support of peers and mentors
and have fun doing it.
TOWN FOREST
WRITING CHALLENGE
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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.
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.
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.
THE CALVIN
WRITING CHALLENGE
youngwritersproject.org
A safe, respectful community
of writers and artists who take
creative risks and have fun doing it.
THE CALVIN
WRITING CHALLENGE
Photo-Bookshop.Recursive Bookshop, by
Alexandre Duret-Lutz. (Creative Commons
license. Must be linked and attributed.)
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
WRITING CHALLENGES
14
15
10
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
youngwritersproject.org
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