Young

Writers Project and VPR Millennial Writers on Stage Burlington Book Festival Sept. 22, 2012
Film House, Main Street Landing Performing Arts Center Burlington, Vermont Jessica Austin Essex High School, Grade 12 Unimpaired he sees the shades in a rainbow in multiples of three face tipped skyward hes stepping closer to the bandstand with his arms spread wide hes jumping swaying to submerse himself in the music hes not alone here though he usually is the woman playing the upright bass is glaring at him wondering how his babysitters could allow him to become so out of control how they could permit him to bellow-shout so close to the music but hes beaming the thirty-year-old man glances back at his peers some in wheelchairs some drooling on their shirts hes beaming at them and some are clapping for him hes not alone not here where his group has lunch on Tuesdays when its sunny hes not alone here

an older woman who has a badge on a lanyard that says something along the lines of Im in charge of these people or I care when no one else does stands and leaves the group of middle-aged men and women to take the hands of the dancing man and in front of god in front of the glaring woman on the upright bass and all the people spread across the green on this sunny Tuesday she takes the hands of the dancing man and she sways with him face tipped skyward shes smiling so widely laughing with him because hes not alone not here

 Matthew Andrew Grade 8, Corwin-Russell School Pyramid What used to stand so tall and strong- A sloping dome mounted in the sand In a baking desert- is now just a pile Of grainy, decaying sand, in the same area Where it used to rise with dignity And the amazement stayed for a long time. Still looking like Something you had to take into full observation, Wide as a forest, tall as a mountain, But on this diffuse sunrise, as it slowly shakes Downward and downward into the ground With its base still peeking out Tall enough to let us know what it once was, It is now only another rotting sculpture, slowly Melting away and never coming back, Its once-golden sand now brown and rough with memories.

 Rebecca Valley Bennington College The Way We Speak we don't believe in adverbs where i'm from the men that come, i ask them to tell me their life stories with my eyes and they ask me to bag the bread and eggs separate, please and the wine that they need real bad tonight they don't need a bag for that the wife is at home, they say, or sometimes they don't say anything and i wonder if she's dead. the kids grew up or grew out or moved out, moved up. they know the difference between adjectives and words that end in "ly" now. they call me by name, all of them, and they are the only ones who do. they say to me Rebecca I bought my first car for fifty dollars, and now look at this grocery bill and they say to me Rebecca I'm always doing good it's really the only way to be, good and I wonder how I'll manage in a world where "well"s can't be dug from the earth where things are placed separately, a nice spin on a word that seems so barren without that adverb ending separate like those kids that moved out, that wife that died and went away, like my speech and theirs and I wonder why my parents tried so hard to teach me how to speak without any indication of where I come from I wonder why they deprived me of dialect. Sometimes I forget my "t"s and sometimes I "unthaw" dinner and sometimes I feel like I mean something to someone somewhere because we speak the same language, because we aren't so separate after all.

 Basundhara Mukherjee Grade 11, South Burlington High School Inspire Me I used to find inspiration in inanimate objects -- in the clouds of water vapor that mold into awe- inspiring shapes, the sun as it glistens between crevices of branches before stooping into its glorious sleep, the hypnotizing patterns of my curtains on late 1-am nights, the colors that have disseminated themselves throughout the world-- they used to feel like words that have danced into my mind, into my fingers, into the black-ink of my favorite pen. Lately, I find my inspiration in people. Rather, in their eyes -- in the way they tell stories, the way they feel, the way they love. Perhaps even in their words -- printed so they harmonize, spoken so they sound like soft melodies, sung so they slowly pull at my heartstrings. And I mean people as in people I love, people I like, people who find their ways into my life, people who smile at me in the sweltering heat on Church Street, people who change my world, people who change my life, people who live between the lines of the 25 novels I read this summer. I mean people as in people -- people as in authors, celebrities, journalists -- people as in my friends, my mom, my dad, Pablo, my dogs (in my book, theyre people). They all inspire me. They inspire me to be who me entails, they inspire me to wander into the skies until I can find the end & keep going, they inspire me to love like they love in their lives.

 Zoe Riell Grade 9, Homeschool, Poultney The Woman in Silver Shoes The woman in silver shoes is dancing on her own again. The music is low, like the ceiling of the attic. Her heels are high, to stiffen her spine. Downstairs, the cat cries because she has left the sink running: Water floods the kitchen. The woman in silver shoes is eating on her own again. The food is cold, like the air in the house. The meal is over salted, to remind her of the bitterness of life. Upstairs, the rain pounds on the roof and leaks through the holes: Water saturates her pillow. The woman in silver shoes is crying on her own again. The tears are salty, like the food she just ate. Her despair is quiet, to keep the silence intact. Downstairs, the freezer stops working: Melted ice drips onto the cat, who yowls. The woman in silver shoes is sleeping on her own again. Her bed is lonely, like her mother always said it would be. Her dreams are nostalgic, to remind her of what she had. Upstairs, the air conditioner in the attic shudders to a halt: The resulting leakage of coolant disturbs the bats, who screech. The woman in silver shoes is dying on her own again. Her death is peaceful, like she planned it to be. Her dreams shift from that of the living to the dead. Downstairs, her cat cries. She left the sink running again.

 Kayla Glazer Grade 12, Thetford Academy The Painting In Which the Soldier Returns From War Roads sculpt the snow-covered mountains in their usual way. Train tracks are still as a switchboard of yearning, the houses with angles spend efforts holding themselves up. Telephone poles line the road like half-finished crosses. They create a conduit. They are the welcoming procession. The death youve seen comes home with you, the smoke your lungs carry stays within you. The trees pull towards him, tipsy on the hill, the shuttered windows sneak peeks. The church stays aloof, self-certain to draw him like a magnet. The return could be heroic, speak a human testament but instead the fanfare is conducted by dull grey tones. The soldier tilts his shoulder in angular tribute to the mountains, Carries his burden alone, swaths grief in his duffle bag.

 Olivia Pintair Grade 7, Lake Champlain Waldorf School House of Cards, School of Pennies They said it was "impossible." "Unrealistic." "A nice idea." No wish flies to the other side of the earth. Pennies sink to the bottom of the wishing well. Copper is meant for molding. For exact change, Being left in your pocket. And dropped on the sidewalk. They watched as you asked for people's pennies, and filled your jar with the rust. More and more jars until you had enough to stretch to the moon. House of cards, School of pennies, It made no difference to them. Because they had "logic" and it was all the same. And now, as you stand among children enlightened by your persistence, the difference is more than evident. You built them hope. They who told you "no", Wave from the bottom of the wishing well. Sunken with no belief, and no spirit to flout them. Because they are not copper. They are realists, Who expect nothing more than "maybe".

 Meia Freese Grade 11, Champlain Valley Union High School Behind the Lines of Divorce If I could go back to my first life and bring back the love I would. If I was able to stand up for myself my brother and my sister I would. Birthmark Chiseled into my skin Like a tattoo upon birth Imprinted as a crescent moon Along my right shoulder It comes from science and genetics But its a mystery still The formation of such a glorious mark Its divinity upon my back This mark encloses my true identity Completing the most unknown puzzle.

 Bridget Iverson University of Vermont Transparencies My heart has hands. Long, slender red fingers poking out from the center of my chest, grabbing, grasping other peoples vascular tissue and refusing to let go. My hands are predators. Theyre always hungry. I use their fingertips to stroke the inside of some lovers arm. Theyre extra fingernails to bite. When Im angry, I dig those stubs of nails into my palms; I have four fists: two for each type of beating. When Im lonely, they can hold themselves. Every day when I walk home I scan the sidewalk for signs of life. Bottlecaps, discarded gum, acorns, even bits of gravel -- things that move when I kick them, proof of existence. Walking is falling, and catching myself again and again on every bended knee. When Im not falling Im floating, I can see into third-story windows, watch people type or kiss or brush their hair. When they walk, I can feel their every footstep, the impact of soles on pavement, like tiny earthquakes, like natural disasters, all this pent-up force coexisting. I stand aside to watch them, and my hearts hands are reaching, and grasping, and folded as if in prayer.

 Madeline Besso Grade 10, Mount Mansfield Union High School Half-Perfect Intangibility & i am trying to capture that in/de/fin/a/ble rhythm that surrounds your airspace in words, but iambic pentameter is somehow too rigid because you, my dear, are not half-right friday-night hookups and you haven't got that maybe-never heartstring-severing glance, & i am searching for the words to describe the cool-blue- forest-green- neither-here-nor- there color of your sea- glass eyes, but somehow i can't decide how to explain infinity wrapped around black, and i can see the half-rhymes floating behind your retinas and i can't help but wonder if i look like poetry to you & i am still waiting for the song that tells you that i love you, but the notes are always just a breath out of reach and my lungs are opening into my gut and i can't hold the air anymore, because you are not flame or fire or blame or desire; you are just that one person who will always be here.

 Olivia Hunt Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School The World From outer space The world Looks Peaceful With all its beautiful Blues and Greens But then You enter this world you thought would be Peaceful And around you You see War Hate Poverty And people turning on each other But you also see Love Happiness Friendship And people helping each other So Is the new world you have come into A Sad world Or a Happy world What should you think What do you think That maybe Its a little bit of Both

 Kamli Faour Grade 8, Camels Hump Middle School I Stood Tall She whispered curses at me as I strode Through the hallway And like a knife Those words cut through To my heart But I stood tall As she flipped Her long locks over Broad shoulders And snickered to her friends. Their glares Pierced through me But I stood tall As our eyes locked And I held her gaze for One Moment She broke the stare, And power surged through me, a sickening feeling But I stood tall As she turned around Striding away Her back straight -- Each step precise And I was left Standing alone Under the steady hum Of fluorescent Lights Eyes watering, Shoulders drooping, A heavy heart.

 Avery McLean Grade 7, Lake Champlain Waldorf School Firefly Defying darkness. A single glowing sphere of golden light flickers in the dark. The shadows of the girls in their laughter-filled world are caught and held against the sky, like so many tiny treasures held in the palm of your hand. Their silhouettes are paintings of the evening: wild joy danced in the graceful movements of the night. A firefly is caught in the cupped hand of a girl. She sings to it. It flickers, growing in strength. The other girls search the darkness for a light, cradling the jars that hold the tiny bit of life captive. The creatures are released back into the hands of nature: merciless, gentle, fearless. They are held again by that unpredictable force. Suddenly, against the darkening sky, the girls seem small and fragile like a kitten, as if at any moment they will be swallowed by the dark in its dangerous coolness. But they twine their arms around each other and laughing, dance back up the hill, back to that safest place of unknowing, where only the innocent find solace.

 Anna Rutenbeck Bennington College Run and crash Remember the first time you tried running? Remember how your legs were moving, pumping, faster faster and you felt like the world was yours. You could run all the way to London to Hong Kong to Sydney because nothing in the world could stop you. But then your lungs started to catch up with you it got harder to breathe and you were gasping for breath but it wouldn't come and then only way to allow your lungs some respite was to crash into the grass. To lay on your back and let the tiny blades tickle the insides of your knees, to let the ants crawl over your toes, to let the sun hit your forehead. You laid there gasping for something like five minutes and then were ready to run again. You repeated this process over and over, each time the sprints becoming shorter and shorter until eventually the sun was setting. The world was going dark and the grass was becoming cold. Your mother called you in for supper and made you drink at least one whole glass of milk. When supper was over you went back outside but now there was nothing to see you you skipped the running and went right into the laying in the grass. You didn't live in a city yet so you had never experienced an empty black sky but had never really looked at the stars. The way the little balls of burning light patterned the sky and the way that some of them sparkled and the way that some of them were blue. You were young and didn't yet understand the concept of outer-space of galaxies of universes and you simply thought that it was rather pretty. Eventually your mother called you in again. This time for bed. This time to lay your head to pillow and to wrap yourself in sleep. You closed your eyes thinking about the stars and how in the morning they would be gone. Replaced once again by the fast burning sun and how the sun would strike your forehead again as you ran and crashed, ran and crashed (ran and crashed).

 Abby Brown Grade 12, Stratton Mountain School Seeing Isnt Always Believing Enter the lodge at Mount Snow and walk past Cub Camp, past Snow Camp, keep walking past Mountain Camp. You will come across a little room, smaller than it should be, with a paper sign on the door that says AbilityPlus, a nonprofit organization for physically or mentally challenged individuals. I am 16 years old, a skier and a volunteer with AbilityPlus. I am a girl whose perspective of the world has been radically changed by people who have never actually seen the world for themselves. Last winter, I skied with Jessie, a blind, autistic 21-year-old girl. She didnt know anything about me. She didnt care if I was six years younger or 60 years older. She just wanted to learn. It does not take a lot to make a normal day of teaching into a day that will never be forgotten. Teaching Jessie to ski took two coaches, tons of commands, and a lot of patience. We would ski down beginner trails with Jessie in the middle. We would yell out commands; left, left, left, right! Right, right, right, left! Someone was talking the whole way down the trail. Interestingly enough, the scariest thing to a blind person is silence. Not a steep hill or a patch of ice, because they cant see either of those. Panic strikes them when they can no longer hear the coach they are skiing with. Jessie asked me lots of questions all day long: What color is your helmet? How tall are you? Where are you from? Jessie wanted to have a picture of me in her mind; she wanted to see my Facebook page in all its detail. I learned very quickly that for her life of 21 years, she had experienced the world through her other senses. After she had taken a hard fall, she said, Abby, you wanna know something? I have a really a good sense of feel. Jessie appreciated every minute of that day through the cold on her face, the smell of the chocolate waffles, the sounds of the crowds, and the occasional bump on the ground. She will never forget that day. Neither will I. I woke up that morning planning on a day of teaching and did not realize that I would be the student. I learned about Jessies life and what she does every day to feel, smell, and hear the world, to live life without sight. While skiing on a flat section of terrain, I went behind Jessie who was following the other coach. I closed my eyes, listened to the commands, and tried to ski for a minute with no sight. I have no idea how Jessie does it. After a full day of learning, Jessie taught me that you do not always have to see to believe.

 Abhi Dodgson Grade 5, Homeschool, South Hero Not Gone Forever Saying goodbye is like saying goodbye to a part of you. If you have lived in one place all your life, you become attached to it and leaving is so hard. I said goodbye to my country my home my language my friends my bed my sounds my culture my belonging my birthparents. I came home to new surroundings. Everything was so new to me. Slowly I came to know my new home and I came to know my new family. I found a part of myself I never knew I had before. I now have a very loving family. I still have part of my country inside me. This is what I have learned: Saying goodbye is difficult, but new things can happen when you say goodbye.