Burlington Free Press Index 2012-13

Three wishes
THIS WEEK: Wishes, Vacation, General

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompts, Three wishes; Best vacation and General writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil online community of writers.
Dear Readers
This is the nal week of Young Writers Projects student writing in this space for the 2012-13 school year. Thanks for being with us. We hope you enjoyed it. Well be back with more in September, but in the meantime, you can continue to see great writing on youngwritersproject. org and on Vermont Public Radio at vpr. net through the summer. YWP has many to thank for this Newspaper Series, including the editors and publishers of Vermonts newspapers who value the importance of writing and afrming students best efforts. Please support your local newspaper! YWP also salutes the young writers and photographers, who consistently amaze and inspire us with their work, and the teachers and parents who encourage them. And young writers, YWP has mentors and readers who are eager to read your summertime submissions on youngwritersproject.org, so dont stop writing just because the sun is shining!
GEOFFREY GEVALT, YWP FOUNDER AND DIRECTOR, AND SUSAN REID, PUBLICATIONS
COORDINATOR
BY MAGGIE SCARPA Grade 4, Chamberlin School My rst wish would be to become a professional hurdler with my uncle as my personal trainer. My second wish would be that people wouldnt make a lot of garbage and would recycle, make compost for fertilizer and for gardens and collect rain in rain barrels for nutrients in our soil. I wish people would respect your personality, your likes and dislikes, instead of making fun of others.
ABOUT THE PROJECT

YWP is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences. YWP runs youngwritersproject.org and the Schools Project, a comprehensive online classroom and training program that works with teachers to help students develop their writing and digital literacy skills. To learn more, go to ywpschools.net or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
THANKS FROM YWP

YWP is supported by the generosity of foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing. If you would like to contribute, please go to youngwritersproject.org/ support, or mail your donation to YWP, 12 North St., Suite 8, Burlington, VT 05401.
BY KLARA MARTONE Grade 5, Champlain Elementary
I wish I had the skills of the greatest soccer player in the world and the skills of the best goalie ever. I wish I had all the superpowers of all the superheroes ever created. This wish I cant say because its a secret!
Special thanks this week to BAY AND PAUL FOUNDATIONS
BY CATHERINE GILWEE Grade 4, Shelburne Community School
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
I wish everything went my way. I wish it could stay this way. I wish it could go back to normal.
Letter to my dad
BY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS-MONTESANO Grade 6, Edmunds Middle School
BY ZANIPOLO LEWIS Grade 4, Homeschool, Burlington
Three sentences, thats all I have to tell you my wish. My wish is that there is no such thing as violence. To save the world from destroying itself.
BY TAYLOR MATHIESON Grade 4, Chamberlin School My rst wish is to bring back the ones that I love because I miss my family and pets who loved me and cared for me so much. My second wish is world peace because I am sick of all the wars we have and losing friends and family. Lastly, I wish for no more bullying because bullying scares all of us and your feelings get hurt and you feel sad.
I love you, I love you so much. The thing is its blind love. I love you, but I might not trust you fully. I might be a bit shy when I see you, but that is because I never get to see you. Really the only time I get to see you is once a year. Im sorry, Im sorry that I might not respond to your email or your phone calls, but sometimes my mind is a little off. Im scared, I admit it. Im scared because I dont know you, because I love you, and because whenever I nally begin to warm to you, you have to leave. And go back. And I cry because of guilt. I could be a much better daughter. And I miss you.
BY SADIE VINCENT Grade 6, Christ the King School I wish I had superpowers. To know what to do, to know what to say. I wish I had superpowers, to lead me, to show me the way.
Melissa Stewart/Essex High School
Summer sanctity
BY MALIN HILLEMANN Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School Seashells, sand, some smiling sun. Splash! Swimming, sinking, sharp, short stun. Striking, stinging, Siberian shiver, Slowly subsiding, screaming sliver. Snorkeling, sharing spotted surprises. Smelling soft, sweet Starfruit, small, sizable sizes. Sinking sea stars, sand sheathed shoes, Silky Sundays, sneaking some snooze. Sleeping sheltered, stories spun, Seashells, sand, some smiling sun.
Rafting
BY ETHAN LACROSS Grade 4, Chamberlin School If I had three wishes, I would wish for the power of words to change the lives of people to overcome problems that they may face. I would wish for the power of peace on Earth so we would never ever ght, but use our hands for helping. For my last wish, I would wish for the power of fairness so no one would be greedy or judge others so we could just play if sometimes we just want to play. BY LENA ASHOOH Grade 4, Shelburne Community School Rafting on a vacation, The salty breeze hits my face. I know Im going to win this race. My sister starts squealing again as the crystal blue waterfall turns a bend. I run my tan hand into the water, feeling the sand run through my ngers. This is the vacation Im going to remember. I wish I could stay here forever. I have my family right next to me; theyre the ones who bring glee to me.
Vacation is here
BY KATE HENRY Grade 4, Integrated Arts Academy As soon as I walk out of the musty, sticky, sweaty classroom, I feel relief. Vacation. At last. Vacation is nally here. I am free. Summer is the best time of the year. No school. No rules. Freedom. Freedom!
MORE GREAT STUDENT WRITING AT

YOUNGWRITERSPROJECT.ORG
Tradition
BY MEGHAN CLEARY Grade 11, South Burlington High School Princess was always a beautiful girl. Eyes sparkling green, she exemplied the values of her people. She lived in the Valley of One Thousand Peas, and never once questioned the lore of the land, stories of the evil dragon at the top of the hill, traditions of marriage to a neighboring prince. She did not worry over love. Charming was aware of his fate from the moment awareness was an ability. For prince to wed princess was the way of his world. It was his prophesied fate to slay the mighty dragon and earn his place at the throne. His heart was not taken into consideration. Dragon lived a life of pain. He was, by nature, a gentle creature. He looked upon Princess with a soft and aching heart. He watched her fall in love with her prince, as princesses were prone to do, so when the man, covered head to foot in shining metal, climbed his hill, Dragon reared his head but watched the sword pierce his heart all the same.
THIS WEEK: Fairy tale & Technology

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompts, Fairy tale: Write a fairy tale that includes the phrase, one thousand peas; and Technology: Your cell phone breaks. What happens?
Gossip
BY JEREMY BROTZ Grade 8, Homeschool, Burlington
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THANKS FROM YWP

Special thanks this week to
BIRDSEYE FOUNDATION
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Kevin Huang/Burlington High School
Death by the mourning dove
See more photos by Kevin Huang, a freshman at Burlington High School, at youngwriterproject.org.
Waiting in a castle
BY MOHAMED JAFFER MERALI Grade 12, South Burlington High School I dream of a world, rolling hills met by the ery red sun, casting a long shadow on a faraway kingdom. Free of hatred and evil, harmonious people would live, smiles stretched across their rosy faces as they would gallantly wander, searching the world for the unknown. Scaly dragons, the weak planks of the rickety bridges, testing the mightiest of the mighty. From atop a high tower, I gaze out the broken window, dreaming of this mystical world, staring at the ery balls rising from the sweltering lava, hoping to see that white luminous knight who would whisk me away my gold locks secure in his strong arms. But all I can do is wait, sitting here in this rat-infested room, a bat in one hand, a jar of peas in the other, counting the days that have passed 999 peas... One thousand peas
Fairy princess
BY KELLY MALONE-WOLFSUN Grade 3, Richmond Elementary School One day there was a little fairy who was not just a fairy, but a fairy princess. Her favorite thing to do was to curl up with a very good book and one thousand peas. This particular day she was on a mission to win the Pea Eating Contest, so she had to nd a way to be hungry enough to eat one thousand peas in three minutes or less. Her solution was to not eat for four days, so she would be hungry enough to eat one thousand peas. Four days later I am so hungry but I dont want to eat peas, thought the princess, but I have to win the contest. So off she went. When she got there, she saw princesses, fairies, and even frogs that looked starving. The princess took a seat at the end of a table next to a frog. So, said the frog, have you ever done a contest before? No, the princess answered. This is my rst time. Well then, youre in for a treat...
Read the complete story at youngwritersproject. org/node/ 80712.
BY LYDIA MOREMAN Grade 9, Champlain Valley High School
A glass crown rimmed with gold Filled with cur-sed powr of old 1000 peas of onyx set within Cut the lifespan of royal kin Each heir chose power And died at an early hour Sentenced from the divine above Sung to death by the mourning dove In this way the years passed on Until the present king had a son As his fathers last breath gave way A mourning doves song did play On his way to his coronation The heir came to his decision He would not sacrice life for death It was time he lay this greed to rest He rejected the crown and threw it to the oor The power it possessed was not worth dying for 1000 peas of onyx embedded in the crown 1000 peas of onyx shattered on the ground
So I was like talking to her, and all of a sudden Mia walks up behind me, and shes like, Take this, you idiot, and she slaps me, and Im all, What the heck? but she just like walks away, and . My text conversation goes on and on, blissfully pointless, but strangely satisfying. I always say that friends are better through a phone, and I live like it. I hardly ever see my best friend anymore because I dont need to. Shes right there in my pocket. Today my mom said I should get outside, so now Im walking around downtown with my eyes glued to the mesmerizing glow of my phone, which I hold reverently, as if its a holy artifact. My thumbs hammer away, sending every little thought I have out to my BFF. Actually, I cant even quite remember what she looks like. I think shes blonde no, wait, maybe she has brown hairwhatever, I dont really care. As long as she keeps up the texts, it doesnt matter. I nd myself wandering up Main Street and crossing it without looking up. In the background, I hear some honking and the screech of tires. Whatever. I walk into the mall, and wander through the crowds. They all get out of the way so as not to hit me. OK, that works. Then, I suddenly remember some really good gossip that I just HAVE to text my friend about. My ngers are a blur and I unconsciously speed up my pace in my excitement. Just as Im about to send it, I come to a corner and start to turn, but some other person is there at the same time, and wham, we collide. My phone is knocked out of my grip and falls to the oor with a horrid, crunching sound. I scream and dive after it. The screen is shattered, and the battery is broken. I choke back a sob and look at the dummy that crashed into me. Its a girl, about my age, glaring at me and holding her (also broken) cell phone in her hands. Then her expression changes a bit into something a little more like curiosity. Just as Im about to tell her that shed better buy me a new phone, she says, Do I know you? Im about to say, of course not, but then she suddenly looks familiar. Maybe. I say. Then, bam, I notice her hair. Its blonde, just like I originally thought. Hey! I shout, jumping up and dropping my phone. I was just about to text you! She looks at me funny. Wait, but I was just about to text. wait, that was you, wasnt it?! So this is what you look like. I knew you had blue eyes. Then she jumps up and puts her arm around me. I grin and start telling her about that gossip I so desperately wanted to share. When I have nished, I nd that it is even more satisfying in person than texting! No way! We walk off through the store, yammering non-stop. On the oor behind us lie two forgotten, busted phones.

193 years ago

BY ISABELLE VANSUCH Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School June 20, 1820 I woke up this morning to the sound of a rooster calling and the smell of maple syrup. I looked outside to see the rst ray of sun come over the mountains. I wanted to stay in my warm bed all day and soak up the sun, but Mother called my name, and I had to get up. I rose out of bed like a bear coming out of hibernation...
Read the complete story at youngwritersproject. org/node/81337.
THIS WEEK: Music & Long ago

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompts, Music: Choose a piece of music and write a story that ows from it; and Long ago: Write a diary entry of someone from a different time. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
The new age

BY ISAAC DODSON Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School The silver skyscrapers shine in the light, stretching to the heavens. Hovercrafts zoom across the sky right above me. On the road, the silent Smart cars purr, making little noise. Trees dot the sidewalks, their green splendor visible. The smells from many different food carts waft into my nose, making my mouth water. People walk next to me, chatting and laughing. I feel wind brushing my hair. I glance up and see the silent plane pass, traveling at the speed of sound. Bright-colored hair lls the corners of my vision, purples, greens and pinks. Everyone is different, unique. This is our new world. Welcome to the future.
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THANKS FROM YWP

Sanya
BY EVA CUNNINGHAM FIRKEY Grade 6, Albert D. Lawton School
March 31,1901 I am headed to California to meet the rest of my family who have been there for a whole year. There, they have waited for the people back in Russia to approve my travel. I have long awaited this day, dreamed about what I would do when I rst saw my mother, father, two sisters and brother. My ship is now landing at the dock and I see my family. When I get off the boat I scan the crowd for my mother and nd her instantly. She is unmistakable in her bright orange dress and white overcoat. I run to her and hug her and we burst out crying. Anastasia, my mother says. ... I have dreamed of this day for many days...
Special thanks this week to GREEN MOUNTAIN COFFEE ROASTERS
Rhapsody in Blue (An interpretation)

BY BEN WOOD-LEWIS Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
Long ago (a Haiku)

BY KATE HENRY Grade 4, Integrated Arts Academy I wish I lived when Everything cost less than A stinkin dollar.
Prison boys excerpt

BY GRACE LU Grade 6, Albert D. Lawton School
My day
BY OLIVIA HUNT Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School The rumbling wheels roll past The windmill turns round and round and round, making our The birds chirp, chirp, chirp away in the trees The wooden house I live in creaks as people move about downstairs I run outside I look up at the clear blue sky I lay back in the soft grass and look at the dirt road and the house trotting past me I head down to the bubbling stream and dip my feet in I feel the cold crisp blue water ow over them I watch as the sh swim past nibbling at my toes I head into town and go into the shop to buy penny candy I smile as I eat it on my way home Then I go back upstairs To my room To the windmill that still turns relentlessly around and around and around To the birds as they chirp away, away, away I sigh and lay back on my palette and look up at the shifting light on my bedroom ceiling Shifting, ever changing light I sleep
Before I begin the long and arduous task of recording my stay here in this monotonous, desolate place, there is one thing that I must explain. I am calling today day one because when I woke up this morning, something was different. It felt as if today was going to be the start of a new, better and brighter era, even though I am still trapped here. I have been here a long time, yet I cannot fully fathom that period of time. My hope is that one day, somewhere in the future, another person will nd this journal and read it and that they will proceed to change our society for the greater good...
Read the complete story at youngwritersproject. org/node/81210. Ben Wood-Lewis is a 7th grade student on the Renaissance team at Edmunds Middle School. He writes using an alternative communication system because he has cerebral palsy, which limits his ability to speak and type on his own. For this piece, Ben listened to Gershwins Rhapsody in Blue and identied words he felt describe the piece.
What you call faults

BY ISAIAH LAWLOR Grade 6, Williston Central School You say Ill never reach the moon. I know this by listening to that tune inside of you. I look at you without a clue to see in you the hatred in your eyes with magic falling from the sky. The thing I want to do is ride the wind with you again. Pull away for a little while to try and push out a little smile. I see the boy that sees the stars differently than the girl who watches the moon. As they learn to walk and talk, they talk to show the greatness in the world around them. They shine without ego like I did long ago.
Loss and sorrow

BY ABHI DODGSON Grade 5, Homeschool, South Hero A light drizzle falls as a bird sings softly People in black walk the streets slowly dragging their feet Their eyes heavy and downcast Shoes make hollow sounds on the cobblestones They enter an empty church where the statues sing to the dead A sanctuary that saved hundreds from war, from sickness, from death

Tears ow into a river mourning soldiers returning from war disgured and crazed Adults and children lying on their deathbeds slowly fading away The continuous sound of hammering as cofns are made every day No one has been in the church for years Cobwebs ll the corners A ray of sunlight illuminates the dust piling on windowsills The music I was listening to when I wrote this was Symphony no.3, II Lento E Largo -Tranquillissimo by Henryk Gorecki
School lunches
BY MATTHEW CATOZZI Grade 11, South Burlington High School The bell rings and my stomach churns. I head toward the boisterous cafeteria, dreading it all the way down the hallway. The smell, such a disgusting smell, drifts up from my tray. I stare at my food, Horried by what I see. I hear my stomach growl. Not because Im hungry, but because I hate school lunches. I sit, refusing to touch this glob of mush squirming on my tray. I kick and complain watching my friends eat such toxic sludge. Every meal has some aspect that makes me avoid it. Its smell, its sight, or the way it tastes. I get my tray and the foods a waste. The pizzas too greasy! The soup is warm paste! The nuggets are so hard that my teeth will break! I dont know what to do when lunch comes each day. The bell rings and I cringe. Hoping that this lunch will be at least edible. Maybe I should get lunch, not from the school, but from home. Because then I will know that my food will be safe.
THIS WEEK: Dislike & White lie

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompts, Dislike: Write about something that disgusts you; and White lie: Write about a lie that grows and grows. More at youngwritersproject.org.
YWP PERFORMANCE NIGHT

THURSDAY, MAY 30 NORTH BY NORTH CENTER 12 NORTH STREET, BURLINGTON Performance poet Lizzy Fox
will lead a writing and performance workshop, Rhythm of Change, from 5 p.m. 6:30 p.m. Stick around for open mic and pizza, from 7 p.m. 8:30 p.m. More details at youngwritersproject.org or call (802) 324-9538.
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Special thanks this week to CHAMPLAIN INVESTMENT PARTNERS
FREE AND OPEN TO ALL AGES
My dislikes
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
BY ABHI DODGSON Grade 5, Homeschool, South Hero I dislike cleaning up after the dogs (its disgusting!) BUT anything to make a better environment! I dislike it when our ewes have difcult births. It makes me worry and they can become very sick. I dislike loud drummers, sometimes they are OVER THE TOP! I dislike math, I guess its not my thing. I dislike bad things always being on the news instead of positive stories. Mushrooms are squishy and gross. In my opinion, Britney Spears is not a talented singer. Snakes just creep me out. I dislike friends being late. I like to be on time. I dont like when friends text instead of interacting.
Little white lie
BY MARIA CHURCH Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
There once was a little white lie that grew and grew and grew until it wasnt so little anymore it was big and red keeping you awake at night with guilt-wracked guts you biting your nails worrying about what would happen when they found out it coiling in your stomach every time you spoke Tell the truth it would scream and you would open your mouth and then close it because you knew if you told your would-be friends would become your wouldnt-ever-be friends it would only be you and your shadow and that little white lie that grew and grew and grew
A poignant curse
BY MICHAEL DICKHAUT Grade 11, South Burlington High School There are many repulsive and disgusting foods But none compare to Limburger cheese A poignant curse upon the world 1 cup spoiled skunk juice 3/4 cup dead sh puree Sauteed in week-old milk Poured over horrid hockey socks And served with a sprinkle of mouse droppings Flavors mix and mingle in your mouth Reacting like ammonia and bleach But worse for your health It slowly does its work Assaulting the defenseless nose The taste buds face the next onslaught of putrid avor Slowly it worms its way down the throat Searching for its next victim Discovers the stomach The Limburger cheese corrodes from within It needs to be removed But it will do more damage if it is expelled So it must be kept within Until the pain and taste subside
Squishy and mushy

BY RYANN GIUMMO Grade 5, Thomas Fleming School Red, small, round Wish they werent found Taste disgusting Also like theyre rusting Way too squishy Sometimes really mushy I hate tomatoes I prefer potatoes
Josh Kenyon/Essex High School
MILLENNIAL WRITERS ON STAGE

PRESENTED BY YOUNG WRITERS PROJECT AND VERMONT PUBLIC RADIO
Send your best poetry or prose for performance at the Burlington Book Festival on Sept. 21, 2013. Submit as a blog on your youngwritersproject.org account (If you dont have one, its easy to sign up); click Newspaper Series and the prompt, Millennial. Or email your submission to sreid@youngwritersproject.org.
Sheep poem
THIS WEEK: Farm Project winners

Congratulations to the six winners of the Farm Project writing challenge, whose work is published on this page today. The Vermont Community Foundation, sponsor of the challenge, will award the writers $50 with an additional $50 donation to a local food or farm nonprot of the winners choice. Seventy-seven writers participated in the challenge, showing that farming and local food matter to young Vermonters. Read all of the Farm Project submissions at youngwritersproject.org.
The chicken coop

BY DAVID AMOURETTI Grade 5, Thomas Fleming School I open the coops squeaky door. I pass the rooster sleeping in a feathery mass. He opens one eye, then closes it, Deciding that Im not a threat. At the laying area, I reach in The tiny room with the mother hens, White, brown, spotted, Sleeping on the side, Waiting for a peck, But nothing happens. I count 1...234 Four eggs. My trembling hands gently pick them up. They feel cold, chilling my ngers In the already freezing winter. Careful not to drop them, I walk inside, Ready for omelets.
BY EVA ROCHELEAU Grade 8, Williston Central School
The lambs born in February and March leap together In May when the elds are green The visitors come And they ask us questions like when and why and where June, July rotate the pastures Shifting the fence, one, two, three, lift! Then comes August When we load up the trailers And off to the fair Full of top-notch churros and freshly ironed pants The days of blocking and tting Showing and ribbons Are long, tense, and sweaty And the sheep are loud and tted their best Once Addison County and Champlain Expo are simply joyful memories We pack up our lambs, all tuckered out, and head back to the farm Where the shepherds are eagerly waiting September, lambs are nearly forgotten Only photographs
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VERMONT COMMUNITY FOUNDATION
Living by a farm
BY SASKIA KIELY Grade 7, Vergennes Union High School
Summer on the farm

BY CARLEY MALLOY Grade 7, Thetford Academy Ive decided that a family farm is a lot like a barbed wire fence; running smooth for a little while, and then running into a twist or barb that slows things down. My last year and a half has been spent working on my grandparents farm. Each day has been a new adventure, and I often catch myself looking back and saying, remember the day I like summer on the farm the most; the weather has warmed so the barn can be left open and I can hear the jingling of chains as the cows turn their heads to look when I come in. Summer on the farm means haying, fencing, cleaning up the winters mess, and letting the cows outside to stretch their long legs. Kittens and calves are born and you have the fun of tracking them down every morning to see where their mothers have decided to move them...
Read the complete story at youngwritersproject. org/node/ 80476
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Carley Malloy, here with 1-year-old Lola, is the 9th generation on the family farm in North Thetford
Dusty Creek Farm

BY KELSEY EDDY Grade 9, Mill River High School I turned the doorknob and walked into the milk house. The milk container was cold, as expected, and the family had not started without me. I walked through the milk house and went into the barn. I walked down the aisle, looking for my grandpa. Hey Sprout, you here to help out or talk to the old lady? he asked. We both laughed. My grandpa had a great sense of humor, and always called me Sprout. Go clean off the calves, he said, all business-like... Unlike me, who can be scared of cows at times, my grandpa was tough and fearless, even though he had his limits...
Read the complete story at youngwritersproject. org/node/79906
Shatter
BY CALLISTA BUSHEE Grade 8, Home School, East Wallingford On the second Friday in January, a calf was born at Seward Farm in East Wallingford, just 10 minutes from my home. She wasnt out of the ordinary; in fact, she was anything but different. The heifer, the rst female calf in several months of bulls, had a thick-headed temper to her, like her mother, and boasted her rudeness from day one. But that Monday, one of the two days I spend volunteering at Sewards each week, she caught my eye. We usually only name registered or special calves, and she was neither. A bit smaller than most, her size was the only unusual trait about her, with regular markings and, of course, her tough disposition. However, the calfs strong will was much
like my own, and she grew on me. With permission from Art and Dave Seward, the two wonderful guys who own and operate the farm, I named her Shatter for her white markings, which in some places looked like shattered glass. With time, Shatter became more eventempered, and her affection for me grew. After Id trained her to give me her hooves upon request and a few other useful tricks, I began working with her on a halter, walking her any chance I got. Bit by bit, Shatter worked her way into my heart, funny little nose rst. Working at Sewards is by far the highlight of my week, not only because of Shatter but because no matter how grim things look, Art and Dave always nd a way to laugh. One way or another, they cheer you up, and they have showed me that even in the toughest situations, you can always nd a way to smile.
The drive down the luminous dirt road when I was moving away from my childhood home was torturous. I knew it was going to be a big change, moving to West Addison, and not necessarily a good one. Gone was my lush yard and surrounding mountains that were the backdrop of my childhood. I arrived to see a bland town, no trees, and elds atter than a pancake. The only thing I could smell for the rst week was manure. My parents told me it would be a great experience and change, but I wasnt convinced. My new home is surrounded by farm all around; there is no escape. My rst encounter with the farm was with the cows. One day I had some extra cake that I normally would have discarded, but I decided to give it to the cows. I went outside, walked over and cautiously dropped the cake over the electric fence. The excited cows came forward and licked it a couple times. The next day I went back out and came a little closer, allowing them to suck on my ngers. Day after day I would walk to the barn and interact with the animals, and Rob and Suzie, the farmers. I could see when the pigs got out from my living room window, and would rush over to chase them back in. The place had started to grow on me, and I wanted to be of help in any way I could. Prior to moving, my stereotype of dairy farmers was strong. I thought that farmers were gruff middle-aged men who didnt care about anything they just had the jobs for the tractors. But I realized how incorrect this stereotype was when I met my neighbor farmers who are kind, generous, and always helpful and their kids are also creative and engaging. Amazed by how much effort and time they give to producing milk, I started thinking differently about the farming lifestyle and the passion and dedication it requires. These people sacrice so much time to wake up in the morning at 5 oclock and take care of the calves or milk the cows. They dont just do it because its their job, they do it because its what they love to do...
Your little girl
THIS WEEK: Promise & News story

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompts, Promise: Write about a promise you made but couldnt keep; and News story: Write an opinion based on a current news story. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE
BY ANNA HULSE Grade 8, Vermont Commons School
I promised you I would always be your little girl With a aming imagination and excitement for life, But you feel me slipping away into the world, I know you do. So you open your arms for an embrace, Hoping I will look back over my shoulder And run to the safety of your love. You try to hide your tears as I struggle, Life shoving me off a cliff, barely holding on. But you smile at my successes, Knowing it will all make sense in the end. All you can do is watch from the nest As I y away free, but still frightened. And when it seems like Im not good enough, I will always know Im perfect to you. It kills you to think about the horrors of life, The judgmental critics commenting on everything you love about me. But I have to learn myself, experience, feel. Youve spent your life protecting me. Its time to let go. The makeup I smear on my face covering up the special features only you know are there, the freckles shaped like the big dipper, the birthmark on my chin and my smaller left eye. You hate it, trust me, I know. Life isnt easy anymore. I wish I were little again, and could cuddle up against you, Listening to your heart pound against your chest. So thank you for being my safety net as I jump out into the world. Im not your little girl anymore, But when life scares me away from my dreams I will always come running home To your warm embrace.
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Watch this newspaper and youngwritersproject.org for the six winners to be announced next week!
Sponsored by The Vermont Community Foundations Food and Farm Initiative
FAIRPOINT COMMUNICATIONS
The promise of hope

BY SARA AHLERS Grade 12, Mount Manseld High School I always said it would mean something. I held this word in my heart above all others. It meant stability, it meant I could let go, let the world hold me and take care of me. It meant I could close my eyes and stop screaming, endlessly screaming and scrambling to make everything be so, to make it be okay. The word was invented as a way for frightened, insecure humans to know that they could relax, that, regardless, this is what would be. Promises made things safe, stable, secure. I pinky-swore my way through childhood, linked my small pinky through other childrens ngers, showing that I would be sure to honor my word. I never pinky-swore to anything if I knew I couldnt follow up. That would be deplorable, and would break the boundaries that we set for ourselves, the ones we followed to keep ourselves safe and know that we could be trusted. And then I watched as opinions tore and fell at, as the world faded to gray and stabbed me between the shoulder blades. As life promised to be the utmost treasure while refusing to remove the knife from its new residence between my bones. As people writhed and babbled their way out of being what I wanted them to be, as they fell from the pedestals upon which I had held them for so long. To put it in short terms, I was a selfmade storybook child who grew up into real life and watched text and pages tear up around her and drift to the ground like snow. So what meaning has that word to me now? Only this hope. Lifes ultimate promise, the one I clutch to my chest, the salve I apply to all my stinging, bloody cuts. My grotesque, mottled bruises coloring in sickly shades. The promise I whisper to myself on late nights to the background noise of TV static, on days when I stumble alone through miles of cold muddy slush and know that I will never reach where I want to go, but I keep walking anyway. No human word has meaning unless it resonates within you as well, but this is a promise from the omnipresent power of life itself, an incomprehensible force the promise of potential, of possibility, of wonder, of better days.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
About my sister
BY ELIZA WAITE Grade 3, Richmond Elementary School I made a promise but just could not keep it. I tried so hard to keep it but couldnt. So I told my friend that my sister was amonkey and gorilla at the same time. I told her never to tell but then she could not keep it, so it went on forever and ever until some random person told my sister, and then it was a long year after that.
Margaret Slate/Peoples Academy
Guns
BY CALEB MOREHOUSE Grade 7, The Renaissance School As some of you may know, after the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School, there was a smaller incident in which a teenager was arrested for pointing a rearm towards his high school. My opinion on rising gun violence is that gun ammo capacity for gun clips per magazine is dangerous. Picture the Connecticut shooting, many students and some teachers dead. Now imagine it differently. The shooter is forced to reload his rie; the teachers are able to stop the shooting and up to 20 children are saved. The limitation of high capacity magazines could save so many lives that the change is vital to peoples safety. I understand there is a culture behind the ownership of guns, and it is treated like a religion. However, it must be limited in its power so that non-believers are not killed as heretics. These things simply have to be limited.
Hidden shells
BY ELLA CAUSER Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School I have secrets in my head, A nest of promises and dread, A spinning orb of words and thoughts. Tell a single soul Ill not. A storys whispered, a tale is told, Truth unravels, pure as gold. A pinky promise, an I wont tell, Yet promises can break like shells. But I wont be the one to break, A slipped word, a clever mistake. For secrets are not to be shared, Ill zip my lips, pretend I cared. And tell anyone? Ive never dared, For broken shells are to be spared.
Hard to keep
BY FRANKIE KARNEDY Grade 7, Frederick H. Tuttle School
Promises are one thing in life you can hardly keep They slip between your ngers They slide around your feet You cant see them be broken But you can see when your secret has been spoken Even though they promised They made a promise they couldnt keep
NEXT PROMPT
Vacation. Recall a specic moment on a favorite vacation and describe it. Or imagine your perfect vacation. Alternate: General writing. Due May 17
Stronger than we seem

BY MARGARET SLATE Grade 11, Peoples Academy Sometimes the world is not as it should be, And its something that we all can readily see. We sit and sigh and cry about it all, But none of us stand up to ght against the wall. But thats not really fair, because they do exist, The ones that ght for our further existence. Humans are stronger than we give them credit for, And I believe that our strength can give us so much more. I believe that we can change the world, Speaking speeches and shouting words; Though alone, its not enough to get us through. What we really need is me and you. Humans are incredible, expanding their lives, Theyve outtted Earth so that they can thrive. Some say theyre greedy, I say theyre grand But its not something that everyone can understand. Our future isnt about keeping the Earth the same, But adapting for changes like the old ones that came. We know the Earth shifts beneath our feet, And its creatures are moving to an unknown beat, But we really can tune in, you see, Because technology expands exponentially. So dear, please, dont cry about it so, Because all it takes is a seed to grow. And the human race is made of seeds, Handcrafted and designed to suit our needs. Theyre a lot braver than weve come to know, And someday soon, I believe itll show. Because the world is falling, thats the truth, But we can change it, me and you.
THIS WEEK: Climate change

This week, Young Writers Project publishes some of the winning entries in the YWP Climate Change Writing Challenge. Seven writers were honored and given $50 awards by Vermontivate (the community sustainability game) at an Earth Day celebration in Burlington on April 20. To read all the winning submissions, go to youngwritersproject.org/vermontivate.
THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Watch youngwritersproject.org for the six winners to be announced soon!

VERMONTIVATE
PLAY VERMONTIVATE!
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
The community sustainability game that ends with a huge Ben & Jerrys Ice Cream Party!
Find out more at vermontivate.com
The global hope

BY LEAH KELLEHER Grade 8, Albert D. Lawton School
Nate Ertle/Essex High School
Is it going to be us?
BY TAYLOR GARNER Grade 10, Mount Manseld High School Is it going to be us? That watches our planet die away? To watch our oceans poisoned, our valleys burned, and my soul left to deteriorate? Is it going to be us? That watches our mountains cut down, our atmosphere, toxic, and the rains turned black? Is it going to be us? That have to tell our grandkids that our governments didnt help their planet when it needed it the most? That thats the reason they wear gas masks to school, and need to be inside during the acid rain storms? That we murdered the planet? Is it going to be us?
Atlantis: The second world

BY CECILIA GIORDANO Grade 11, Big Picture South Burlington I remember my grandmother telling me stories of the surface. When I was younger, without my own children, I would sit by her side for hours watching the sh swim past my bioeld helmet and listen to her talk. She told me that Mother Earth had begun heating, and that it was irreversible. I remember not understanding why that was. It didnt make sense that my ancestors were incapable of reversing their mistakes, if they could create such wonderful technology. She explained to me that Homo sapiens had damaged our planet to the point of no return, because they were selsh, and had disconnected themselves from nature. When my generation came along, the title of human began to mean different things than it once did. I remember looking at her toes and wondering if sometimes she felt unnatural down here. She belonged to the land and I, one of the rst Homo ichthyoids, belonged to the sea. My toes were webbed to match my hands. At times I wished for gills, and other times I thought about cutting my webbings. No matter how many times I asked her about the start of our new world, shed always retell it. The story never changed, and when shed come to the end, Id ask her something about the beginning to make our time stretch on. She would tell me that Mother Earth had grown tired of human resilience, and put us to the test for the last time. She told me that Homo sapiens saw the change and damage escalating but let it worsen, they knew what would come of it, and before Earth could cleanse herself of the parasitic nature of humans, they found a route around her ways. They created the bioeld helmets that allowed oxygen to be endlessly ltered from water, and made cities out of material that was insoluble and could not be corroded. She explained that the oceans we now inhabit rose and swallowed up all the land... Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.org/vermontivate.

We are selsh, energy-hogging creatures. Humans are contributing to the destruction of our Earth. We know that. It is folly for people to believe climate change is a myth. From the factories that make our car parts to the production of potato chips, all of our companies use chemicals and materials that impact our Earth. We need to accept the fact that our carelessness and recklessness is showing. The Earth is not going to last forever. Scientists know it, astronomers know it, we know it. So why dont we do anything about it? Human beings have a bad habit of waiting to do something until the last minute. Until it is too late. Many people, including scientists, do believe it is already too late. I believe if we start now we can change the outcome. We can save our mother planet. I know what youre thinking: How? When humans wanted to reach the moon, we got there. When we want to accomplish something or make a difference, we nd a way to do it. If we want to heal our Earth we can. We need to have hope, not only in the future, but in ourselves. We may be selsh, but we are also the smartest creature on this planet. That being said, that gives us the opportunity to protect the beauty around us. We are not doing anything at the moment, but if we just started small, we could give this planet a chance. We can all x climate change if we try. We all need to try because this is not a national issue with politics. This is a global issue with us.
Six-word stories
BY FERN SULLIVAN Grade 5, Champlain Elementary I saved the world with magic. I ew on a dragon everywhere.
THIS WEEK: Six words & General

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompts, Six words: Write as many six-word stories as you can; and General writing. To read more, go to youngwritersproject.org.
BY CHRISTOPHER BARKER Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
A painter. A painting. Undiscovered history. Simple sea foam contains beautiful god. 24 hours, average American, million bidders. A tight grip, hospital, and silence. A quiet mansion. One man alone.
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BY COURTNEY VINCENT Grade 5, Shelburne Community School
Goose chasing shark, imagination gone wild. Colors dripping down the white paper.
Waiting for spring

BY OLIVIA PINTAIR Grade 7, Lake Champlain Waldorf School Hometown: Williston The sun is coming, my love. Its on its way. Any day now. So we must prepare now, darling, for when the light dawns on our worn limbs. We have wilted, but if the world tilts just a little, we will start to make breath for the beings. It will be bright, my love. Do you remember how bright it used to be? How warm it will seem when we thaw. How beautiful this world will be when we can see again. So stay with me, love. For we are rooted here until the light comes back. Dont leave just yet, for the shadows seem warmer when you are with me. Imagine how it will disappear, this beastly thing called the dark. It will leave us to make way for the brilliance that is to come. You can trust me, my love, for trust is the meaning of our existence. We feed the lungs of those who walk, For those who walk need our strength. And when the sun comes back to us, we will lift our faces for her As she gives up her power for all the little ones. And when the sun has given all she has to give, We will wait once more, For she will come again.
BY MARIA CHURCH Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
BAY AND PAUL FOUNDATIONS
Holding home-made signs, without a home.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
BY GABRIELLO LEWIS Grade 7, Homeschool, Burlington It was the sound of heartbreak. It was twilight when they came. They came to take me home. They danced through all the night. They walked among the everlasting stars. He walked along the path whistling.
BY EMILIE MCCORMACK Grade 7, Browns River Middle School First full game. Full of tears.
BY YOSEPH BORSYKOWSKY Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Grocery market, child lost, intercom, found!

Andrea Marie Neville/Chelsea Public School
BY GRACE CASWELL Grade 5, Shelburne Community School More world peace, less violent wars. BY EMILY URISH Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School Birds chirping, always chirping, never stopping. Dark, still, black, silent, starless night. Sunset disappearing into darkness, only blackness. Never seen, never hugged, never loved. Door between life and death, opening. BY AHMED ADAN Grade 5, Champlain Elementary School I like trains because they whistle.
BY MALIN HILLEMANN Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
BY JAMES BERNICKE Grade 5, Shelburne Community School Morning breeze gently moves calm water. The moon disappears; the sun rises. I wish to explore the wild. BY ZANIPOLO LEWIS Grade 4, Homeschool, Burlington We used to, now were not. I have luck but need more. They nally, actually believe in me! Sit, I will read to you.
He then painted the broken sky. The peoples deep wounds need healing. Beautiful green leaves hold her touch. Raw, working hands have hidden secrets. All thats left are healing scars. We can learn to love again. Sharp pain rises from her ngertips. Dying inside, unwilling to show outside. BY SARA AHLERS Grade 12, Mount Manseld High School Homesick, but I am at home. Published; they spelled my name wrong. BY DOMINIC BEGUE Grade 5, Shelburne Community School I love to read all day. MORE GREAT STUDENT WRITING AT
She and Friend

BY ARIEL SALMON Grade 9, Essex High School She was born, lived, and died. Friend was born, lived, and died. She and Friend grew up together. She and Friend loved being friends. Friend and She were crazy together. She and Friend cried as one. Friend helped She. She helped Friend. If Friend hurt, She was there. If She hurt, Friend was there. They were inseparable, Friend and She. Friend and She went different ways. She and Friend both grew up. One day, Friend and She met. She missed Friend. Friend missed She. Neither had forgotten their childhood friendship. They were born, lived, died: Friends.
BY OLIVIA HUNT Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School Water, sand, swish, swash, the ocean. Wind crazy, roaring through my ears. Humming, humming devices, the 21st century! Words everywhere, but none for me.
NEXT PROMPT
Long ago. Write a journal/diary entry of someone from a different time period, past or future. Alternate: Being right. Describe a time when you were sure that you were right, but someone else refused to see your view. Due May 3.
Song of the lost

BY OLIVIA PINTAIR Grade 7, Lake Champlain Waldorf School Hometown: Williston The stars that hung from your ceiling are gone, You took them down and sent them on, Dreams you gave away or pawned, Slowly saddened with the dawn. So when the glassy tide came near, The stars marched on to disappear, And seabound were the last few years. They went away in spite of fear. The precious hope among your faces, Slept while you dreamed of lost relations, And by default of being hastened, Those stars became imagination. So when the maelstrom in the skies Tore away at the beautiful lies And reminded you that life will still die Amidst your will, and absent eyes.
THIS WEEK: Rhyming & General

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 20 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompts for Rhyming poetry and General writing. To read more, go to youngwritersproject.org.
Charred tick-tock
BY OLIVIA V. HERN Grade 11, Champlain Valley High School
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A queen and a king

BY JULIA PELL Grade 5, Shelburne Community School Once upon a time, In a faraway land, There was a queen Who met a man. It was love at rst sight, The queen had said, Until the next day when she screamed, Off with his head! The kingdom was sad Because of the queen, And that was just the start Of her being mean. She ordered her servants To get her a man, A man thats nice enough For her to withstand. When the servants came back, There was a man with a beard. I am King William, You have nothing to fear. Prove it to me! For I recall The last man I loved Didnt love me at all! King William shook his head, And after a while, They looked up at each other And smiled. Once again, The queen said, It was love at rst sight, But nally, this time she was right.
GREEN MOUNTAIN COFFEE ROASTERS
Hey, little birdie

BY LYDIA SMITH Grade 9, Homeschool, Charlotte Hey, little birdie, sitting in a tree, Whats that secret youre whispering to me? Spring is in the air, There are lambs everywhere, The grass is awakening from winters deep sleep, And the chicks will soon begin to peep. Thanks, little birdie For being so wordy, But the snows still knee deep And the sheep still must leap. I feel it must melt And leave its brown welt, But spring seems ever so far away.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Winter will receive her rightful pay. But oh, little birdie, sitting in a tree, I do like that secret youre whispering to me.
City eyes
BY ELIZA GILES Grade 11, Champlain Valley High School My eyes long for the city yet my heart yearns for the sea. Its freedom is enticing, yet its rush beckons me. I shut my eyes to light, and open them to darkness. I walk toward the wind, and falter at the arches. I have city eyes And a heart of waves.
In an all-season cabin, lled with light And clean-cut smoke, a clean-cut family went about their lives. They could see mountains from every view, and sometimes, when they were lucky, the sky lit up with re. Such a quiet, stagnant life, for a clan well used to jumble-packed voyages from shore to shore. There was a Planner, a Thinker, a Laugher and a Dreamer. Side by side with the small soft companions that panted side by side by side. Blustery winters were kept at bay, and years went by. Too slow, the sunset burned across the newspaper strips dreamers would stick into the stove to watch burn. Time charred the edges of their stories, eating at soccer games and small town scandals, plodding on and on and on through the endless tick-tock of life. Laughter laughed, brightening dull days and cold nights, leaving them all to wonder. Slowly, coals ticked out, one by one, and the felted bers pulled and loosened, and drifted on the wind from corner to corner. The Planner went on trips, and the Thinker sat and thought, and the Laughers mood grew blue, and the Dreamer grew up. She grew strong and tall, cool and quiet, and ventured out into the deep blue night. She left a trail of candles hidden under icy gales, and didnt look back to see if theyd stayed aglow. She faded to purple amidst the chilly blue, and summer brought empty roses to her cheeks. She dreamed less and less and less. Lungs forgot the avor of woods and mountains, learning the tang of street and shadow. The sullen tar slopes did not know the word forgive, and the breadcrumb trail of candles sulked, and dimmed and dimmed and held their heat tightly clasped in burning threads. Dreams were geometric, and oated on a continuum of bright blacks and even greys, and mellow, soft eggshell whites. Deep oven lilacs lost their pulsing hot tones, and settled into a nighttime wintery shade of musky blue. Time kept ticking, and the cold kept sticking and the silk of spiders sentiments froze. The china-doll Dreamer had broken, and Scotch-taped cracks rubbed and ached. Pallid cold feet devoid of heat, ran from nothing. She slept, thin ngers clutched the notches in her hands. She slept all through the ride, on the wax-lit road to a year-round cabin, too small and too tight, but held its own in a sea of trees. She dreamed in bitter blue, she cried. The chimes of laughing bells and neatly planned rows, and the cerebral chortle of bad jokes and sameness, the sweetest sound a missing piece had ever heard. Red curtains and well-worn oors glossed over her soles. Sluggish blood snailed into her skin. Now nights were warm.
NEXT PROMPT
Scared. What really scares you? Why? Tell a story about when you confronted it. Alternate: White lie. Write about a little white lie that grows and turns into a bigger lie until you cant keep up. Due April 19

The artist
THIS WEEK: Lesson

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompt, Lesson: An old man sits down beside you on a park bench and teaches you something you had no idea you could do. What is it? Read more great writing at youngwritersproject.org.
THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE
BY MERRICK MENDENHALL Grade 9, Burlington High School
A girl. Her hair is long and straight. She is pretty, but she wears too much make-up. She walks over to me. She sits down. I can hear her sigh quietly to herself. I look past the girl and turn my attention elsewhere. From where I sit, nailed to the ground, I can look out over the ocean. It is a beautiful view: the ocean glittering in the dying sunlight and the waves crashing soothingly against the rocks lining the beach. I lose myself in the scenery for awhile. Now a man walks over to me. He sits down next to the girl. He leans forward, elbows resting on his bony knees. This man is old with white hair and wrinkles. The girl glares at him. He ignores her. She ips her hair and huffs, wanting him to leave. When he doesnt move, she crosses her legs tightly and begins inspecting her nails, ignoring the old man. The old man leans back. So, he says, Why are you so angry? Excuse me? Angry. I said why are you so angry? I dont know what the hell youre talking about. If you dont want to talk about it, ne. But it will just hurt more to keep it to yourself. Silence. The old man begins to get up to go. Wait. Yes? Its my parents. The girl then begins explaining how her parents always pressure her to be who she isnt. She says that she loves art. She wants to be an artist. But when her parents found out, they laughed at her, telling her it was a stupid goal and that nothing good would ever come of being an artist. When the girl continued to chase her goal, her dream, the parents pulled her out of all her art classes. I feel so empty inside. Its like theres nothing left. Ive stopped trying. My grades have dropped, I got kicked off my soccer team because I stopped going to practices. Nothing matters anymore. Nothing. The two sit for a moment. How old are you? Im 17. Then why do you let your parents rule your life? They dont rule my life! Really? Then why have you stopped your art? Why havent you stood up to them? Whats the use? They never listen. How do you know? Because they laughed when I told them I wanted to be an artist in the rst place. Well, of course they did. You show no ambition. No love of art. You havent proven to them that youre serious about doing what you love. When they took away your art classes, you didnt ght back. To everyone whos watching, you have no drive; you have no guts. Well then, how do I stand up to them? Show them how much you love art. How much you love being an artist. How? I dont know. Im not an artist. And with that, the man is gone. The young girl sits for a while longer, looking at the ocean. Then she pulls a notebook from her bag and shes around for something else. She pulls a pencil from the depths of her bag. She begins to draw.
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

YWP is supported by the generosity of foundations, business and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing. If you would like to contribute, please go to youngwritersproject.org/support, or mail your donation to YWP, 12 North St., Suite 8, Burlington, VT 05401.
WIN $50 FOR YOU AND $50 FOR A FOOD OR FARM

NONPROFIT OF YOUR CHOICE
WRITING PROMPTS
AND CONTEST DETAILS AT
youngwritersproject.org/farm13
DUE FRIDAY, APRIL 12

Sponsored by the Vermont Community Foundations Food and Farm Initiative
MAIN STREET LANDING
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Life lesson
BY BELLA MOSCA Grade 5, Browns River Middle School
Alia Jenkins/South Burlington High School
Money is money
BY ESPEN PETERSON Grade 8, Homeschool, Jericho It was going to be an especially pleasant weekend. Well it would have been perfect if I hadnt stopped to sit on that bench outside the Yellow Wallaby Caf, but then there probably wouldnt be a story to tell, and I wouldnt have learned my lesson. My bike screeched to a halt in front of the caf, and I walked over to a bench. I sat down with a relieved sigh. I had biked to the Yellow Wallaby Caf with 20 dollars in my pocket to pick up sandwiches for my
family. We were planning a lovely lunch at the beach. The bench was warmed by the sunlight. I was beginning to think that maybe I should use the extra money to buy myself something, instead of giving it back, when my daydreaming was interrupted. Not planning on keeping all of that dough for yourself, are you? said a voice that sounded similar to a choking crow. Because If I am right, you were planning to do just that. I looked around, surprised, and saw no one. Then I looked down and saw a little old man sitting on the bench next to me...
Have you ever had a stranger, who really taught you the best lesson ever, sit by you? Well, I have. It all started when I had a ght with my best friend Lorie; we argued and argued about who had won a game in tetherball. It was just a silly ght that I should have never gotten into, but I was really furious, so I decided to get my anger out at the park. I sat down at one of the benches. Youll never guess who sat right by my side! An old man who butted into my business seconds after he sat down. He said, My name is Harold, and you little girl, look furious; do you want me to calm you down? No thanks, I said, thinking to myself, wow, this guy is really annoying; can he go away, already? But the more I said no, the more he kept trying. I nally told him, Me and my best friend got into a ght. I dont know if we will ever be friends again. Look, little girl, he said, Sometimes it would be best if you took the rst step and apologized rst. But Lorie does not deserve it, and I want to make her feel bad. Youre only hurting yourself being away from your best friend. Is it worth losing a friendship that could last forever, letting it break up because of a silly game of tetherball? And everyone has her aws. Have you ever heard the saying, nobody is perfect? What Harold was trying to say was to be the big person and save a friendship. So, to this very day, Lorie and I are still best friends and know to not let something little get in between our friendship.
NEXT PROMPTS
Dislike. Write about something that disgusts you, no matter how wrong, distasteful or awkward it is.Alternate: Fairy tale. Write a fairy tale that includes the phrase, one thousand peas. Due April 12
A friend hatches
BY BEN MAKSYM Grade 9, Vermont Commons School Squashing my owers, Destroying the dandelions, And being generally rude, Was a large purple egg. Why was it here? And why right now? And why was it purple? And it got here how? I carried it to my kitchen, And then turned on the stoves. I was gonna eat this thing, It could feed people in droves. I got ready to crack it open, But just as I tried, It began shaking, And I ran to hide. Something had hatched. It was purple too. But it was very small, And covered in egg goo. Nonetheless it was cute, And it made quite a sight. But what it did, Gave me quite a fright. It jumped on the table, And started talking to me. Hey thanks mate! His voice was full of glee. Ive been in there for ages! And you saved me! Now hurry up, And make me some tea. After that, we were friends. The purple man and I. We will stay friends, Until the day I die.
THIS WEEK: Purple egg

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week, we publish work in response to the prompt, Egg: You go outside one day and nd a big, purple egg. You keep the egg and it hatches. What hap pens? Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

AND $50 FOR A FOOD OR FARM

WIN $50 FOR YOU
PROMPTS:
1. FARM: Share a story about a farm or farmer that you know. Write about an experience youve had on a farm, or, if you live on a farm, the daily joys and challenges your family faces. Tell a specic story or anecdote to bring it alive and to show why farming is important in Vermont. 2. FOOD: Theres so much great food thats grown or made in Vermont. Your family may have a farm, garden or buy food that comes from the area. Share some of the wonderful and challenging things about getting, growing, cooking or eating local food. Tell about a specic experience youve had or hope to have with local food.
THE TURRELL FUND
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
SUBMIT: Write on your YWP account,

click prompt Farm13, or email sreid@youngwritersproject.org.

Contest details at youngwritersproject.org/farm13
Can we keep it?

BY KATE SLEEPER Grade 4, Shelburne Community School
As I was eating my cereal one morning, something felt strange. I didnt know what it was, but I knew something was wrong. I knew what was different no school! But, that wasnt all. I went in the backyard to water the owers and right before my eyes was a big purple egg. What was that doing here? I decided to bury it in with the owers and tell no one what had happened. The next day, I found myself sleeping with some creature! It was holding onto my head! What was I going to do with it? It had a birthmark on it that said zaz. I gured that was its name zaz. I put it in my closet and left to take a walk. When I came back, my mom was holding it and petting it. The rst thing she said was, Can we keep it? Please? Of course I had to say yes.
Ashley Warren/Essex High School
Eggs everywhere
BY JEREMY BROTZ Grade 8, Homeschool, Burlington I tripped on the steps on the way out to feed the chickens. I had just woken up and I was still a little sleepy. And yes, we do have chickens, and no, we dont live on a farm. We just have chickens. Anyway, after the chickens were squawking and ghting each other for the food, I looked up into the sky. Cold, blue, pretty, exactly the way it should be on a day like today, I thought. Then, when I looked back down, I noticed a shiny purple thing lying in the grass. I picked it up. It looked like an egg. Weird. It hadnt been there yesterday. I frowned for a moment, puzzled, and then realized what it was. I grinned and stuck it in the pocket of my pajamas. It was Sunday, so I hadnt needed to get on real clothes yet. I started to open the back door, but then stopped. I had thought of something. Maybe there was more. I ran back into the yard. At rst I didnt see anything, but then I began noticing things. In the bushes. In the trees. Under leaves. Hiding behind bits of grass. Perched precariously on a garden gnomes prominent nose. They were everywhere. I ran excitedly through the yard, grabbing them from wherever they were hiding and stufng them into my pockets. Some were red, some green, some blue, but most were purple. When I thought Id found them all, I went inside with my shoes soaked from the dew. I put all my nds on the kitchen table in a shining heap. Then I counted them. There were 20. I grinned happily. Twenty. Thats a lot, I thought. Then I reached into the pile and grabbed one of the purple ones. I unwrapped it, and popped it in my mouth. Tasty, I said to myself. Then I remarked to the empty kitchen, I love Easter.
Beautiful bird
BY NOORTO MOHAMED Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School My egg is purple. Why is my egg purple? Well, ask the magic colored mother bird. Shes big and friendly and can grant your wishes for a bag of seeds. My egg just hatched. Want to know what came out? Well, Ill tell you what came out. What came out was the most beautiful bird you will ever see in your life. This bird will make you end world hunger. This bird will make you stop the war and crime. Thats how beautiful the bird from the purple egg was.
NEXT PROMPT
Mystery. Something very strange just happened, and you dont know how or why. Write a story. Be succinct. Alternate: Photo 10. Write about this photo. Due April 5
Photo 10 Katy Trahan/ Essex High School

Lose yourself
BY LILY WEISSGOLD Grade 9, Burlington High School Beauty is scratched on the walls Of bathroom stalls Plastered on the faces Of people going places. Beauty in the dark Is different from beauty in the light As it lends itself to the night Let your body fall Into the dance of the world. Minds rolling and wandering, And to calculate the pondering, You have to look at beauty Etched on the old, The unfortunate, the bold. The faces staring back, In mirrors that say forever. You, are ugly. Destroy your mind. In the faces of the people unkind. Who stare at you, And rid you of your beauty.
THIS WEEK: Photo 9 & General

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week, we publish work in response to the prompts, Photo 9; and General writing. To read more, go to youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil online community of writers.
THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

YWP is supported by the generosity of foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing. If you would like to contribute, please go to youngwritersproject.org/support, or mail your donation to YWP, 12 North St., Suite 8, Burlington, VT 05401.
AND $50 FOR A FOOD OR FARM

WIN $50 FOR YOU
PROMPTS:
Special thanks this week to VERMONT BUSINESS ROUNDTABLE
1. FARM: Share a story about a farm or farmer that you know. Write about an experience youve had on a farm, or, if you live on a farm, the daily joys and challenges your family faces. Tell a specic story or anecdote to bring it alive and to show why farming is important in Vermont.
Memories
BY ABHI DODGSON Grade 5, Homeschool, South Hero
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
I opened the creaky barn door. The windows were shattered. The air was thick with dirt and dust. I coughed and looked around. Five ribbons hung on a wall in an old stall that still had hay in it. Mice scurried noisily along the dirt oor. I looked at all the old shovels, hay, ribbons, pictures, and wondered who had been here. I could smell the leather of the saddles. I could hear the horses munching on their dry, crunchy hay. I could hear sheep crying in their long, loud voices. I could hear hay being thrown down from the loft, the pshhhhing sound of it landing on the ground. I saw a ewe pushing a lamb out onto a pile of straw and watched as it slowly and shakily got up. I watched a mare in pain, drawing slow, deep breaths until she was gone. I noticed children who used to live here, running around wildly in the empty stalls. I saw their mother milking a cow, her long brown hair pinned up in a bun, her grey dress cut above her ankles. I saw her husband in his tall black boots, plaid shirt, and blue jeans, shoveling manure. I saw their dog gazing down from the hayloft into a warm, spring day. I discovered a world forgotten and abandoned and felt the memories that came to life through my imagination.
2. FOOD: Theres so much great food thats grown or made in Vermont. Your family may have a farm, garden or buy food that comes from the area. Share some of the wonderful and challenging things about getting, growing, cooking or eating local food. Tell about a specic experience youve had or hope to have with local food.
SUBMIT: Write on your YWP account, click prompt Farm13, or email sreid@youngwritersproject.org. DUE FRIDAY, APRIL 12 Contest details at youngwritersproject.org/farm13
Fantasy hope
BY AVERY MCLEAN Grade 7, Lake Champlain Waldorf School In my mind, theres a world Where everythings right, Where love is free and never breaks or Dies. And when the lightning comes, Its beautiful. Fear is never there. Im lonely only when I want to be. I can be an artist with my eyes. In my world, witches ride mops and Fate and happiness mean the same thing. And maybe somewhere theres a world Like that but when the Thunder comes, it comes Silently until its right there and Too late for precautions. And youre not strong enough for it. Because fearless, painless, Doesnt mean right. Because disaster cries of great strength. And maybe being brave means letting Yourself be scared. In a world where witches ride mops and Love doesnt hurt, (because its perfect) You can see through the layers, and Underneath, Underneath is perfection. But here under our years of pain and Love thats caged, Theres wisdom.
Eve Pomazi/Brattleboro Area Middle School
Frozen farm
BY JULIA SHANNON-GRILLO Grade 5, Champlain Elementary One night, a long time ago, a heat wave swept over the small (now abandoned) village of Bickley. In all of Bickley, there was one house that nobody ever went near, the Haunted House of Hack. Mr. Frederick Hack lived there with his dog, Sherlock, but the house was said to be haunted. Sherlock was another reason that nobody ever went near the house. All day and all night, Sherlock sat on the window ledge of the attic. If you stood even 15 feet away, Sherlock would stare at you. Sherlocks stare was the kind of piercing stare that made you feel like even the smallest y was one thousand times bigger than you. It was rumored that Sherlocks stare could burn you to nothing but ash and smoke. The heat wave was so hot that it began
NEXT PROMPT
Promise. Write about a promise you made but couldnt keep. Alternate: Strength. Write about a time when you had to be strong, physically or mentally. Due March 29

melting all the metal things in Bickley, including all of the rusty screws and nails holding together the Haunted House of Hack. The house began falling over, with Frederick still sleeping and Sherlock still at his post on the window ledge. But then, just as quickly as the heat wave started, it stopped and went in the other direction. Photo 9 Carl Mydans Bickley was now (Library of Congress) going through a cold wave and everything in Bickley froze. Every human froze, every animal froze, every piece of furniture froze, every machine froze, every house froze. And the Haunted House of Hack froze midfall... Everything in Bickley stayed frozen and will for centuries to come. And the Haunted House of Hack is now the Frozen Farm of Frederick.
All the day as night

BY LINCOLN PIERCE Grade 9, Vermont Commons School I woke up yesterday to nd the sky was still dark as night. It seemed strange to me that the world was in such a plight. I thought I was dreaming, or just wanted a midnight snack, But then I looked at my clock and saw 11:30 staring back. How could I have slept the day, and what shall I do for school? Those thoughts ran through my head as I ate my breakfast gruel. I was confused as to how this happened, the sun cant just go out. I walked outside and it was strangely calm, A warm wind drifted through. The trees rustled in the wind, and I heard a dog bark too. It was rather nice out here, no sun beating down so bright. I guess this wouldnt be so bad, having all the day as night.
THIS WEEK: Eternal Night & Package

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompts, Eternal Night: The sun doesnt rise one day or the next day. What happens? and Package: A package arrives for you. Whats inside? Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

WIN $50 WITH A MATCHING $50 FOR A FOOD OR FARM NONPROFIT OF YOUR CHOICE
1. FARM: Share a story about a farm or farmer that you know. Write about an experience youve had on a farm, or, if you live on a farm, the daily joys and challenges your family faces. Tell a specic story or anecdote to bring it alive and to show why farming is important in Vermont. 2. FOOD: Theres so much great food thats grown or made in Vermont. Your family may have a farm, garden or buy food that comes from the area. Share some of the wonderful and challenging things about getting, growing, cooking or eating local food. Tell about a specic experience youve had or hope to have with local food.
PROMPTS:
Special thanks this week to PHYSICIANS COMPUTER COMPANY
Appreciating black
BY ERIN BUNDOCK Grade 9, Champlain Valley High School Knowing mankind, Coming up with a false sun Would be done in six seconds at, If the world came to that, If we were drenched in some eternal black. But just like any other Night on this Earth, Dirt would be plowed for more streets So cars could pass by in red and white streaks, Blocking out the stars that shine As we speak. If the world turned black now, The press would be glad to scream, Its the end of the world as we know it! Grinning inside, though they try not to show it, As they rush to the factories to Go out and print it. And as were looking at tablets, Were missing the point. The population should just take a step back; Is it really so bad to be surrounded in black? Is it so bad to see stars in the sky? Or is it the appreciation of beauty we seem to lack?
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
HOW TO SUBMIT: Use your YWP
account, keyword Farm13, or email your entry to sreid@youngwritersproject.org.

Contest details at youngwritersproject.org
A little calm helps

Audrey Dawson/Westford Middle School
BY GALEN FASTIE Grade 9,Vermont Commons School
Writing on the wall

BY CHELSEA WRIGHT Grade 8, Frederick H. Tuttle Middle School I come home from school with white snowakes in my hair I take the mail out of the mailbox as usual and check it for letters addressed to me. Nothing. Still checking the mail, I come to the front door. Thats when I see it, the package that you sent. Every thought in my head leaves out my ear and all I can think of is happiness. I grab the package in my free hand and rush into the house. Taking the scissors from the drawer I rip the package open. I sort through the wrapping until I nd it. You promised youd send it. You did send it. I take it in my hand and hold it up to the light. The light glows through it and suddenly a pattern looking like an aurora appears on the dark wall across from me. I admire its beauty. I look at the pattern on the wall and smile. I start to dissect it with my eyes, organizing colors, arranging gaps of white, and then suddenly as if by magic I can make out shapes, no, letters. I squint to read them. I remembered, the wall says. You remembered, I say to myself.
Cloudy sky
BY LILY WEISSGOLD Grade 9, Burlington High School The call of dawn Of cloudy beginnings Beckon, endlessly The opal sky at which I fawn Blaze of light In the dark To which my senses ignite A re across granite A pen on slate Words falling on white pages For whom I cant wait Someday, someday The dawn will beckon Igniting and evoking Every last drop of courage Beckon me beginning To your unknown shores
No one knows where the sun went, and at this rate, no one will ever nd out. Everyone is too busy yelling their heads off to ask the question Why? Its a problem with humans. Sometimes a little calm could help. But the sun is a few hours late to show up; no one calls and sees if its OK. Well, the sun is gonna be a lot more than a few hours late, but nobody knows that now. A few frantic calls to Russia brought more panic; the sun isnt there either. When the sun wasnt there at its usual time, what did people do? They ipped on their televisions. And there, they were greeted by grim-faced men sitting above headlines designed to scare you enough to make you not ip the channel, but not enough to scare you away. And once people nished reading the headlines and not changing the channel, what did they hear? To sum up the hundreds of broadcasts which were being seen by billions of people: Guys! Guys! We cant nd the sun! Not very helpful, to say the least. Well, after the television failed them, people started rioting...
The tree frogs story
THIS WEEK: Surprising & Photo 8

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week, we publish work in response to the prompts, Surprising: Ask someone you know to tell a story youve never heard; and Photo 8. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
CLIMATE CHANGE
WRITING CHALLENGE
Write about one of the biggest issues of our time. Prizes and recognition on Earth Day! See contest details and writing prompts at
youngwritersproject.org
BY ZANIPOLO LEWIS Grade 4, Homeschool, Burlington
Once my mom collected tree frogs. Really, really, tiny, weenie tree frogs. She used her dresser for a habitat by taking out her clean socks, putting grass in her top drawer, and then putting a bowl of water on the grass. One day, her mom (my nana) went into her room to put clean socks in my moms dresser drawer. She opened up my moms sock drawer and all the frogs jumped out on her! My nana almost had a heart attack. She was so mad she called my moms school and told them that she needed my mom at home at once. My mom came home and my nana yelled at her. She made my mom take all the frogs (all the ones that hadnt jumped out already) out of the drawer and put them outside. My mom was very sad. She took the frogs out, said good-bye and good luck to them, and then set them on the ground. One after the other, the frogs began to hop away. One even looked back before going. One day, my mom found an old, dead, dried-up tree frog and realized that it was one of the tree frogs that she had had in her dresser and that had jumped out of the sock drawer. She was very sad again and cried a little. So that was that. She just told me that story today, Feb. 7, 2013, for the rst time.
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Presented by Young Writers Project and Vermontivate the sustainability game for Vermont communities
Luminous
BY ABHI DODGSON Grade 5, Homeschool, South Hero I chose to interview my friend Jean Luc Dushime. He escaped the Rwandan genocide in 1994. This is the story he told me: He was walking through the woods in the Democratic Republic of the Congo with his family. It was midnight and they were escaping by moonlight. They were hungry and exhausted. Suddenly, they came upon a uorescent forest. Everything was glowing from the ground to the tops of the trees. Everything was a cold, bluish-green, glimmering color. The ground was glowing. The bark on the trees was glowing. Maybe it was aliens, they thought, looking at each other. It was a break from all the misery they had endured. For a brief time, the magical forest helped them forget the horror around them. Its something hell always remember. Maybe theres a reason those trees glow, he said.
Special thanks this week to FAIRPOINT COMMUNICATIONS
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Smile
BY EMMA CHAFFEE Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School One smile in the night, one smile set free That blazes the dark, and churns the seas Eyes that believe, eyes that understand Souls that do wander, forgetting things planned Hair that curls, hair that ies Hair that whirls and then twirls and then cries Hands that hold, hands that let go A voice that talks, a voice that sings A voice unknown but that wanders and rings Forever the eyes and the soul set free Forever the smile that might just be the key
Katlyn Schmigel/Essex High School
Miles to go
BY MALIN HILLEMANN Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School Run, she told herself. Slapping the dirt on the hard gravel ground, her feet felt bare and numb. Dont look back, she told herself. Be strong, she cried. Bursting re over the dark tree tops, as if someone had painted a beautiful painting upon the canvas sky, the sun set above her golden hair. The rain stained the ground, leading a slippery path up the winding road, winding up and up. She had miles to go. As she ran she held her scarf behind her back, and jumped as if she could y. She touched the moon, the stars, the planets, and then let her scarf cradle her slowly back to the solid ground on earth. And when her legs felt the earth underneath her bare soles, she began to run again. She forgot what she had left behind and saw only what was to come. Chasing the little light that was left, she raced the setting sun. Run, she told herself. Run.
Perfect day
BY YOSEF BORSYKOWSKY Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School I see the picture and remember a perfect end to a perfect day. It was a bright winter day When the sun decided it was time to hit the hay. It started to retreat from up high, Causing beautiful colors to appear in the sky. Then a girl with a woolen scarf started to run down the road. To do what? Nobody knows. Maybe to tell the sun to stay Because no one wanted the end of this beautiful day, The air clean and crisp, The ground hinting spring, The sun shining through the girls scarf making colors within. We were going to stay as long as the sun kept shimmering, But alas it left To give others elsewhere the brightness they desired. And the girl hung her head, As she knew she had to go home and sleep in her bed. That was a great end to a perfect day.
Im free
BY SARAH MONTROLL Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School Im free! I run out of the school, down the old brick steps. My feet thud against the damp dirt road, the road that will lead me home. I feel the cool air against my skin. Little drops of rain fall onto my cheek. Five whole days of thinking, working, endless listening. I nally have a break, a time to rest. I spin around engulfed in happiness. Two days to sleep in, to not Photo 8 Kayla Rideout/Essex High School think about school, to do whatever I want. I turn around and see my school getting smaller and smaller, just the way it should be. I smile. The wind catches my scarf, blowing it backwards. I laugh as the wind blows my cares away. I am nally free!
Wings
BY ELLA STAATS Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School I had never run so hard in my life. My breathing was heavy, my lungs expanding and contracting, fueling me to push onwards. The cloak trailed behind me, and I imagined it was a pair of wings, ready to lift me off the ground and carry me into the aming sunset. Where was I going? I wondered as my feet smacked the gravel. What would I do when I got there? I had no answers. My mind was focused only on reaching the horizon, the uncharted land, where I would nd solitude, guidance and solace. My cloak billowed upwards in a passing breeze, as if it were a parachute itching to take off. I closed my eyes and followed my senses, leading me farther down the road. Somewhere far in the wilderness an owl hooted, announcing the coming of night. The sun sank below the trees, leaving only a deep crimson streak across the sky. I ran onwards.

Reading up high
BY KATE HENRY Grade 4, Integrated Arts Academy A haiku I am way up here. This happens when you are reading. My minds on re.
THIS WEEK: Bottle & Photo 7

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompts, Bottle: You nd a message in a bottle. What is it?; and Photo 7. To read more, go to youngwritersproject.org.
CLIMATE CHANGE
WRITING CHALLENGE
Write about one of the biggest issues of our time. Prizes and recognition on Earth Day! Respond to these writing prompts: 1. The year is 2050. Looking back, the climate crisis was solved in the most unexpected ways. You were there for a crucial moment. What happened? Or 2. Do you believe the world can solve the climate crisis? Tell us why.
Contest details at youngwritersproject.org
Brady Bessette/Essex High School
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Walking home alone

BY SARAH AHLERS Grade 12, Mount Manseld High School Half a mile isnt really so far to walk. I mean, unless its raining and youre walking uphill and carrying a backpack full of textbooks. Every single day. Then it sucks. Ive been counting off the miles of hill I have yet to walk before I graduate high school, and they stretch out endlessly before me, making each afternoon bleak. The bus system is too lazy to take us all the way home, and since we live in the middle of nowhere, the town doesnt really care about us, doesnt care if our backs hurt, if our ngers are frozen in the winter, if were dizzy from heat in the hot parts of summer. But half a mile really isnt so bad. I jump off the bus and sink ankle-deep into mud. The early spring rain has turned our dirt road into a swamp. Walking in this is going to be fun... The sun comes out slowly from behind a cloud, lightening the world, and to my right a glint catches my eye. By the edge of the wide, roiling stream, theres a small clear bottle...
To read the ending of this story, go to youngwritersproject.org/node/77732
Special thanks this week to JANE B. COOK CHARITABLE TRUSTS
Presented by Young Writers Project and Vermontivate the sustainability game for Vermont communities
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Coconut Beach
BY KAROLINA SIENKO Grade 5, Shelburne Community School One bright sunny day, I was walking on the shore of Coconut Beach. The hot sand got stuck in between my toes. The cool, blue, salty-smelling waves splashed against my feet. Then suddenly, Ouch! I yelped. I picked up an old, dark green bottle that had hit my foot. Inside the glass bottle was a piece of paper with writing on it. I took it out and started to read: To Whom It May Concern, My name is Jack. I am 11 years old. My father has told me stories of castaways writing letters, putting them into bottles, and throwing them into the middle of the ocean. Some have succeeded and some have failed. I am trying this experiment right now. If you found this bottle, then you are extremely lucky. Although, for all I know this bottle could have washed up on the shore of Antarctica. Now Ill get to the point of why Im writing this letter. I am writing this letter because I have a secret that could save the world. The secret is: Everyone is in great dan... Thats it? I thought to myself. The letter just ends halfway through the paper! Well, I guess its a mystery yet to be discovered.
Pequeno amigo
BY JEREMY BROTZ Grade 8, Homeschool, Burlington I was once a pet, loved and nurtured and pampered. My dear owner had found me one day, oozing happily along the oor of their kitchen. She had called her mother, who ran in, screamed, and raised up her foot to stomp me at. My soon-to-be owner shrieked and pushed her mother sideways so her homicidal foot missed me, and then scooped me up and ran to her room. I have loved her ever since. Her mother thought me revolting, but my owner pretended to throw me out, and then kept me in secrecy. She fed me, petted me, kissed me, and spent long hours talking to me. I loved her. Then their family came upon hard times, and they decided to move to America. It was a magical place, America. The land of plenty, the land of prosperity, the land of freedom. How I hate it. My owner smuggled me into her old tattered suitcase, and on May 5th, 1885, we boarded a boat that would take us from the old country, Spain, to America...
Lindsey Stuntz/Woodstock Union High School
Message in a bottle
BY DAVID MELKUMOV Grade 6, Renaissance School I was walking along the beach, when a bottle washed up on the shore. In the bottle there was a big piece of white crumpled paper that looked like it had just been put in. I unfolded the piece carelessly and inside it there was a slightly smaller piece of paper that was also crumpled up. I unfolded that one quickly because I was getting annoyed. Sadly, there was even more crumpled up paper. I began to think that this would last forever, and it did well, at least from my perspective. I looked behind my shoulder and saw some guys who looked mysteriously at me. They had tall camera-like objects that were covered in sheets of waterproof covering and had advertisements printed all over them. Finally, I got to the last piece of paper and I unfolded it nervously. It said, Youve been scammed! Look behind you! I looked behind to nd the mysterious guys from a local camera crew lming me. Well, at least I made it on the local television station.
At the sea edge

BY HATTIE BARKER AND SAMANTHA BABBITT Grade 3, Underhill Central School I followed the salty sea edge, picking up shells and rocks on the way. I sat and let the seas warm water run over my feet. I glanced up at the clear sky when I felt something brush my foot. I looked down and saw a green glass bottle. I carefully pulled the water-drenched cork and looked inside. There was a note that read: To whoever nds this note, read quite carefully. Go to the Isle of Gold, A dragon cave waits for you. Go in there and youll nd A clue that will change old to new. I looked out to the sea and saw in the distance a rusty yellow island. I waded into the water and looked around. From the corner of my eye, I saw a chipped canoe. Of course, how could I forget? I got into the old canoe and sailed off to the island...
NEXT PROMPTS
Lesson. You are sitting in a park and an old man sits down beside you. At rst you are annoyed, but he teaches you something that you had no idea you could do. What is it? Alternate: Rhyming poetry. Write a poem that follows any strict rhyming scheme. Due March 8 Outrageous. Write a story that begins, This is the funniest story Ive ever heard Alternate: Thirty-ve. You wake up and you are suddenly 35 years old. What is your life like now? Due March 15
A peaceful day
BY ALEXANDRE SILBERMAN Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School It was a peaceful day, and everything was normal. But that all changed when the robots came. The dreaded hour. The looming shadow darkening the front lawn and lifeless ag pole. A big metal ramp sliding and clanging on the ground. A troop of iron-clad intelligence banging on the gangway. Then they took their rst steps on our ground. Outside of the school where we were. Pedestrians and cars pulling over and staring at these metallic machines that moved in a lifeless way. News crews and the newspaper came, taking pictures of the scene. I saw the machines approach our school from the window of Mrs. Gallaghers language arts class. They came inside, and school sure did change. Teachers assistants they became, replacing our regular teachers very slowly. They were very helpful. You could have them nd you a library book in seconds, or answer a question. As our teachers disappeared, I began to miss them. I pondered why they had left. Where had they gone? Before I knew it, our school was full of them. We were being trained to assist them in obtaining human knowledge. There was nothing we could do now. If only I had known, maybe we could have been saved. I still remember that fatal day, the day the robots came. It was a peaceful day, and everything was normal...
THIS WEEK: Vermont Writes Day

Hundreds of students, teachers and school administrators participated in Young Writers Projects annual Vermont Writes Day taking just 7 minutes on Feb. 7 to write! This week, we publish writing in response to Vermont Writes Day prompts, Robots: But that all changed when the robots came... and Farming: Write about a farm or farmer you know. Read more at vermontwritesday.org and at youngwritersproject.org .
WRITING CONTEST
Vermont students in 7th and 8th grades: Write a short essay about an amazing school meal experience and win prizes! One winner from each of Vermonts 14 counties. Find out more at hungerfreevt.org or email contest@hungerfreevt.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Grandfather
BY THANE ASSELIN Grade 12, Winooski High School
AMY E. TARRANT FOUNDATION
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
At Boyden Farms
BY CARTER SNOW Grade 11, Milton High School The summer I got my job at Boyden Farms, my life denitely changed. My summers changed from summer camps to hard work and sweaty, dirty, long days. I believe it is one of the best things that has happened to me. I learn more practical skills working every day at the farm than I do at a whole year at school. It offers me so many skills, and the more skills I gain from working on the farm, the more options I will have to support myself in the future. I have met a ton of cool people at the farm. It is always an adventure and thats what I love. You never know what may happen. Farming is one of the greatest things in my life. Farming is the most repetitive job, that never, ever happens the same way twice.
My grandfather used to tell me stories about his adventures as a child, many of which I would never forget. I didnt get to see him much, but when I did, it was always a treat just to hear the zany tales of his life that he would retell for my entertainment. One day he sat me down, and I could tell something was wrong. His usual carefree smile was gone and fear seemed to overcome him. I remember. The memories, they are coming back I was frightened as to what he was talking about. He has never had a problem recalling events throughout his life. Why was this time any different? He began reciting his story. Thomas, there is something I have been keeping secret from you for a long time. As you know, I was a lonely kid without many friends and liked to put myself in isolation to relax and get away from the confusion the world brings. One day on my solo travels, I came across something, an artifact that seemed to be extremely signicant, so I held onto it closely. I had little to worry about, never come into any problems. But that all changed when the robots came. These werent normal robots. Not the friendly creations of mankind you would normally think of. They were mechanical savages...
Our town
BY SEAMUS BRENNAN Grade 6, Lyman C. Hunt Middle School
When life was fun

BY SAMUEL SILBERMAN Grade 4, Champlain Elementary School Before the robots, life was fun. You could play sports and go to school... When the robots came they wanted to conquer everything. You would spend your days hiding while trying to nd food and water... Then some new robots came. They destroyed all the bad robots. They were very good robots. They printed money and donated it to charities and the government. Life was great when these new robots came. But sadly they died after three years. Now, you dont get attacked, but you dont get lots of money for charities. Life is back to normal and normal is fun!
Alia Jenkins/South Burlington High School
World is changing
BY NOLAN JIMMO Grade 8, Shelburne Community School The world is changing. The next thing that is going to happen is the world is going to be taken over by robots. Not in a battle, but man-made robots looking to help. The people who run gas stations will be unemployed because there will be selfcheckout. Pilots will be out of jobs because planes will be own by GPS and auto-pilot. Buses and taxis and trains and all public transportation will be on rails, so we wont need anyone to drive those. These are just a few of the problems that we will face when
robots take over. The people making these robots have good intentions, no doubt, but there is a point when their helping is actually hurting. If that happens we are going to have a whole lower- and middle-lower class that is out of luck. They have nowhere to go, nothing to do. Eventually they will ee the country in search of opportunities in other places. That will mean that we are very vulnerable in terms of attacks from other countries, and we cant do anything about it. The military will be weakened, and we will be squashed like ies. So please, next time you see a new gadget on TV, think about the future.
...Our town was not like any other town; our town was advanced in every way, though that all changed when the robots came... The day we met our rst robot was the same day school got out, so as usual my friend Celeb and I headed to the park, but things seemed different. A house on my street was missing, just gone. We didnt suspect anything because wed heard of people moving their house. Our friend Nate moved last year and his parents brought their home with them. Once we noticed the missing house, Celeb made a dumb joke and said, I bet the aliens are arriving. I didnt reply because Im really gullible and thought it was an actual possibility. Then things started getting really weird...
NEXT PROMPT
Lesson. You are sitting in a park and an old man sits down beside you. At rst you are annoyed, but he teaches you something you had no idea you could do. Alternate: Rhyming poetry. Follow any strict rhyming scheme. Due March 8
Love is complicated
BY MALIN HILLEMANN Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School I like when you sit next to me and rufe my dont-even-think-about-combing-out-thetangles hair. I like how you smile at me with that crooked smile and laugh at my ridiculous jokes. I like how when you get mad, you start smiling, and start to laugh. And I like how you carry me across the sand when the beach is hot and the waves are silent. I like how you whisper of worlds we will travel to when we grow old and frail. I like how you hold me when Ive cried and how you comfort me with your welcomeIm-open-for-hugs arms. I like how even though I have done things normal people would not forgive, you did. I like that you notice when my smile is fake. I like that even though you might not have, you pretended to forget. I do not like what I have done in the past Those things a normal person would never forgive or forget. I hate the way you cried, when I cried. I hate the way you felt because of me. I never deserved forgiveness. But... I like that you forgave. I like that you forgot. I like that you love me, and for that, I like you. No, I dont like you... I love you.
THIS WEEK: I like...

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompt, I like... To read more, go to youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil online community of young writers.
Snowy mornings
BY ELLA CAUSER Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School I like when I wake up on a snowy, bright, jump-out-of-bed-run-to-the-kitchen-andmake-breakfast morning. I like, when on that morning, my mother tells me that were going to Bolton. I like when I am allowed to bring a few of my closest chums with me. I like that drive to the mountain, squished in the backseat with our skis rattling with what seems like anticipation in the trunk. I like when I get to the mountain, and see the trees encased in snow, frozen stiff like a drowsy scarecrow that forgot to come inside when winter arrived. I like taking a few runs, and skidding through the ice on Hard Luck Lane and rushing through the moguls of Spillway. I like coming inside and drinking cheap hot chocolate that burns my tongue, then going back into the cold and skiing runs until were all tired. Afterwards, I like going home, lounging on the couch, and talking. And laughing. I like those mornings, those days.
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP


OF
UNITED WAY CHITTENDEN COUNTY
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Singing in the eld

BY ABHI DODGSON Grade 5, Homeschool, South Hero I like dancing to Indian and modern music and moving to the rhythm of the beat. I like spending time with my family, being together, doing art projects, playing games, and taking care of our animals. I like singing outside in the eld behind my house (where no one can hear me). I sing for hours in the summer and watch the sun until it moves behind the trees. I like the taste of chocolate melting on my tongue, the avor lasting only a few seconds. I like (and love) my birthday, getting older, earning more privileges, getting taller than my parents, and eating cake. I like challenges and accomplishing hard things: entering writing and art contests, writing a novel, public speaking. I like drawing, letting my pencil ow around the paper like a bird ying. I like winter (when its not freezing) and the soft uffy snow on the ground. I like being with my friends and doing fun things with them.
Ornithologists list
BY CHARLIE HARDER Grade 4, Renaissance School 1. Osprey 2. Ring-necked Pheasant 3. Eastern Blue Bird 4. Rough-legged Hawk 5. Bald Eagle 6. Golden Eagle 7. Northern Flicker 8. Hermit Thrush 9. Northern Cardinal 10. Common Loon When I grow up, I want to be an ornithologist.
Jenna Rice/The Sharon Academy
Summer porch
BY MARIA CHURCH Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School I like the afternoon I like the kind of sun that drenches you in warmth all the way to your bones I like my scratchy stone porch And long shadows I like the way the ever-hidden, ever-hiding cicadas hum I like the way the ice cream has a sweet aftertaste I like how there is no one around or driving up the street I like how the splashes of color streak across the sky creating a painting-worthy sunset I like how I can stretch my legs out and my heels rest perfectly on the edge of the steps as if it were made for them I like the way the owers shine like a dragons hoard Daffodils like gold, roses like rubies Periwinkles like a scattered handful of sapphires thrown carelessly into a bush Delicate, clustered lilacs like amethysts And all those likes add up to a love of one sunset-drenched summer porch
All the things I like

BY LEAH KELLEHER Grade 8, Albert D. Lawton School I like it when you smile at me and tell me I am right. I like it when the words of love ow from your mouth to my ears. I like it when you take my hand in yours and never let go. I like it when you talk to me, At Oakledge Park Kevin Huang, Burlington High School voice hushed, tone low. I like it when you stare off into space and make me wonder if you are thinking of me. But what I like most of all is when you tell me, you are mine and that will always be the case.
Peaks and beaches

BY ALEXANDRE SILBERMAN Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School I like... The snow that stops-us-all-from-going-toschool snow The deep bright blue waters of the I-wish-Iwere-there beach Those kick-back-and-do-nothing weekends The blistering, egg-frying, heat of the sun in July during summer vacation The wow-its-so-incredible-I-cant believeit view from the peak on a mountain The faster-than-the-speed-of-light feeling when you whiz down that mountain on a pair of skis The stay-inside-by-the-warm-cracklingreplace winter days I like the times when I think of things I like
NEXT PROMPT
Egg. You go outside one day and nd a big, purple egg in your backyard. You keep the egg for a few days and then it hatches. What happens? Alternates: General writing; or Photo 9. Whats the story? Due March 1
!
Photo 9. Hyde Park, VT, Aug. 1936 Carl Mydans (Library of Congress)
Please dont leaf me

BY CLAIRE MACQUEEN Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School Please dont leaf me. All you say is we need to branch out, we wooden be good for each other. Yew, Yew with your need to be poplar, Board without sprucing up everything. Sometimes you make me sycamore. You saw this coming. You axed for it. You say, You say its my deciduous, That Im the root of the problem, That all I am is shady, That I should just leaf. I, I wooden have expected this. What did you think I was r? Your amusement? Im stumped. But I will go out on a limb To try to please you, so Please, Please dont pack your trunk, Please dont leaf me.
THIS WEEK: Puns & General

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompts, Puns: Have fun with a play on words; and General writing. To read more, go to youngwritersproject.org.
Time alone
BY ABHI DODGSON Grade 5, Homeschool, South Hero That day I felt like I wanted to have time alone and needed to be away from home. I wandered absent-mindedly down the road and drifted into the woods. I entered a circle of trees and sat on a small stump covered in white. The ground was frozen and blanketed with shining powder. Branches rose up and formed a dome like a cathedral. Logs made rows of benches. The sun shone between the trees, its light became the scenes from stained glass windows. I turned and looked at the stories of angels and gods and wondered for the rst time if all those myths were true. I sat in silence that seemed to last forever. A cold breeze touched my neck, giving me the feeling someone was there. I slowly got up and walked toward the altar. I stepped onto the velvet carpet and looked up at the statues that towered above me. The rays of the sun were sinking behind the trees. I realized I had been there a long time. Reluctantly, I said goodbye to this wondrous place and made a promise to return.
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Special thanks this week to BAY AND PAUL FOUNDATIONS
The Annie Mall

BY ALEXA KARTSCHOKE Grade 7, Williston Central School I walked into a store. To my left, I saw stuffed animals, to my right, I saw pets. A lady came up to me and said, Welcome to The Annie Mall! I walked over to the stuffed animals. They all looked furry sad. I walked up to a teddy bear and said, Do you want a piece of chocolate? He replied, No, thank you, Im already stuffed. So I turned around and went to talk to a tomato. I asked the tomato the same thing and he replied, The last time we agreed to do something for a human my friend the cabbage jumped off the shelf shouting, Lettuce live! We never saw him again. I walked over to a dog. I asked her, Do you like it here? She replied, All they feed us is fake ground meat. I ate it here! In the winter, they make me wear a coat and in the summer I wear a coat and pant! I said, Oh, sounds like the dog days. As I was leaving the store I heard the lady say, Thank you for visiting one of the Annie Malls! And with that I left. And I knew I made the right decision.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Skiing free
BY TASHA KLEPPNER Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School Free. That is the one word that I cant stop thinking about. Up here, I am completely free. No more classes. No more drama. Just free. There is something magical about being on a snow-covered mountain with only the sky above you. Surrounded by sparkling, fresh snow and tall pine trees. The only sound is your breathing. You oat easily over the uffy white snow. Its almost like being a bird. Well, at least skiing is the closest thing to ying that I have ever done. Up on the mountain, you have complete control. Where you ski, how fast you go, its all up to you. Whatever time of day, whatever mountain, it doesnt matter. Plus there is the part about skiing that is just so fun, so exciting. On the lift you might be freezing and tired, but the minute you are standing at the top of the trail, it all melts away. For me, at least. You forget about any obligations or problems and just go with it. You lose sight of everything around you and focus only on the part of the trail that is one turn ahead. It comes naturally. I dont even have to think. All I have to do is enjoy every second of it.
Coyote Farrell/Richmond Middle School
Seasons crown
BY LYDIA SMITH Grade 9, Homeschool, Charlotte When she laughs, the robin carries on the tune. Barefoot, she dances through farmers elds and childrens yards, coaxing color into barren ground. A little whistle heralds forth a new generation on wobbling legs. Her arrival has no date and she takes her leave as she pleases. So frail and slight, it seems the smallest foul breath might blow her away. Yet her grip is strong and her merry laugh drives all adversaries away. As she hands off her baton, it slips from delicate ngers to rougher. Trouble glints in his golden eyes. Tousled hair all a mess, he swings in trees and runs on land. A daisy chain rests, crooked, atop his bobbing head and mud streaks his brown cheeks. A makeshift bow slung over his shoulder, he wanders, carefree, through wildernesses unexplored. He calls the thunder by name and mocks its boastful roars. His cocky grin is ingrained on every cloud. All too soon, hes chased away by whispers of colder days.
Narrative
BY TYLER HARRIS Grade 10, Burlington High School I think in metaphors and song lyrics. I listen to music and ignore people most of the time. I wear plaid pants and too much eyeliner but I like the blonde cross-country guy and Im really bad at talking to him. I oat along trying to follow directions pretending that I agree or care even though I dont because its easier that way. I worry too much or I worry too little and I am not perfect.
Twisted maple cane in hand, in he creeps. Seasoned and reserved, he brings his own charm, irresistible in its own way. The trees, emulating his hairless plight, give up their leaves, their only cloak. He paints the landscape with red and gold with an experienced and condent eye. He holds hands with nervous children, waiting for the bus on the rst day of school. Admired while he remains, he is missed when he once again picks up his cane and hobbles to the back of minds and memories. Cloaked in grey, she walks. The sound of her icy voice sends chills down spines and makes the tea kettle protest at the overuse. She smothers the nal shades of color, allowing only white and blue to sparkle in the afternoon mist. Farmers wait, knowing she will take her share of crops and stock. Restless, she never makes up her mind. First she is calm, then dreadfully erce. She is a ckle friend and a faithful foe. Finally, she relinquishes her crown to a bubbling voice, who shakes off her predecessors silence with a hearty cheer.
NEXT PROMPTS
Package. The UPS truck arrives with a huge box addressed to you. Whats inside? Whos it from? Alternate: General writing in any genre. Due Feb. 15 Eternal night. You wake up one morning and the sun doesnt rise. It doesnt rise the next day either. What do you do? Alternate: Silver lining. When bad things happen, how do you recover? Due Feb. 22

Empty chairlift
BY ALEXANDRE SILBERMAN Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
THIS WEEK: Photo 6

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompt to write about the photo, right, of the single chair at Mad River Glen or about winter in general. To read more great writing, go to youngwritersproject.org.
Vermont Writes Day

February 7, 2013
Join YWP and Vermont schools for a statewide day of writing! Set aside just 7 minutes on Feb. 7 to write.
Find out more at vermont writesday.org.
I watched the empty chairlift move around the bend as a sprinkling of snow landed on the cold metal mechanism and dusted the seat. I heard the faint sound of the squealing gears on the icy wire. I took in the trees nearby, sagging from the heavy weight of snow. I looked back on my memories on the mountain, watching the lonely chair wheel up and down the slippery white hill. I remembered the days and nights I glided on the mountain, down the slopes of powder. I remembered the many nights when the mountain shined bright with lights, the trails up and down illuminated for all to see. I remembered the weekends ying down the trails, bright from the sun bouncing off the white ground. And I remembered my rst day here: walking up to the mountain, seeing the slopes of thick, powdery snow, stepping into a pair of skis and speeding down the little hill. I knew then that I would come again. I looked back at my memories, remembering the good times I had at the mountain, and watched the lonesome chairs go up the slopes.
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Special thanks this week to ORTON FAMILY FOUNDATION
Photo 6: Tower 22, Looking East. Mad River Glen Jet Lowe, 2006 (Library of Congress)
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Single chair
BY ISAAC DODSON Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School Blurs of bright colors pop before my eyes. Bright blues, oranges and greens, they all seem to become one big, whirling vortex of color. My heart pumps faster, and I start to sweat even though its 20 degrees outside. I look back, and see the line stretch far out behind me, just ordinary people that are ready for a fun day of skiing. I look straight ahead and I see green chairs passing by, coated with frost. I start to groan inwardly, not knowing what awaits me. I slide forward, reluctantly inching across the snow. Now, Im ve people from the front of the line. I feel a pat on my back, but I dont register what the person is saying. Now, Im at the front of the line, watching my mom swing away on the frail, spindly chair. I glide over to the bold, red line that seems to shout, Stop! I quickly stop and nervously look over my shoulder. I suddenly regret my decision to come here. The green chair looms behind me, and before I know it, I feel a sharp pain in my rear end, and then I am oating. I look back and watch as the line of people is reduced to tiny dots of color. I look forward at the top of the mountain and smile because this is the rst time I have ever ridden the Mad River Glen single chair.
White little akes

BY MOLLY HIGGINS Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School White little akes, Drops of crystal art, Gracefully spinning, whirling down. They are agog, jubilant, eloquent. I see them as I pass by, And they seem to wave, Swirling back and forth in front of me. Up and up I go, Higher and higher every second, But moving ever so slowly. Which is good. So much to see, to love. I look around: Pine trees trapping me in Like a jail I never want to escape from. I look down: White, almost blinding snow, Covering everything as far as the eye can see, A blanket of winter. I breathe: The crisp, cold air, freezing my nose and smelling of ice. I look up: There is the sky, Laden with white, puffy, snow-lled clouds, Selessly giving us drops of crystal art every second. I reach the top, Guilty of crushing the beautiful crystals. I slide onto the mountain. Its cold and frigid. Do I care? Im surrounded by akes of art, White little akes, Drops of crystal art, Gracefully spinning, whirling down For the world to enjoy.
The winter way

BY CHARLOTTE VINCENT Grade 4, Shelburne Community School My cheeks are like roses, my breath is smoke. I like it this way, the winter way. I look up above into the milky white sky. The snowakes land one by one onto my yellow hat. I see the ski lift moving slowly, it being hard to see in this winter wonderland. I sit down on a white bench. The ski lift. This is the way to ski, the winter way. The trees are like giant snow cones, not the summer snow cones, the winter way.
NEXT PROMPT
Package. The UPS truck arrives with a huge box addressed to you. Whats inside? Whos it from? Alternate: General writing. Due Feb. 15
People slide down the slopes like cheetahs; I, the vulture in the sky. With one exception, this is not the savannah way, this is the winter way. The snow is crisp like my grandmas apple pie. My skis are purple like Harolds crayon. Not the reading way, the winter way. The ski lift wires creak up above my head. My skis dangle from my ankles, my body is frozen like ice. This way, the winter way is like nothing you could ever imagine. You feel like you are in a giant snow globe. The winter way.
Beauty of winter
BY GABRIELLO LEWIS Grade 7, Homeschool, Burlington On the chair lift, Rocking in the breeze, I can see ice crystals Sparkling on the tips of trees, Twinkling in the sun. The forest, Towering like a crystal fortress, Glinting in the bright blue sky. The swoosh of skis beneath my feet, The gentle humming of the lift, And the ngers of wind Touching my face like an icy caress. This is what makes winter beautiful.
Mirror
THIS WEEK: Object & General

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompts, Object: An inanimate object comes alive and tells you how it really feels; and General writing. To read more, go to youngwritersproject.org.
Vermont Writes Day

February 7, 2013
Join YWP, schools and community groups for this statewide day of writing! Set aside just 7 minutes on Feb. 7 to write.
Find out more at vermont writesday.org.
BY CHETEN SHERPA Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
My inquisitive ice-blue eyes trail through the old thrift shop, examining each object. Below me are golden, rusty frames containing photographs of elegant men and women from the past. Just looking at them I can tell they were inuential. Insecurity blinds me and I cant stop myself from comparing my bland visage to their angelic faces, my frizzy auburn tight-curled hair to their smooth pinned-up blonde manes, and my thick-boned structure to their thin, petite bodies. Bitterness washes over me as my eyes land on the wide, corroded, vintage mirror. Great, an object I can use to pick out my aws, I murmur sarcastically. I turn to leave when I hear a frail voice, Youre not the only one. Startled, I quickly spin around, searching for the source. Over here, little girl. My eyes return to the mirror. Youre not the only one, you know... in my lifetime Ive seen thousands of girls just like you. Tragic really. Wha-...what!? You t-t-talk!? I screech. My eyes dart around me, arms slightly raised as I search for a more logical source for the voice. No way, no way, no way, no way! This is just a dream... I murmur to myself. Ill never understand you humans, the mirror states as he ignores my panicking. Your eyes are sharp as an owls as they try to catch every detail and imperfection of the body that inhabits them, yet theyre blinded by societys expectations.
ABOUT THE PROJECT

YWP is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences.YWP runs youngwritersproject.org and the Schools Project, a comprehensive online class room and training program that works with teachers to help students develop their writing and digital literacy skills. To learn more, go to ywpschools.net or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
THANKS FROM YWP

YWP is supported by the generosity of foundations, business and individu als who recognize the power and value of writing. If you would like to contrib ute, please go to youngwritersproject. org/support, or mail your donation to YWP, 12 North St., Suite 8, Burling ton, VT 05401.
The forgotten clock

BY PAIGE THIBAULT Grade 6, Charlotte Central School Dear my horrible owner, This is your forgotten clock. Why, oh, why did you stop Winding and caring for me? As you can easily see, Ive seen a better day So I emailed you to say: You never stopped to care, Which I think is quite unfair. I just wanted to carry time, But apparently your hopes are not the same as mine. Because you left me with my hands Bent and with no demands To say what time is true, I am now forever stuck at 4:32. Does that even matter to you? My face is now dusted with age But inside, I am red-hot with rage. You do not care to look, as if I am an old, out-of-date book! All you have to do Is wind me, then I will not be so blue. Maybe you will be brighter then, too. Just dust my worn face, At a steady, caring, slow pace, Then make my time right, So that I tick on time, day and night. You will rely on me, And I will rely on you. Please, that is what you should do. So, thank you for your time, I really hope youll x mine! This email is now through. Sincerely, Your Forgotten Clock... Still stuck at 4:32
THE TURRELL FUND
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Sun-stitched seams
BY ERIN BUNDOCK Grade 9, Champlain Valley High School Sun-stitched seams, Beams from dreams dreamt in my sleep, Seeping to the sky, longing to breathe. Cool air creeps to Velvet smooth cheeks of Children tucked into fat quilted Sheets. Leaking light to the world from spell bound Slumber, Leaking truth forgotten amongst peers, Healing tattered hearts, torn souls, somber losses, Drying eyes that have shed tears. Sew back the pieces, Pull together in our dreams. One day we will heal Through sun-stitched seams.
Set our to the wind Emily Aldrich/Mount Abraham Union Middle School
Mittens and child

BY RACHEL HAMLIN
The crayon
BY KELLY MALONE-WOLFSUN Grade 3, Richmond Elementary School One day I was in my room coloring with my new crayons. I went downstairs for lunch and when I came back, one of my crayons was running around on my bed! I ran as fast as I could to catch up with her, and when I nally caught her, she started to tell me how she feels. I wish people would stop using me, she said. My head gets jammed on the paper and instead of growing, I shrink. I get so many bruises and I just want to make my own decisions. When people use me, I..Ijust want to say Hey, keep your hands to yourself! I felt so badly for the little crayon so I promised her I would never use her or any crayons again!
NEXT PROMPTS
Three letters. Choose three let ters. You can write a poem or a short story, but all words must either start or end with these letters.Alternate: Bottle. Youre walking along the beach and a bottle with a message inside washes up on the shore. What is the message? What do do you do? Due Feb. 1. Surprising. Interview someone you know and ask the person to tell you a story youd never heard. Alternate: Photo 8. Write a story or poem based on this photo by Kayla Rideout of Essex High School. Due Feb. 8
Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School Mittens: Im soft. Im cozy. Im warm by nature, but you put me out in the cold. I love the cold. I sit on your hands, playing in the snow with you. I love the cold. Throwing snowballs, feeling the crystals that are snowakes. I love the cold. Child: Youre soft and cozy. You warm my hands. You and I play in the snow. We love the cold. We love the cold.
Telephone pole
BY SOLOMON ZEITLYN Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
Always looking out rooted to this soil where I stand slam! blows from a staple gun putting up posters about bands, protests, what to vote for wires draped over my shoulders carrying electricity across the grid Im always there in urban, rural strong, standing always held by cords going deep to the ground proud standing tall always looking out

Silence versus sound

BY NORA HILL Grade 10, Vermont Commons School What can you break with one word? Silence. The world is broken up into those who speak and those who dont. Silence and stillness can lead a person to a higher place, transcend our material world, or it can lead to the road of insanity, starved for human contact, when one word could save you. Too much sound and your nervous system will overload, crash into a pit of forced silence, a balancing act between the two; the more you walk, the thinner the rope becomes till it snaps and you fall into a world of sounds and silence. Things you dont want to hear will be told to you; the truths you denied, things you want so desperately to hear will be forever out of reach. Your ability to speak when needed and to stay quiet when necessary is key. Because at some time in our lives our rope will break and we will fall. When we fall we will be tested, tested to our very soul. It is then in that pain that we can look inside ourselves, whether through silence or sound we will look; its up to us to determine if we like what we hear.
THIS WEEK: Contrast & Superpower

Each week, Young Writers Project receives hundreds of submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week, we publish work in response to the prompts, Contrast: Write a story or poem about extreme contrasts; and Superpower: What superpower would you pick for yourself and why? You can read more at youngwritersproject.org.
Vermont Writes Day

February 7, 2013
Students, teachers, writers!

Across VT and NH, people are setting aside just 7 minutes on Feb. 7 to write! Find out more at vermont writesday.org.
For better or worse

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

THANKS FROM YWP

Special thanks this week to A.D. HENDERSON FOUNDATION
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Ethereal
BY OLIVIA PINTAIR Grade 7, Lake Champlain Waldorf School The silvery sky was a lot like your eyes, the way it swam with stars of clarity. When you laughed, your little skies crinkled and sometimes your soul would spill over. I loved to watch you when you spoke. I pictured the words like you said them. You added beauty to my thoughts and I loved how it clashed with the silence.
The power of zero

BY MADELEINE KHAMNEI Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School It was given to him years ago. He could see into the future and anything he needed to know he could. He would sit at his desk and cry. Small tears would bubble down his cheeks and splat onto his paper and pencils. How he wanted to pick one up and draw what he saw. The chalk, oil paints, and colors smearing down the smooth canvas, creating a path to the future. He could change it, but it was meant to be. He really thought he wanted it. He wanted to see him reuniting hand in hand with his mother, or his long-lost dad, but the future holds unpleasant beings and thoughts. What you want to see almost never happens. Now all he could see was ...
To nish reading this piece go to: www.youngwritersproject.org /node/74210
Invisibility
BY ARIEL SALMON Grade 9, Essex High School I always know people before they know me. I can see them, know about their friends and parties and gossip, but they dont know me. Im the one you wont see when you walk in a room, the one who sits behind you in ve of your eight classes, the one named That girl and Whatsher-name and The quiet one. Im the oddity, the anomaly, the one blessed and cursed with invisibility. A few, a small few, sometimes see me, hear me, speak with me, know me. All those people who wish that they could be invisible? They are the ones who look through me.
Jenna Rice/ The Sharon Academy
Dark and light

BY CALEB OLIVEIRA Grade 6, Renaissance School The dark approaches over the hill, over the mountain. The light approaches above the ocean, above the re. Light is fast, but dark is faster. Light is matter, dark is nothing. Dark is coldness with the snow, light is warmth with the sun.
Dark is the night and light is the day. Dark is a dead rose, light is a bright daisy. Dark is winter and light is summer. Dark is re and ice, light is a living tree. They collide together in a big ash of light. It gets dark and very cold. Snow falls through the night. Winter hits. The water turns to ice. A small re burns low. A gloomy deer limps through the snow. He curls up around a small daisy, his last warmth, hope and light.
NEXT PROMPT
I like Create a list of things you like. They can be random and unre lated or they can have a progression and tell a story within a story.Alternate: Relief. Describe the moment when you felt the greatest sensation of relief from thirst, hunger, sadness, pain or fear. Due Jan. 25
The pond
BY TYLER HARRIS Grade 10, Burlington High School Theres a pond near my house where I go, occasionally. Its hidden from view, tucked behind a redstone cliff and walls of cattails. You wouldnt happen upon it; you wouldnt nd it unless you were looking. Its shielded from everything, tucked away, where you cant feel the wind whipping up the street and you cant hear the sounds of people. All thats there is the croaks and splashes of the frogs in the summer and the ice in the winter that sometimes you can walk on. And I go there when I dont want to see anyone except those frogs and the occasional turtle, when I want to run my hands through the dry cattails and listen to them whisper to me. I go there when I want to be shielded, too.
THIS WEEK: Light/Dark & General

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 20 other newspapers. This week, we publish work in response to the prompts, Light/Dark: Write about contrasts; and General writing.To read more, go to youngwritersproject.org.
The lightning war

BY BRAEDEN HUGHES Grade 12, Mount Manseld High School The sky tells the soil to quiet, to shudder into open pores and breathe. The ferns are gasping, falling into the tted puzzles the wind makes of their leaves. Desperate messengers of the trees send yellow scrolls the grass listens, worries. A plan for battle rises from their whispered swells. The drums rattle death from clouds that hang heavy with promise. They have marched from homelands in the light but are men now who carry weariness like woolen coats on their shoulders. Their battle cry rumbles deep and far away. The earth, she says, They are coming. They are coming. They are here. The bombs break hydrogen shells upon the rooftops, a child cries. He says, Mother, when will it stop? When will the light return? The bullets answer that they will stop when the soil has been drenched, the trees have died with broken necks, and the river has ooded its banks. The sky is bright with re. It seems to shatter, but no pieces of darkness rain down. The clouds are breathless. They have found the earth unbreakable, and their guns and hearts are empty. Bruised lips resolute, the earth stands with angry, grieving eyes to watch the storm march away. When the sky turns bright, the grass is littered with jagged tree limbs and the buds of owers. Water sweeps debris into the rivers, running polluted from soil. The earth is bleeding but the storm has moved away.
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Warm, soft comfort Race of hearts

BY ELI HULSE Grade 10, Vermont Commons School I lie here enveloped in my cocoon of polypropylene, My own body heating the small space between skin and fabric, a warm bliss. Outside, the frigid world waits for my exodus, the clawing cold, the howling wind, waiting to eat away at the esh of any unprotected body. I take one second and brace myself. Then I slip into the cold, out of my warm sleeping bag. BY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS MONTESANO Grade 6, Edmunds Middle School To my heart that tied its shoes, getting ready not to lose, going, going to use its beating pace to win the race. Ready, ready, getting ready, keep it very steady as you go to the start line. Its almost time to make that gold medal mine. To my heart that raced a race, its legs pounded at a frightening pace. Beating, beating, ever faster, just to be the master of the race.
Night and day

BY KATHLEEN DUCHARME Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School The day was fast fading, its bright colors dripping like ink from the sky as the sun sank. Nights dark blanket slowly crept up the dome of the sky. Then all was blackness except for the pin-prick stars. There was no moon to cast its pale glow, but in the nearby town, streetlights shone their lonely light. The wind whistled its cold, dark song and somewhere in the vastness an owl hooted. Then all was still and quiet as the blackness began to slowly melt away. Now everything was just a pale gray as the sun climbed the eastern mountains. Soon it reached the peaks and sunlight washed over everything. The streetlights went out, one by one. A rooster cried its morning song and the sky was painted with various hues of red and orange. The sky changed to blue and the sun continued to scale the sky.
Smile
BY SOPHIE HOMANS Grade 10, Mount Manseld High School Smile, for life is short and happiness is important. Breathe, for when fresh air enters your lungs, trouble leaves you. Sleep, for rest is key and lls you with energy. Dance, for it expresses love and joy. Sing, for there is only so much time and your heart thrives. Look, for she is beautiful and you only have one chance.
Snow all over

BY ALEXYS GILLILAN Grade 3, Richmond Elementary School Today was the best day. I looked outside and there was snow all over! The bad thing was I didnt bring my snow pants. But I dont care. I will still play in it. Im going to make a snowman and a fort. It will be so fun. And Christmas is coming! Im so excited!
NEXT PROMPT
Puns. Have fun with a play on words (i.e. cereal number, sell phone, etc.). Try to t in as many puns as you can. Be cre ative! Alternates: Essential. Whats one thing you absolutely could not live with out? Why?; or I believeStart a piece with the words, I believe.Due Jan. 11
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Liu Brenna/Essex High School
Child of the tide

BY OLIVIA PINTAIR Grade 7, Lake Champlain Waldorf School She was sent to rest with the waves, for the good of the sea. And the sea was restless, for the good of her. A sleeping child to hush the tide, to tuck it in, and give it a kiss before bedtime. The water rolled in with the pull of her breathing, the hum of her warmth and the utter of her heart. Little waves tickled her spine as she caressed them unconsciously, willing them into the safety of her soul. Her sincerity called to the dream creatures. She sang to them, kissing the wind that ew with the gulls. Her footprints were left in this place, as she danced, quelling the twilight with her love and her little-girl eyes. Her dreamy presence rained gently on the water, tiny diamonds, like more salt for the sea. She mumbled pretty words while her eyelids ickered. The dim light in the room set over her; the little queen of the great big sea, and the calmer of the crashing. Her innocence gave a small lilt to the world, and lifted the tide to the moon for a goodnight kiss before bedtime.
THIS WEEK: Family & General

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 20 other newspapers. This week, we publish work in response to the prompts, Family: Write about a moment or experience with a family member that changed you; or General writing. More at youngwritersproject.org.
Grandpa
BY RACHEL HOAR Grade 6, Williston Central School
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My grandpa is really important to me. A couple of weeks ago he had a heart attack. I fell apart when my mom told me. I could not believe it. I believe that God is out there to help because my grandpa was at the hospital when it happened. My grandma had an appointment, so while that was going on, he was taken to the emergency room to see what was going on with him. The thing that broke my heart, but made me so happy, was when he said, I want to be able to see my granddaughters get married when theyre older. When he said that, I was so happy, and now my grandpa is healthy. As long as he does what the doctors tell him to do, then he should be able to see my sister and me grow up. I love you, Grandpa.
VERMONT COUNTRY STORE
Waning sun
BY MEIA FREESE Grade 11, Champlain Valley High School If I could, I would have smiled more sweetly in the waning sun. Watching as the discolored sky turned thick with anticipation, I might have chased the moon instead of the star, Beyond which the veins could not clutch and the heart would be unable to beat. Or perhaps I would have sung in silence, despite the earnest crowd. But this isnt about me, is it? Its about the truth behind hypocrisy, Two counterparts of the same element. Lets indulge ourselves and recount a disregarded reality. Our fate was brought in on a platter before we were seated, An inadequate stream of tipping wine glasses. I had my head tilted. We dined on separate channels with mismatched menus, Yet I inadvertently fell into the shallows of my own persuasion. It should be mentioned before skin cuts too deep, That like all other things that are beautiful, That behind the duplicity of each untold tale, It was the shooting star we saw from beneath the waters surface. Steam coiled off of our pallid skin that night in the grass. You can blame it all on me. Scar tissue sounding when our secret slip lled my heart with laughter. But before all of these moments, endlessly lost in time, We shared the backseat as the night engulfed us And the occasional light passed us by And it was beautiful. The lights have faded, and were here after hours. Our breath is stale; the air congealing around us. Maybe my letter will reach you someday, The one I wrote before the end. But here I hold my heart and note in hand With an unlikely probability that well circulate again.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
How I met your dad

BY MORGAN ROBERTS Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School Mom, when was the rst time you met dad? Ashleys daughter Maggie asked as the two were walking down the cold, snowcovered street. Well, it was around this time of year. Ill never forget it. There was a fresh coat of snow on the ground from the rst snowfall of the year that made that crunch noise once you stepped on it. It was so white, it was blinding. Your father and I were, I believe, in 7th grade at the time. He lived only three blocks away from me, and all of his friends lived on my street. I had just moved from California to here in Vermont because of your grandfathers job. Just when I walked out the door of my new house, taking my dog for a walk, all of a sudden, a snowball came right towards me and hit me in the face. This was also the rst time I saw snow in my life for real, and not in movies, let alone taste it. Oh, the snowball was so cold that all I could feel was this burning sensation on my face. Was it hurting after? Maggie asked. Not one bit. I bet it was daddy who hit you in the face with that snowball, wasnt it, Mama? You are absolutely correct, honey.
Congratulations to Jenna Rice, a sophomore at The Sharon Academy, whose photo was chosen as Photo of the Week. Jenna says, I took this photo when I went on an exchange trip to Saint-Gaudens, France. I stayed with a family, and one day I couldnt help but notice how beautiful the lighting in the window was. The sun was shining directly behind it so anything I put in the window to photograph became a silhouette. I had quite a bit of fun playing around with this. I eventually decided that I wanted to be in one of the photos, so I put the camera on a tripod and used a self-timer. So the girl in the photo is me.
Shes gone
BY NAILA SALHI-MICHAEL Grade 4, Sustainability Academy at Lawrence Barnes As my mom called her on the phone, I saw her tears. They were dripping down, slowly, then faster and faster. My hands started squirming; my heart was racing and my palms were sweating. She was gone. As I locked the door of my bedroom, I thought of all the things we hadnt done yet. My body slid down the wall, and there was this tear, dripping down my cheek, and in a few seconds, tears started gushing out of my eyelids like a small waterfall. In that moment I told myself that she was ofcially gone and I couldnt do anything about it. Finally, the tears stopped gushing, slowly like when a rainstorm gradually stops. I dried my face and covered my eyes with my sweating palms and pretended there were no doubts in life, and I was locked out of the universe in my own world. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and counted, One, two three, little by little in my mind. When I opened my eyes, I imagined that everything would be ne and back to normal. But I was still living in a nightmare because my grandma was gone.
NEXT PROMPT
Kindness. You have performed an act of kindness. What is it? How does it make you feel? What happens?Alternates: Unsafe. Describe a place or circumstance where you felt unsafe; or General writing. Due Dec. 21.
YWPS DECEMBER SLAM

YWP, 12 North Street, Burlington Friday, Dec. 21, 7-8:30 p.m. See you there!
Last autumn leaves

The last of the autumn leaves drift away on the wind, leaving the trees bare, and draining the land of color. The clock chimes ve, December 21, and startled pitch-black crows utter away towards the balmy south, silhouetted on the overcast, muted silver sky. Animals hide away into hibernation, obscuring themselves from the icy breeze. They are the only smart ones. The rest of us stay through the algor and the ailment. The sun has long since set and wont rise again for months. I long for the day when the light will return, when the days will lengthen, when the grounds will warm, but for now I am stuck, wandering, meandering through a frosty fog. Blacks and dull greys settle upon the town, casting a diaphanous, eerie, ever-present shadow. I walk down the frost-consumed cobblestone, heels clicking and clacking on the slabs. A frigid urry of wind surrounds me, penetrating through my threadbare pea coat and frayed mittens, piercing my numb, dry, red, raw skin. Fires are ickering and crackling in each house I see, while I am click-clacking down the street. The windows emit a miniscule glint of warm light, A hopeful beacon that is immediately oppressed by the ashen clouds. If only the re-tenders would realize they arent worth the trouble. Fire does little to warm against the freezing winter to come. All they do is emanate thick, ashen, smoke that accumulates on the somber, dusky, charcoal hues of this 18th century London slum. I shift my sight to the sky. The overcast begins to illuminate. The clouds begin to materialize from obscurity. I stop, shivering in my tracks, tip my head back, and gape into the atmosphere. Glimmering ivory akes begin descending through the dry air. Wind whips the specks around. They dance in the air. Beautiful lacy snippets of pure, creamy, velvet weaving through the icy breeze. The snow looks too clean, too pure, to exist in this alley. But its still enough to put a smile on my face and brighten my mood, at least for a second. I rest motionless for a moment and allow the snowfall to settle in my hair. Then I continue wandering, meandering through the frosty fog. Until I, too, will drift away like the leaves on the wind.
THIS WEEK: Winter Tales

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 20 other newspapers. This week, we publish work in response to the prompt, Winter Tales: Tell a narrative about winter in poetry or prose. To read more, go to youngwritersproject.org.
VERMONT STAGE COMPANY

PRESENTS
BY MARY PAT MORGAN Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
WINTER TALES
Dec. 5-9 FlynnSpace, Burlington
Dont miss this special holiday tradition, which includes a selection of writing from YWPs Winter Tales prompt!
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Snowstars
BY DAVID AMOURETTI Grade 5, Thomas Fleming School (Inspired by Valerie Worth) In the cloudy Sky Snowakes fall Twirling Sparkling Shimmering Catching the eye Of a Boy In his dads boots And his thick winter coat Who goes outside Marveling at The falling stars He sticks out His tongue To catch The stars And the snowakes fall And fall Float and swirl And curve Until they hit The boys Pink tongue Only to disappear
Birdseye Foundation
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
This cat of winter

BY MARIA CHURCH Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School The snow is as soft as a cats paw steps, Gently placing each ake on the ground, Windy tail high and waving. The cat is black, As black as the long nights soon to come. It walks through the bare, bony trees Stopping to sniff a dead leaf or a shining icicle. It walks along as the snow falls down. The cat has long whiskers That brush against the windows, Creating patterns in the frost. Sometimes the cat plays, Sending urries of snow upon the ground, Batting at the akes and faces With cold, velvet paws. Sometimes it rages, Striking out at the trees, Its claws as sharp as ice. Its angry howls rage across the night As it bounds from tree to tree, Winding its way through the houses As the morning sun rises. This cat is not actually black, but striped, Striped with the birch bark trees, The trail of footprints along the ground, The shadows, The faint indent in the snow Of a sled down a hill. This cat, this cat of winter.
Erin Bundock/Champlain Valley Union High School
Congratulations to Erin Bundock, a freshman at Champlain Valley Union High School, whose photo was chosen as YWPs Photo of the Week. Photographers and artists, send YWP your photos and scanned artwork for publication. Find out more at youngwritersproject.org.
NEXT PROMPT
Reection. What is something you wish youd been told when you were ve years old? Alternate: Photo 6. Write about this photo of the single chair at Mad River Glen. Due Jet Lowe (Library of Congress) Dec. 14
Winters Song
BY LUKE MCKENZIE FITZGERALD Grade 3, Orchard Elementary School The Winters Song is long and thoughtful. The wind blows hard. The wind is the melody of the Winters Song. The wind is cold; it swirls like a spiral in a paper birch forest. It sounds like a soft swirling ocean with a sad tone. The white snow falls into a stream. The
snow is the beat of the Winters Song. It sounds slow and constant. Some akes are big. Some are small. They will never, ever look the same even if they sound the same. The cold stream whirls, over and over again. It is the chorus of the Winters Song. At the shallowest parts, the sounds are fast and strong. At the streams deepest part, it is quiet and will stay quiet. With the wind as the melody, the snow as the beat, and the stream as the chorus, the Winters Song comes alive.
Stars on the ceiling
THIS WEEK: Alone

Each week Young Writers Project receives hundreds of submissions from students written in response to prompts or as general work. A team of students helps select work for publication in this and 20 other news papers. This week, we publish writing in response to the prompt, Alone: I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear... Finish the story. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
At the window
BY MARY PAT MORGAN Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear, the red tail lights that were taking you far, far out of town. As I stood at the window, I tried to remember before my memory started to fade. I remember you lived a street over from me all my life. We went to the same school for three years, we were in the same class, we should have been best friends, but I still dont even know your name. You were the girl who always clacked her knuckles in English class. I was the girl who always drummed my nails. Class went on with a steady beat to the click of my nails and the clack of your ngers. We attended an hour-long class together every school day for three years, but we never spoke. Its amazing how cold people can be, how we can live our lives so absorbed in our own world that we dont associate with others, how we can be so consumed with our own lives that we just shut everyone else out. We were so cold to each other. How is it that we spent hours together and never said a word? We only talked through clicks and clacks. And now you are gone, and we have missed out on a friendship that could have been, but now never will be. So, as I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear, I could only think one thing: English class will be far quieter without you, my shouldhave-been, would-have-been, could-havebeen best friend.
BY ELLA STAATS Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School
I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear. Well, that was it. It was over. My mom was gone and there was nothing I could do about it. I turned away and padded slowly up the stairs, clutching the handrail. I should have been crying, feeling a sense of mourning at least, but I just felt blank, like a slate wiped clean. It was as if the knowledge that she was gone hadnt even registered in my mind. I lay down on my bed, not even bothering to change out of my clothes, and felt the duvet mold around the shape of my body as I stared intently up at the cheap glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling. I reached over to the bedside table, fumbling for the light cord, and was immediately plunged into darkness. The stars ignited, and I closed my eyes, the shape of the Milky Way still stenciled into my eyelids. In that moment, I could see my mom in her silver Prius, swerving around a corner, halting at a trafc light, and then zooming into the highway and being swallowed into the gaping jaws of the night. I imagined her parking the car outside of some strange house, in a strange neighborhood, and walking inside without a trace of guilt to start a new life. Maybe it was all for the better, maybe it was what she needed, a break from us, a break from me, her only daughter. And maybe I needed it too. The galaxy behind my eyes had disappeared. I could feel a blanket of sleep falling over me. I didnt need to cry, I didnt need to be hurt. I just needed to know everything was for the best. And then I dissolved into slumber.
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Special thanks this week to VERMONT COMMUNITY FOUNDATION
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Another world
BY ABHI DODGSON Grade 5, Homeschool, South Hero I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear. Alone. The word pierced me. Alone again like a wound reopening. I turned and heard the dark house whispering. I listened as the chandelier clinked and swayed, knowing that I was on my own in the haunting world Of spirits. Of grief. Of magic. I watched as cars came and went in the stillness of the night. I xed my eyes on a shape lying on the road. I knew I was one of them now. Alone in a world of sadness. Mist swirled and formed shapes of others who had lost their lives. I stood in the center of the room, rooted to the spot, watching for hours, lost in memories. Flooded with grief. Never to be seen again.
Delilah
BY EMMA BERKOWITZ Grade 9, Champlain Valley Union High School

Jamie Ferguson/Milton High School
I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear. She was gone. Everything I ever knew was gone in a ash. As the plane started its ascent to Spain, all I could wonder was if she was feeling the same way. I was sure I would never see Delilah again. Tears as salty as the Mediterranean trickled down my cheeks. The taste was vulgar. I should have never let her get on that plane. I felt so alone. The only family I had ever known slipped out of my grasp before my eyes. I tried to edge my baseball cap down further so nobody would notice my tears. Traces of black mascara remained on my cheeks just as the traces of Delilah would forever remain in my heart. I stood at the window watching planes taking off for about 20 minutes. I guess Joni Mitchell was right. You dont know what youve got till its gone. I always took it for granted that my sister would always be by my side ready to assist me in any way possible. I never stopped to take it all in and thank her until it was too late. I felt remorse for all the missed opportunities I had to tell her I loved her.
Congratulations to Jamie Ferguson, a junior at Milton High School, whose photo of a salamander was chosen as YWPs Photo of the Week. Photographers and artists, send YWP your photos and scanned artwork for publication. Find out more at youngwritersproject.org.
The move
BY MAX TECHAU Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School I stand at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear. The bulky shape of the moving van rumbles off into the distance. It is the last time I will be alone in my old house. I slowly turn on the creaking oorboards to glance around at the dusty attic space that had been my room. Even though I am not moving far, I will miss living near one of my best friends. I remember when we were younger and we were playing ultimate tag and how I had gotten a bloody nose trying desperately to escape my friend. I snap out of this thought when a squirrel hops out onto the rickety roof. I grab my bag and sadly look around at the space one last time. I dont want to go quite yet, but I know my parents will be back with the moving van any moment now.
Cookie jar
BY SOREN WYSOCKEY-JOHNSON Grade 3, Richmond Elementary School I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear. I was at home, alone. I ran straight to the cookie jar and took ve cookies. I was so excited, home alone! I ran outside to the trampoline and did ips, back ips, front handsprings and cartwheels. I went to the candy jar and took a handful of candy. I went upstairs and played with my Legos for about an hour. Finally, my mom came home.
NEXT PROMPT
Object. An inanimate object comes alive and tells you how it really feels. Alternate: Excuse. Create the wildest excuse you can think of for why you didnt do something, why you were so late, why you cant go. It must stretch the imagination yet still remain credible. Due Dec. 7

Someone who can

BY CLAIRE MACQUEEN Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School He sits unmoving on the metal bleachers. Snow lays around him, fresh, cold, and seeming to shimmer in the early dawn. In ungloved hands he holds a football battered, old and covered in writing. He sighs, sending up a cloud of fog, and stares at the white, wide, open football eld in front of him as he had a hundred times before. In books and movies hes seen, it says they can remember every second how their feet slipped, how they fell, how they remember it as if it were slow motion. He cant, no matter how much he tries or wishes he could. All he remembers is running with sharp air in his lungs and marveling at how the snowakes seemed as if they were suspended in the air. Then he was on his back, immobile as the wet snow seeped through his jersey and heavy footsteps came closer. Even after that there were only snippets of memory in the few moments of consciousness hed had. Tubes coming out of his arms and legs, doctors wearily telling him how lucky he was to have a chance of walking again, and his teammates presenting him a football with Get Well Soon and all their names scrawled haphazardly onto the leather surface. Suddenly, he stands, wincing slightly even after all these years. He grits his teeth in an effort to block out the cold, the dull pain in his leg, and the fragments of memory. After a few hesitant moments, he hurls the Get Well Soon ball as far as possible, hoping it will nd someone who can.
THIS WEEK: Photo 3 & Fan

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 20 other newspapers. This week, we publish work in response to the prompts, Photo 3 and Fan: Write a fan letter to someone. To read more, go to youngwritersproject. org, a safe, civil online community of young writers.
Dear Walt
BY CHRISTOPHER BARKER Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School Dear Walt Disney, I am your fan. You are the one I look up to, The one who inspires, The one who has made a mark, and a good one indeed. You have made the impossible possible, The place where everyone wants to be, The setting of a dream, a new world, and all of the above. You are my idol, the one in whom I believe, The person who blew everyones mind, The person who showed that there is no limit, The person who proved you can create a fantasy. You have created a paradise, The place that pleases all senses, The place beyond places, The to-go-to place. Disney is the name to be remembered, The one with the memories, The one with the spark, And I am your fan, A fan of Walt Disney.
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PHOTO PROMPT 3
Huge fan, no more

BY JEREMY BROTZ Grade 8, Homeschool, Burlington Dear I.M. Grate, Im such a big fan of yours, u r awesome! Ive seen all your movies, and I love them! Please write back! ~ A huge fan To A huge fan, Here I am, writing to you! Yes, you! You have the pleasure of being written to by the best man in the world, me. You should consider yourself, little fan, incredibly lucky. Often I am too busy with my amazingly hard, strenuous job to bother myself with inconsequential people like you. And guess what? I am even going to be so generous as to sign, yes, sign this letter. Keep on adoring me! ~ I.M. Grate Dear I.M.Grate, OMG, u actually responded! Thank u! Ill keep your signature 4 ever! It means so much 2 me! ~ A huge fan To A huge fan, What? You are keeping my signature? Why not sell it on eBay? You would only get $5 million, but that is how much I usually spend in one day...Well, you better be glad I wrote you another letter, because I dont have much time. Im not going to sign this letter, because you already have one signature of mine. I gure Ill just keep my signature, and sell it on eBay myself under a false name, and get a few extra bucks. To I.M. Grate, I dont like u anymore... Thanks 4 telling me that your hero can be dumb, even if he appears to be awesome. ~ Not a fan P.S. I ripped up your signature.
Second place
BY ALEXA KARTSCHOKE Grade 7, Williston Central School If competing means losing, then Ive competed tons of times. This track held what could be the best moment of my life. Twenty-ve years ago, I came in second to Chelsea Middle School. The boys name was Calvin. The race was the 200 meters. It was the county championships. Tomorrow is the county championships and my son is racing. And Chelsea is going to be there. I am scared. I dont want him to feel the pain that I did. He is one of the best runners on his team. I look down at the place that I nished all those years ago. I think about what if that boy felt sorry for me. What if he knew I was jealous of him. I dont even think he remembers. I realize how stupid I was to hold this grudge all these years. I whisper silently to myself Im sorry. I am sorry I never forgave that boy for beating me. I am sorry that I have been so upset all these years. Im sorry my son had to watch me stare at my second place trophy, knowing that he would have to get rst. I know I came in second back then, but now I realize I was always rst. I had a wonderful life and I was always treated with the highest respect on my team. And I was a very good runner. Now I know that when I go home, Im going to tell my son, First is great, but second is fantastic.
Karlo Fresl/Essex High School, 2011
Track season
BY KELLY HUANG Grade 9, Burlington High School The snow begins to melt, The weathers getting warmer, Springs coming. Track season is about to start. And I, just standing there, let my imagination go wild, Imagining how the season is going to be. People sprinting, jumping, throwing, cheering. Its going to be an amazing year. Come faster, spring, Im waiting for you.
Sitting here, waiting

BY FIONA-ROSE DULUDE Grade 8, Browns River Middle School I sit here waiting on this cold, snowy bench for the day that I can play football. They say that girls arent able: That they dont have the right build, That they lack the strength or the will, That they are weak, That they do not have the killer instinct To play. But Im going to prove them wrong. On the rst snap of the ball, I will get a touchdown, I will tackle the QB, I wont fumble.
Dear Michael
BY AMARI CHRISTIE-PABON Grade 4, Renaissance School Dear Michael Jackson, I have always loved your music and I listen to it all the time. My favorite song is Smooth Criminal. I would have liked to meet you because you invented break dancing and it is so much fun. I would also like to learn the moonwalk. I am sorry we never met. Sincerely, Amari
NEXT PROMPT
If only... Write about a situation in which you wish you had done things differently. Alternates: Dialogue day. Tell a story using only dialogue; or General writing in any genre. Due Nov. 30

Do you remember?
BY TYLER HARRIS Grade 10, Burlington High School Remember when we spent all of our days together? Do you remember our sleep-overs and our games of ashlight tag? Do you remember sitting together at lunch and laughing and joking and everything was alright? Do you remember when you held my hand through the hardest times of my life? Do you remember the way we had each others backs? Do you remember when you knew all of my secrets? Do you remember the nights we spent talking into the wee hours of the morning? Do you remember hanging onto each others arms as we walked into school? Do you remember the summer we spent together climbing the rocks and wasting time on the cliff? Do you remember how much fun we had? Do you remember how we never wanted it to end? Do you remember when we were close? Do you remember me?
THIS WEEK: Flying & General

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 20 other newspapers. This week, we publish work in response to the prompts, Flying: You are ying blissfully over the countryside. What do you see and feel? and General writing in any genre. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
Part of the sky

BY ABHI DODGSON Grade 5, Home School, South Hero I feel leaping, heart-beating joy As I y through the brilliant blue sky Dancing and twisting up and gliding Down The beating in my chest is a feeling of pure ecstasy and happiness I spiral up and down and hug the clouds As my heart does another ip I oat over The grassy plains And watch birds soaring, singing melodic radiant songs A bluebird drifts past me, the sky carried on its back I am part of the sky I see an open eld and swoop down, landing softly I let out a long, deep breath and inhale the wonderful smell of summer I look back at the setting sun And feel the stillness as the shimmering ball of light slips away behind The mountains
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Special thanks this week to VERMONT BUSINESS ROUNDTABLE
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Im ying
BY CATIE MACAULEY Grade 4, Renaissance School Im ying. What a strange sensation it is. Wonderfully blissful and carefree, I have never been happier. Alone with my thoughts, soaring alongside the birds, I feel as if I can conquer all the worries of the world. Up here in the sky, among the clouds and colors of the sunset, are spreading swirls of light. The beauty and feeling of it are indescribable. I laugh out loud for joy and justice. Even the countryside seems to smile up at me.
Things we like about fall

BY ZACHARY BURNS AND IAIN PLESS Grades 6 and 5, Browns River Middle School Thanksgiving is number one of all, apple pie is really good along with all the other food. Halloween is super fun; you wish the day would never be done. The wind is blowing colors everywhere, joy oating in the air. Raking leaves and hiking, school, reading and biking. Getting close to Christmas how could you miss this? But things dont always go as planned. You miss the warm sun and sand. Winter, spring, summer and fall, lets have fun with it all!
See Zack and Iains video at http://www.youngwritersproject.org/node/72276
In wind or hail
BY MYA GREENFIELD Grade 3, Richmond Elementary School Flying. I am ying in the breeze, I am ying all around, I am ying everywhere. Oh, how I would love to y! I dont care in wind or hail, In storms or sunny days. Oh, how I wish I could y!
Danielle Kracum, Rutland High School
Congratulations to Danielle Kracum, a senior at Rutland High School, whose photo was chosen as YWPs Photo of the Week. Photographers and artists, send YWP your photos and scanned artwork for publication. Find out more at youngwritersproject.org!
A Vermont view
BY AMBER STROCK Grade 11, Oxbow High School
My body was elevated far beyond the ground. Though I would normally have felt terried, I felt a sense of serenity. Gliding through the air was a feeling beyond any I had ever known. My body felt weightless. To make everything so much more blissful, the Vermont view was breathtaking. When I began my journey, my body
swept over Lake Champlain. The sun shone directly behind me, and I watched as my shadow danced across the surface of the dark blue, clear lake water, following my every move. A second later, I was soaring above Burlington, passing Church Street and the crowded streets full of tourists, locals and college students. Within minutes, I was above Montpelier. I gaped in amazement as the capitol dome sparkled in the sunlight, throwing rays of light in every direction. After passing over the beautiful cities of Vermont, I wanted to see what I loved most. When I
arrived, I found myself in awe. On a beautiful sunny day, Vermonts landscape was beautiful. The leaves were that perfect peak color. From above, I was able to catch that ephemeral moment when the colors were at their absolute best, just before they begin to fade and fall into the dreary dullness of winter. From above, I was able to fully appreciate the beauty that had always been right in front of me. I fell into splashes of orange and red, letting myself drift into absolute bliss. At that moment, I realized I was in perfection high above the most beautiful place.
Ideal being. What do you think makes someone the ideal person? What is the most important characteristic that a person must have? Alternates: Change. Write to the president of Anna Mechler/Essex High School a company, real or ctional, about a product that you think must be changed; or Photo 5. Write about the photo above. Due Nov. 23
NEXT PROMPT
Vote for Rowe

BY AUDREY ROWE Grade 6, Browns River Middle School Do you want a compassionate, caring president who will stand up for middleclass people? Vote Audrey Rowe for President. I will make the United States of America a clean, happy place. I will treat the middle class exactly like the high-class millionaires. I believe that gay marriage is exactly like marriage between a man and a woman, and is not to be made fun of. I think that if you love the person it should be allowed that you can marry that person. I do not discriminate against religions although I have none. You may think that I am a softie and would not stand up for America at war or not ght back, but trust me I can be soft and cold and that can change instantly. I am also the best choice for those who want taxes to be lower... I will stand up for womens rights and I will be the future Ms. President...
THIS WEEK: Haunted & Candidate

ach week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hamp shire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 20 other newspapers and on vpr.net. This week, we publish work in response to the prompts, Haunted: You and your friends explore an abandoned house when things turn scary; and Candidate: Write a political ad for yourself.To read more, go to youngwritersproject.org .
Dark
BY EVA EDWARDS-STOLL Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School The lights turn off; its dark. I look around, I call out, Lily, Morgan, Jonah. It is silent. The house is big, desolate as the African plains, cold as the Arctic. I cant move, I am so scared. I am praying, let me get out alive. I feel like my friends have abandoned me in this haunted place. Then the lights ash on and off...strobe lights? And I hear Bang!...balloons popping? And I hear phhhttttt... a whoopy cushion? And I see people opening doors and yelling Boo! We got you! I see my friends doubled over in laughter. Its all a prank.
ABOUT THE PROJECT

YWP is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences.YWP runs youngwritersproject.organd the Schools Project, a comprehensive on line classroom and training program that works with teachers to help students develop their writing and digital literacy skills. To learn more, go to ywpschools.net or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
THANKS FROM YWP

Young Writers Projectis supported by the generosity of founda tions, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing. If you would like to contrib ute, please go to youngwritersproject.org/support, or mail your donation to YWP, 12 North St., Suite 8, Burlington, VT 05401.
Special thanks this week to PHYSICIANS COMPUTER COMPANY
Abandoned mansion
BY ISAAC CLEVELAND Grade 7, Charlotte Central School I dont think we should, said Tommy, as I stepped up to the heavy wooden door. Yeah, lets go, whispered Sam, his eyebrows twitching as they do when he gets anxious. You know we have to, or Billy will just call us chicken in front of the whole school, I said. All three of us huddled next to the abandoned mansion doorstep. This was the house no kid I knew had ever entered. Even Billy Smith, the bully of our class, hadnt stepped one foot inside. Its dark shadow loomed over Maple Street, and every day when I passed the house on my way back from school, I got an eerie feeling that something or someone was looking out at me, watching me across its broken-down fence and abandoned yard. We had never felt more afraid than this, and we were on the verge of running back to our own houses when I reached out and felt the icy cold, metal doorknob with my ngers. Chills ran down my spine, but I kept pressure on the knob and slowly opened the door. A gust of musty air swept over us and an eerie silence fell like a blanket over the night. Turn on your ashlights, guys; were going to need them, I said over my shoulder as I stared into the dark hallway. I really dont want to do this, Sam said as he peered into the darkness. Yeah, I dont really care about what Billy says as long as I dont have to go in there, Tommy said, his voice shaking. You guys go home, but I am not going to ignore a challenge by some school bully, I said. I am going to prove that I am not chicken. I stepped into the shadowy hallway...
Read the ending of this story at youngwritersproject. org/node/72396.
The cold wind

BY MARIKA MASSEY-BIERMAN Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School It was the time of Hallows Eve. The night was cold, and the winds icy ngers crawled under my coat as I walked home. Now, I am not one who is easily frightened, but the mystery of Hallows Eve loomed in my mind that night. The dark was as black as death, and the comforting lights of home ickered far away. I considered lighting my candle, but I knew the wind would disapprove. The road ahead was familiar, but in the dark of this haunted night it seemed sinister. I quickened my pace, for who would want to be stuck out here? Not I, not I. A shiver ran through me. The stars glittered far above, too far to be comforting. I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck, grateful for the warmth. Suddenly, I found myself on the ground. The wind was blowing harder, like a chorus of howling wolves. My foot stung, I had caught it on a small rock. Leaning closer to the ground, I saw that the rock was much bigger than a pebble. I was staring at a gravestone. My mind whirled. How had I ended up in the graveyard? Where was the path to my comfortable abode? I slowly rose to my feet and looked around. What were those moaning sounds? Where was the whistling tune coming from? Was it my head, or was there something surrounding me? I sucked in my breath and started to leave. Something told me I wasnt alone. Turning slowly, I watched it pounce and saw no more.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Congratulations to Kevin Huang, a freshman at Burlington High School, whose photo was chosen as YWPs Photo of the Week. Photographers and artists, send YWP your photos and scanned artwork for publication. Go to youngwritersproject.org, create a blog, upload your work, choose Photo Submission as the genre, click Yes for the Newspaper Series, and include a high resolution version of your work as a le attachment.
The house across the street

BY CHARLOTTE VINCENT Grade 4, Shelburne Community School My sneakers drag on the hard cement sidewalk. The wind blows to the south. The shutters on the house across the street creak like the oorboards in the attic. I ercely pull my zipper up to my neck. My glance wanders to that house across the street. My friends have always told me that the house is haunted. Those thoughts run wild in my head. The last headlights glow as I run across the black road and onto the sidewalk again. The house stares down at me as I take slow steps onto the old ripped-up mat that faintly reads, Welcome! My sts knock on the swamp green door. No answer. My hand manages to turn the knob. Boo! I hear, nearly tumbling over. Its my friend and she wants to explore, too. A few minutes later my heart skips a beat. A moaning sound lls my ears. Aaahhh! I whisper to my friend. We manage to get to the stairs, dust and papers cluttered around the Victorian railing. We walk up the stairs, trying not to make a sound, then. Slam! goes a door about a yard up the rotten stairs. This is feeling like a ghost story! I hear a faint cracking noise behind me and I turn my head cautiously to see my friend gone. I stare at a big black hole. I look down when suddenly a hand reaches up. Fewf! I wipe my hand across my forehead. I pull my friend out, tears streaming down her face. We run out of the Victorian door down the sidewalk to our houses.
Ghost man
BY LINDSEA HAYES Grade 7, Charlotte Central School I was only 5 years old when I rst saw him. It was the middle of summer, and my parents were downstairs. I was up in my room playing with my dolls. The window was open, and a cool summer breeze was blowing in. He just showed up in my room. At the time I didnt think much of it. I had tons of imaginary friends who just showed up, but he was different. He was so real...
NEXT PROMPT
Light/Darkness. Use the idea of extreme contrast in any way youd like, such as day vs. night, good vs. evil. Create a story or poem that centers on extreme contrast. Alternate: Superpower. You are granted superpowers: What superpower would you pick and why? Imagine an anecdote of you using that superpower. Due Nov. 16
Read the ending of this story at youngwritersproject.org/node/72395.
Alone
BY ELLA STAATS Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School They forgot me. They forgot me when he fell to the ground, twitching and clutching his chest and they came with their lights ashing and took him away. I close my eyes and huddle against the wall. My heart is thumping rhythmically in my chest. Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. My ears are ringing, blocking out every other noise. The world is acting like nothing has happened, like a little girl isnt abandoned outside a shopping mall, but something has and she is. One tear one single tear squeezes out of the corner of my eye and rolls down my cheek, glistening and catching the warm afternoon light, and lands on the very tip of my tongue for the smallest of moments before it is absorbed back into my body. That tear, though small, represents a waterfall of emotions. Afraid, uncertain, anxious, hurt, abandoned, and so much more. I want to be at the hospital, I want to be with him, but at the same time I just want to curl up and vanish and never have to see him in a white cot in a white room hooked up to machines. I cant hide. I cant face the world. I cant breathe. What can I do? Anything? Nothing? Everything? I have to do something. So I slowly stand up and enter the mall, to call the hospital and ask for my father.
THIS WEEK: Photo 2 & Observer

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 20 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompts, Photo 2; and Observer: You witness something frightening or wrong. What is your response? To read more, go to youngwritersproject.org.
His name is Hope

BY ELLA CAUSER Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

FAIRPOINT COMMUNICATIONS
PHOTO PROMPT 2
The sickness
BY MALIN HILLEMANN Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School
I stare out the window of our apartment, My breath leaving a steamy circle on the pane. A gray, dull, blank city looms above me with an unexpected pop of color here or there, A red umbrella cartwheeling down the sidewalk, A blue raincoat anticipating a downpour from the dreadful sky. Staring at our small alley gives no comfort. A once blooming garden is dead, littered with trash. An animal with its tail between its legs lets out a sorrowful whine. Like the wind whispering through the windows at night, It chills me to the bone just as the cold air does. Someone is throwing rocks at the mutt, Laughing cruelly. My hands begin to sweat, nervous for the small, lost, lonely stray. The person runs away, and the dog is alone once again. Not thinking twice, I pull the old afghan off of my bed, already running out the door and down the multiple oors to the alleyway. I scoop up the shaking-like-a-leaf dog, And, fast as I can, race up the steps to the apartment. And I stroke him, lamenting how I know nothing of how to console this mutt-ofbroken-demeanor. But I do know one thing; His name will be Hope Because thats what he gave me, in this gray, dull, lonely city.
I saw the man coming from afar, his hard, leather shoes tapping as he came slowly down the hall. Nobody else seemed to see him. I saw his white, ghostly gure looming over the children as they slept. I was scared, but as I saw him come slowly towards us I froze in place, not knowing what to do. He wore his top hat, and hobbled on a cane. I remembered that hat, the one that used to lie in the attic. It was always there, covered in cobwebs and dust. It was strange to see it on this mans head now. The children breathed lightly, lying on their cots, every one of them chilled by the freezing cold blowing through the door that stood ajar. I was scalding; the blisters of my hands throbbed throughout my whole body, making me tingle with the sudden jolt of heat. The man had gotten closer now, he stood only a few cots away from me, unable to see that my eyes were xed on him. He hit his cane across the oorboards, tapping on the souls of the sleeping children. I did not want to be next. I did not want this ghost of a man to slap his cane against the oor below me, to make my body shake and vibrate, and to be carried away in his hands. I wanted to stay here with all of the children, but most of them had already gone that night. They left to go to a happier place, without sickness, blisters, and cold. I would miss this place, but as I saw the other childrens limp bodies I knew it would be unfair for me to hide from this man. And so as the man approached my bed, I readied myself for the worst, and CRACK! I heard the sound of the cane hitting the bottom of my bed, and then, I was gone.
NEXT PROMPTS
Winter Tales. Tell a narrative about winter in short, descriptive poetry or prose. The best will be selected for presentation by the Vermont Stage Company at its annual Winter Tales production at FlynnSpace in Burlington (Dec. 5-9, 2012). Alternate: Favorite place. What is the special place where you really like to be, where you feel most alive? Imagine yourself there and tell a story about it. Due Nov. 2 Family. Write about a moment or experience with a family member that changed you. Alternate: Photo 4. This boy has something to say. What is it? Due Nov. 9
Becca LeBlanc/Essex High School, 2011
Natures rise and fall

BY ESPEN PETERSON Grade 8, Home School, Jericho I stare at the blue sky and the rolling green hills. The change in the years to come gives me chills. Will the birds have evolved into moles? And dug hundreds of little holes To escape the thick green smog That hangs over us in a suffocating fog? Will skyscrapers have replaced the trees? And the elds resemble Swiss cheese? Will vegetation become a myth? Will the Earth become drilled out to the pith? Will it rain acid on our heads? And the ozone be torn to shreds? Will we pay any attention at all? To natures rise and fall?
Roaming
BY LEAH KELLEHER Grade 8, Albert D. Lawton Intermediate School To travel the world Would be bold. The spacious deserts, The vast, empty cold. You could pass your whole life Traveling astray. You could pass your whole life Drifting away. From Alberta to Australia, To Paris and Puerto Rico, So many sites to see And people to meet. Could you travel on your own feet? Oh, how I wish I could see it all, The list of places, oh so tall. Sadly for me, It is too much to see. But one day maybe I will Have my ll Of travel.
Jack Delano, Dummerston, VT, 1941 (Library of Congress)
My poor pencil
BY LEAH KELLEHER Grade 8, Albert D. Lawton Intermediate School Chewed To the lead, The paint has rubbed away, The wood splintered By my teeth. Number two, Gone. I have tried To not be so tense, But when I am a mess I cant help myself. To break a habit Is a goal, One not easy to achieve. When my heart is breaking, Or my stress is awakening, I need something To take it out On.
THIS WEEK: Elevator & Habits

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of readers, we select the best for publication here and in 20 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompts, Elevator: Youre stuck in an elevator with a stranger. What happens? Habits. Whats the worst habit youre willing to admit to? Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
Nervous rider
BY AMELIA MASON Grade 5, Champlain Elementary School
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

YWP is supported by the gen erosity of foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing. If you would like to contribute, please go to youngwritersproject.org/support, or mail your donation toYWP, 12 North St., Suite 8, Burlington, VT 05401.
Special thanks this week to JANE B. COOK CHARITABLE TRUSTS
Stuck in the elevator
BY CALLAHAN FREEMAN Grade 5, Williston Central School
It was 12:37 and Frank was freaking out. I tried to calm him down by telling him it was OK, but he wouldnt stop crying. As a 25-year-old, I expected him to be ne. Frank, its only been an hour; someone will get us out. Yeah, but what if they dont nd me; what if I die what if...oh, we fall to the bottom? Heres how it all started: I was walking in to work, went to the elevator, then looked around and thought, Why isnt anyone here? Oh, its only 11:30; everyones still at lunch. I got in the elevator. There was someone else in there. Hello, 26th oor please. Um, OK. Im Frank, Nice to meet you. Im Sara. Do you work here? No, just visiting, said Frank. This is an old building, so the elevator is kind of old. It gets stuck sometimes but never for a long time. Creak, zing, bong, the elevator sounded as it stopped. Whats going on? Frank asked nervously. Oh, it always does this. I pushed the emergency button, but realized that no one was in the building. Thirty minutes later, we were still stuck. OMG, I should have taken the stairs, said Frank, angry with himself. Its OK; well be ne, I said. Yes, but I dont like small spaces and I have to get home. I am really scared. Back to when Frank was freaking out: I tried to calm him down by singing Dont Stop Believing four times. Then he nally stopped crying. After he was comforted, I asked him, Do you have a phone? Oh yeah, I forgot, he said excitedly. When he gave me his phone, I called 911. Hello, Im stuck in an elevator! Ten minutes later we were out and safe. Thank you for helping me stay calm when we were in there, Frank said thoughtfully. No problem, I said. All you need to do is not worry and think positive.
My reading habit
BY EMMA CAMPBELL Grade 5, Robinson Elementary, Starksboro My worst habit is I read really, really late. Once I read until 12 a.m. Ive tried to keep track of the time, but one minute its 8 oclock and the next its 11 oclock. Another time I set an alarm but the clock ran out of batteries. Argggh! But then again, even if it had gone off, it probably would have wakened my sister so Id get in trouble... Now I only sometimes read a book before I go to bed. But I still cant go to sleep until 10:30! So for now, Im stumped.
She waltzes in
BY MADDIE MEFFERT Grade 7, Camels Hump Middle School The large doors opened. I stood there, staring at my feet. From the corner of my eye, I saw a petite woman wearing a polka-dot black dress waltz in. She looked ... business-y. Her black hair was pinned up in a tight bun. I slowly glanced at her. She looked almost nervous. On our way down to the lobby, the elevator came to a jerking halt. The woman, who was clenching the sides of the elevator started to breathe very heavily. Im Maddie, I said suddenly. Christine, she said as she gasped for air. You dont have to worry, theres someone probably waiting to get on, I reassured her. Christine looked at me and I saw a sign of relief in her eyes. She looked nice, a nice, well-paid business woman. Why is it taking so long?! she yelled. I wasnt too sure if she was yelling at me, or just in general. Then suddenly, I got a feeling in my stomach, an hour had gone by, and we hadnt moved yet. Then suddenly, I got one of those feelings you get when youre on a rollercoaster. The elevator was dropping. Stories and stories had gone by. I got so nervous. Christine was next to me hyperventilating. I could tell she was very, very scared. Then, we stopped. I looked at Christine. She glanced back at me. The elevator doors opened. Christine tucked her hair behind her ears, and waltzed out. What just happened?
I climb into the tight elevator after telling my mom Ill meet her in the grown-up section of the huge bookstore. I see someone ease her way in very nervously, glancing around. I push the button for Floor #3, which seems to be the oor that the middle-aged woman is going to, as well. Um, pardon me, excuse me, young lady? the woman says in an odd but polite voice. I nod. For some reason, the elevator isnt moving yet. Ive never taken an elevator before always used the stairs, but Im vacationing here, and there doesnt seem to be any, she says crisply. Losing her politeness, she cries, Whats going to happen? She is halfshrieking, half-crying, clutching the bar on the side of the elevator so tightly I think her hands might fall off. Er, um, the elevator just goes up, and you, um, get out, and, I guess, nd the book you need, I say awkwardly, feeling sorry for this grown lady who acts so frightened. The elevator suddenly jerks and jolts to a start. Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh! the lady screams so loudly I have to cover my ears. The piercing scream seems to last forever, me watching the womans hands turning purple. Theyre so tight in sts, waving around to the left, then the right, all around, until the elevator comes to an abrupt stop. Silence. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, the lady murmurs to herself, catching her breath. The elevator doors open slowly and she walks out as if nothing had happened, except for her clutching her stomach, then her head, stomach, head. I inhale the fresh smell of books the crisp pages, the stiff covers, and relax. I gulp down the air like I gulp down my favorite drink. I take a breath. I step out of the elevator.
CELEBRATION OF WRITING
Every year, YWP publishes ananthology of the years best student writing and photos. On Oct. 27, we will toast the publication of Anthology 4 with a day of celebration and writing workshops in partnership with the Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpelier. Special guests this year include enter tainer Rusty DeWees, author Katherine Paterson and the student writers and pho tographers who are featured in the anthol ogy! To register for workshops and to nd out more, go to youngwritersproject.org .
PHOTO OF THE WEEK

Levi Beavin/Main Street Middle School
NEXT PROMPTS
Winter Tales. Tell a narrative about winter in short, descriptive poetry or prose. The best will be selected for presentation by the Vermont Stage Company at its annual Winter Tales production at FlynnSpace in Burlington (Dec. 5-9, 2012). Alternate: Favorite place. What is the special place where you really like to be, where you feel most alive? Imagine yourself there and tell a story about it. Due Nov. 2
Congratulations to Levi Beavin, an eighth grade student at Main Street Middle School in Montpelier, whose photo was chosen as YWPs Photo of the Week. Photographers and artists, send YWP your photos and scanned artwork for publication. Go to youngwritersproject.org, create a blog, upload your work, choose Photo Submission as the genre, click Yes for the Newspaper Series, and include a high resolution version of your work as a le attachment.

Sharp memory
BY ELLA CAUSER Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School I soar above my memories like an eagle searching for its prey. Im searching for my memory. A mother is holding her young daughter on her hip. Sharp, white needles come into focus. Theyre attached to a tall green plant. The mothers hand reaches out to pet it. The air is fresh and humid. It smells green. Soft sunlight spills from a glass ceiling. Greenery and blossoms burst from large ceramic pots that sit on damp, concrete oors. The hand is still stroking the needles, which now look soft and gentle. As if white splinters were replaced by fur, a smaller, chubby set of hands reaches out and grabs the plant. A wail shatters the air. A cactus porcupine is impaled in my palm. I soar up and away from the memory, touching down in the present, after my trip to the past.
THIS WEEK: Remember & General writing

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 20 other newspapers. This week we publish work in response to the prompts, Remember: Write about your earliest memory; and General writing.
When I was younger

BY MARY PAT MORGAN Grade 8, Edmunds Middle School When I was younger, about four or ve, Every Saturday morning my friends would arrive. Wed all dress up, Do our hair different ways, And watch Disney movies for the whole day. Stories of beautiful, brave, daring girls, Who seemed to live in the most wonderful worlds. Theyd talk to animals, sing their hearts out, Go into the woods and just dance about. There were stories of sisters, and slippers, and balls, A girl with gold hair in a tower so tall, One with skin white as snow with seven small friends, Or a frog who was not just a frog in the end. All of their mothers were cruel And their lives were a mess, But they always looked stunning in the most beautiful dress. So stunning, in fact, theyd see a prince and steal his heart. That was always our most favorite part. Theyd be true loves, Find each other in the end, And I always believed that would happen to me and my friends. But now were grown up, Twenty-four, twenty-ve; I used to believe, but my prince is yet to arrive. And happily ever after seems so far away. It seems farther and farther with each passing day. I still wish like those brave, daring girls, But its hard to be brave in this horrible world. I wish Id nd happily ever after For my story to end, Or maybe my story is yet to begin. Until that day arrives, Ill patiently wait, Just as I have since I was four or ve.
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Special thanks this week to AMY E. TARRANT FOUNDATION
Remember?
BY PAIGE HAUKE Grade 10, Rice Memorial High School Remember that day when I jumped out the window and ew through the air? Remember how the wind whipped my hair into my face, strands of chestnut gold creating their own light? Remember how you screamed, told me to come down before I broke my neck? Remember how I turned my head toward you, laughing in reply, a bright tinkling sound that carried across the breeze? Remember how blissfully free I was away from the hurt, the pain, the hardships of being on the ground? You remember that day, dont you? Me neither. But I remember my heart dreaming of it, wanting it more than anything else.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Lydia Smith/Grade 9, Homeschool, Charlotte
Congratulations, Lydia Smith, for your Photo of the Week! Photographers and artists, send YWP your photos and scanned artwork for publication. Go to youngwritersproject.org, create a blog, upload your work, choose Photo Submission as the genre, click Yes for the Newspaper Series, and include a high resolution version of your work as a le attachment.
YWP NEWS FRIDAY NIGHT SLAM
The choir
BY MADDIE HUBER Grade 7, Williston Central School Sometimes it feels like you can see music notes oating through the air as you press your ngers down on a creamy white key. The sounds form a funnel cloud around you and then its only you, alone, hypnotized by the notes skipping along the page. Its like theres a choir formed when you play music. The way the keys hit the sound strings creates a vibe thats like a harmony. The notes running across the pages look like the happy, cheery voices. And then theres me, sitting in the front row. Now there isnt any room for me in the choir, so I take a seat on a small black bench and let my ngers do the work.
Warm arms on a cold night

BY ISABEL VIVANCO Grade 5, Edmunds Elementary School The cold pint of Ben and Jerrys ice cream that is in my small chubby hands matches the chilly December air whipping around us. Just ahead is our neighbor, arms open with a warm, welcoming smile. I try to run, but the ice cream slips out of my grasp and on to the ground. I try to pick it up but the sweat on the container is making it slip away from my untrustworthy grasp every time I try to pick it up. I leave it for my parents to get as I run with my curls bouncing in my face into the nice warm hug of our friend. Her hug is warm and comforting, soft and sweet. We hurry inside to have ice cream and pie after a few speedy hellos. The ice cream is delicious but even more scrumptious is the homemade blueberry pie. The lling is
hot and gooey on my tongue. I try to eat it nicely like the adults but I soon have hot berry lling all over my face. The adults talk for a while; I go around and sit on everybodys lap, but soon I choose my moms lap to sit on. I am starting to get drowsy. My moms lap feels like the coziest pillow. I am starting to drift off to sleep, and before I reach my bed, I am asleep.
Join your fellow poets on Friday, Oct. 19, 7-8:30 p.m., and slam your best work at Young Writers Project headquarters, 12 North St., Burlington. Arrive by 6:45 p.m. if you want to slam. Free and for all ages.
CELEBRATION OF WRITING
Every year, YWP publishes ananthology of the years best student writing and photos. On Oct. 27, we will toast the publication of Anthology 4 with a day of celebration and writing workshops in partnership with the Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpelier.
The world
BY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS-MONTESANO Grade 6, Edmunds Middle School The world is a song, played over and over. We keep adding beats; it wont hold much longer. And if the strings break, what beat will we walk to? If silence puts us to sleep, our dreams will be haunted. Maybe if we realize, next morning well really wake up.
NEXT PROMPT
Alone. Write a piece that begins with the following line: I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear... Alternate: Listen. Pick a moment in the hall at school, in the general store, anywhere and listen. Choose the most interesting conversation you hear and base a story on it. Due Oct. 26

Heart in the sand

BY ARIEL SALMON Grade 9, Essex High School
THIS WEEK: Photo 1

ach week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hamp shire in response to writing prompts. The best writing is selected for publication here and in 20 other newspapers and on VPR. net. This week, we publish work in response to the prompt: Write about this photo by Caitria Sands of Essex High School. Find more writing prompts atyoungwritersproject.organd click on Prompts.
NEXT PROMPTS
Flying. You are ying blissfully and effortlessly over the countryside. What do you see and feel?Alternates: Fan. Write a fan letter to someone. It can be a celebrity, a loved one, an 18th century poet anyone; orPhoto 3. What happened here? Or what is about to happen? Due Oct. 19
January 9: He smiles at me in the hallway. I am surprised and excited, so I rush off. January 16: He sits next to me at lunch, of his own volition. January 25: He asks me if I want to go to the football game with him. I say yes. February 4: We are almost always together. He walks me to class and to the bus. February 9: He takes me to the Santa Monica beach. I sit in the sand and draw a heart, with our initials in it. He takes my picture without my knowledge. As I turn to smile at him, a wave washes the heart away. February 10: I see him with the lead cheerleader, talking. February 11: I see the duo laughing, as if at a private joke. February 12: I ask him about it. He says its a project for school. But they arent in any of the same classes or clubs. February 13: I see him going over to her house. He texts me later, saying that he needs some time. February 14, midnight: I break up with him in a text. I am crying. He never replies. February 14, afternoon: I go back to the beach where we went together. I say to the waves, if only I had noticed that little warning... I say to the sand, thanks for nothing. I say to myself, What a ne Valentines Day this turned out to be.
PHOTO PROMPT 1
Beach walk
BY ERIN COURVILLE Grade 8, Browns River Middle School Sand, wind Fingers on the ground Water, skies New things to be found Shells, stones A breeze in the air Hearts, clouds A warmth to be shared Earth, life Feelings of the heart Wind, sand Well never grow apart
Karlo Fresl, Essex High School, 2011
YWP NEWS
BRATTLEBORO LITERARY FESTIVAL
YWP presents Millennials on Stage (the Brattleboro edition) at the festival. Dont miss the next generation of great writers on Saturday, Oct. 13 at 1:15 p.m. in the Hooker-Dunham Theater, 139 Main Street, Brattleboro.
Caitria Sands/Essex High School
YWP SLAM
Join your fellow poets on Friday, Oct. 19, 7-8:30 p.m., and slam your best work at Young Writers Project headquarters, 12 North St., Burlington! Arrive by 6:45 p.m. to get on the list!
Her purpose Finally there

BY MARTIN KLEINER Grade 6, Browns River Middle School We are nally there. You may wonder where. The beach? No. The spot Where my father was buried. I dropped to my knees And drew a heart over the spot. Suddenly tears Started forming. I remembered How he died. It was a bridge incident. He was running. The bridge fell apart. He never opened his eyes again. BY C. M. EVANS Grade 12, Colchester High School Her shadow spoke to her often. It wrapped her with comfort, almost as if someone else was there to keep her company. There was an immense depth to it, colors within the gray; feelings, thoughts, and actions. It could travel within cracks and touch that which she couldnt. With it, she was more aware of her surroundings. She would stop and stare at it sometimes, reassured of herself. The more light there was, the darker it became. Now it was extremely black with a sheen of green. With her shadow she had a purpose. Without it, she was lonely. She wasnt part of the world. But of the times she did have her shadow, she was never more sure of her solidarity and her place on the surface of the world. Her shadow was a signal, and let her know she still had a purpose in the world, because she was still alive. Without it, she wasnt always so sure. But because the sun still shined, still touched her and left a stamp of her shape on the ground, she knew she wouldnt be gone so soon. When the day came that the sun meandered through her and the shadow was gone, she would have to rethink her purpose, knowing she had done what she was supposed to. But for now she had her shadow, and she still had her purpose.
Questions
BY CLAIRE MCDEVITT Grade 5, Williston Central School Why? Why are you drawing a ower on the sand if the rain might come? If the tide might come in? Will you watch the ower wash away? Or will you protect the ower so it will be on the sand forever, for everybody to see? While you draw, the wind blows. Other pieces of sand go with the wind. Will your drawing go with the wind? Will your drawing slowly disappear, sand grain by sand grain? All these questions, but no answers. Why?
ANTHOLOGY CELEBRATION
Every year, YWP publishes an anthology of the years best student writing and photos. On Oct. 27, we will toast the publication of Anthol ogy 4 with a day of celebration and writing workshops in partnership with the Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpelier.
ABOUT THE PROJECT

Lonely
BY ABBY LIZOTTE Grade 6, Browns River Middle School I was at the beach Scared, sad. He said he would come back for me. He told me he would just be a minute. He said he heard something outside. I watched him walk out the door, But he never came back. I know he is somewhere out there looking for me. I was so sad I ran away. I ran and ran until I was lost. Now all I can think about is him. I sadly draw a heart in the sand, thinking about him. I cant get his face out of my mind. I will nd him Even if it takes forever.
The sand
BY ZINMIN KOUASSI Grade 6, Browns River Middle School Some think it causes pain and Rots even the strong hearteds brain But not me It warms body, heart and mind Helps leave the fear and the pain behind Once it washes away the disbelief It opens up my heart So it can breathe Im away from the city The hunger And the ies Now I can lay down And close my eyes
THANKS FROM YWP

YWP is supported by the gen erosity of foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing. If you would like to contribute, please go to youngwritersproject.org/support , or mail your donation toYWP, 12 North St., Suite 8, Burlington, VT 05401. Special thanks this week to
UNITED WAY OF CHITTENDEN COUNTY
Girl
BY KAYLEIGH BUSHWELLER Grade 5, Williston Central School Gown made of silk apping in the wind Incredible white sand getting carved into imaginative carvings Right to left her dark brown hair swings in the wind with all the sand around her Lying on the hot sand drawing all she can think of
YWP WRITERS ARE ON VPR.NET EVERY WEEK!
Simply being
BY EMILY COFFIN Grade 10, Champlain Valley High School I want you to be everything thats you, deep at the center of your being. ~Confucius
Camaraderie
BY BASUNDHARA MUKHERJEE Grade 11, South Burlington High School Dissonance. Penetrating white and golden brass behind honey-colored wood and mahogany, sugary trills and waltzing horse hair, actors and puppeteers. Piano with British inections, a crescendo of laughs, high-rise windows and red-rose ngers. Stepping into storms and walking out hand-in-hand; we melt into a pot and meld our passions into iron walls. Words, lives, chains of emotions amalgamating. Love runs under beams of glistening wood; music too. We build the ethos of this room ourselves, Build it from insipid meals and midnight ties and summer Mondays, from innite Sunday-afternoon hours, from Russian churches and cobblestone Tallinn streets. We build it ourselves. Resolution.
Our lives are built on this fundamental concept, our own personalized, self-driven beings. As children, we were galvanized to explore and broaden our interests, living as endless dreamers. To be young and fearless, venturing into our true curiosity and wonderment with no conception of limitations, or potential, for that matter. Our naivete only lasts so long; we inevitably come to realize how selective the future is when it pertains to pursuing our own ambitions. This realization is in no way discouraging; it stimulates our yearning to strive for what we want out of life, who we want to be. Everyone has an essence during their youth of who they envision themselves becoming, the treasured traits they will acquire, occupations, accomplishments, etc. This mind set, of becoming someone, detaches ones self from the present. Why cant we all be satised with who and where we are?...We weigh ourselves down with all of our doings and forget to just simply, be. We are human beings, miracles one and all. Take a moment to remember who you are, and I am hopeful that a smile accompanies your thoughts...
Read the ending of this essay on youngwritersproject.org.
ach week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire in response to writing prompts. The best writing is selected for publication here and in 20 other newspapers and on VPR.net. This week, we publish work in response to the prompt, General writing. Go to youngwritersproject.org, and click on Prompts to nd out more.
THIS WEEK: General writing
YWP ANTHOLOGY CELEBRATION OCT. 27

Every year, YWP publishes an anthology of the years best student writing and photos. On Oct. 27, we will toast the publication of Anthology 4 with a day of celebration and writing workshops in partnership with the Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpelier. Included this year are writer Alexandra Contreras-Montesano and photographer Coyote Farrell, below. More details at youngwritersproject.org.
Do you know?
BY ALEXANDRA CONTRERAS-MONTESANO Grade 5, Champlain Elementary School Do you know what makes the wind, the sweet, sweeping sound that reassures us that there is air to breathe? I know what makes the wind blow so. Tis you who makes it ow. Do you know what makes the berries ripe, with juice and raw newborn color? I know what makes the berries ripe. Tis you, tis you who makes the avor burst. Do you know what makes my life so sweet, with bursts of small delight? I know! I know! Tis you, tis you. I know it is.
Love
BY NEISHA SURPRISE Grade 12, Burlington High School My heart feels swollen, Like its lled with too much blood, too much pain. My insides are aching, aching for love, For lately I have lost so much love, and have nothing to replace it with. I lost love that was in the form of green eyes and footballs, I lost love that sang like an angel with owing chocolate waves. I cant gain the love of the Indian boy I yearn for, and I cant express the love for a man with eyes that are lled with oceans and a mind that is wired similar to my own. I am throbbing, pulsing, for I do not want to feel this love, this lost love, unexpressed, unwanted love, this love that is not returned. I want to crawl back inside myself, into the dark caverns of my mind, where no emotions, no love can reach me, no pain, no fear, just me and the darkness. I hate the way my heart trembles, how my eyes burn, and my ngers shake. I am being incinerated by the light, and I cant stand it anymore. I need to hide, to crawl away. I cant be here; I dont want to stay. Theres no love for me here, and everyone keeps slipping away. This is why I never wanted to come out in the rst place. Why feel pain when I can just feel nothing at all?
ABOUT THE PROJECT

Coyote Farrell/Richmond Middle School, 2011
YWP is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences through the Newspaper Series (and youngwritersproject.org) and the Schools Project (ywpschools.net).
Cabbie
BY AVNI NAHAR Grade 12, South Burlington High School Its hard sometimes to understand what Im doing here: 24 years old, two years out of college, broke. I drive a cab to pay the billsto cobble together rent on my closetsized apartment, to keep coffee on the shelf and Ramen in the pantry. Yesterday somebody told me taxi driving was no job for a girl like me. To hell with that, I need the money and I need to drivetheres no way that I can sit around an ofce in pumps and a pencil skirt and make copies. Not that I was supposed to end up here. Who is? Who dreams of driving people around all day? Always taking journeys but never arriving at a destination. Yet, there are hundreds of taxi drivers in the city. Many of them are immigrants. They came here with nothing more than a wife, some kids, and a load of expectations. Dont know what they thought theyd nd here, but this sure isnt it. It isnt a social job, unlike most think. People ag me down and bark directions at me and yell at me if Im driving too fast and yell at me if Im not driving fast enough. They make it seem like the trafc issues in the city are my fault, like I put extra cars and stop signs in the streets to
lengthen the time of their commute, and by extension, the numbers on the meter. When they do pay, I can hear them muttering about how expensive the fare is. I can see how much they hate forking over a tip if they have the decency to tip, that is. They slam the taxi door and walk away, back into their lives. They dont realize that drives like theirs are my life: 10 hours a day, six days a week. Sometimes I get hit on. Hey baby, what are you doing later, they say, as soon as they get in the cab and see that the person driving them around has breasts. Its fun for them. They think its a good way to pass the timeirt with the young taxi driver, she must be desperate. Probably got pregnant as a teenager, or something. None of them would believe I graduated near the top of my high school class. None of them would believe that this job is the only way I can pay off tens of thousands of dollars in student loans. To them Im a failure, hopeless, no-good white trash. They pity me. Sometimes I pity me, too. Its hard to remember that I attended a college my guidance counselor called highly selective. Its hard to remember my classmates are now in grad school, or working on Wall Street, or in Washington D.C., or Silicon Valleywhile I drive a cab. Its hard to remember any of it at all. But I guess thats because the days go by more quickly when I forget.
THANKS FOR SUPPORT

YWP is supported by this news paper, foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing. To help us help young writers, please go toyoungwritersproject.org/support,or mail a donation to YWP, 12 North St., Suite 8, Burlington, VT 05401.
Special thanks this week to Bay and Paul Foundations
NEXT PROMPTS
Haunted. You and your friends are exploring an old, abandoned house when things suddenly turn scary. What happens? Alternates: Candidate. Write a short, catchy political ad for yourself. Whether youre running for President of the United States or local ofce, convince voters to vote for you!; or General writing in any genre. Due Oct. 12
YWP IS ON VPR.NET EVERY WEEK... CHECK IT OUT!
The tower
BY MATTHEW BLOW Grade 10, Mount Manseld High School The white tower stands above the city serving absolutely no practical purpose. Its just an old stone tower in an old darkened city. Upon further investigation, upon entering the tower, one can nd old photographs, a picture of a family, a soccer ball; did someone once live here? Upon climbing to the top oor of the tower one can nd toys, a doll, singed by re, and (ironically enough) a plastic re truck. There had to have been a child here. Why else would there be these toys? Delving deeper into the tower, one can nd the basement. Dried blood on the ground, an MP3 player loaded with rock music (the kind that swears so much that you have to wonder why they even bothered putting the swears to music), a wealth of poorly done homework scattered around the oor and a wristwatch. Stopped at 12:30. Why then? The basement hides more secrets than that, though. An old magazine hidden underneath the oorboards, a literary magazine. Why that? Isnt it a teenager who inhabited this room? Why would there be a literary magazine hidden underneath a wealth of essays and notes that seemed to have been passed in class? (The gossip kind; apparently Sandra had a crush on the foreign exchange student). There are more secrets to be found, of course. There are books hidden under the bed, college acceptance letters tucked behind the posters, (and denials; apparently failed essays dont get you into Stanford) and poetry. Poetry, scrawled on sheets of paper, hidden deeper than the rest, behind the college letters, underneath the literary magazine, under the oorboards beneath the bed. Upon seeing this, one could assume that the teenager who lived here pretended to be a slacker while secretly dreaming of being a poet, of going to college, of getting smarter. Why didnt anybody seem to notice? Why didnt they seem to care about delving deeper into this teenager, nding out who he or she really was? The answer, as far as one could see from the mess in front of them, is that no one cared. Why would they when he or she pretended to t perfectly into what they were supposed to be? Why break that perfect illusion? No one has ever attempted to break through the oorboards, or to look behind the posters. While exiting the tower, the white stones seem to vanish, being replaced by stones in every shade of grey imaginable. There is no answer to the past of this teen. At least, not one that one can be satised with. But there is an answer, if anyone cared to delve deeper.
THIS WEEK: General writing

ach week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire in response to prompts. The best writing is selected for publication here and in 20 other newspapers and on VPR.net. This week, we publish work in response to the prompt, General writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil online community of young writers.
YWP ANTHOLOGY CELEBRATION OCT. 27

Every year, YWP publishes an anthology of the years best student writing and photos. On Oct. 27, we will toast the publication of Anthology 4 with a day of celebration and writing workshops in partnership with the Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpelier. More details at youngwritersproject.org.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK

ABOUT THE PROJECT
YWP is an independent nonprot that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences through the Newspaper Series (and youngwritersproject.org) and the Schools Project (ywpschools.net).
THANKS FOR SUPPORT

YWP is supported by this newspaper, foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing. To help us help young writers, please go to youngwritersproject.org/support, or mail a donation to YWP, 12 North St., Suite 8, Burlington, VT 05401.
Kevin Huang, Burlington High School
Calling all artists and photographers! Send us your photos and scanned artwork for publication. Go to youngwritersproject.org, create a blog, upload your work, choose Images as the genre, click Yes for the Newspaper Series, ll out the information boxes and Save! The best work will be published in this and 20 other newspapers in Vermont and New Hampshire!
Special thanks this week to A.D. Henderson Foundation
MILLENNIAL WRITERS ON STAGE

Hear Young Writers Project writers present their work at the Burlington Book Festival, Saturday, Sept. 22 at 2 p.m. at the Film House, Main Street Landing Performing Arts Center on the Burlington waterfront! If you cant make it to the festival, tune in to VPR to hear a recording of the young writers, including Jessica Austin, below. Find out more at youngwritersproject.org.
NEXT PROMPTS
Elevator. Youre stuck in an elevator with a stranger. Create a short story, shaped primarily with dialogue, about your interaction with this person who is either annoying, funny or terried. Alternate: Habit. Whats the worst habit youre willing to admit to? Write about the great lengths you go to, to break this habit. Due Sept. 28 Awesome. Write a mini-story (maximum three paragraphs) without adjectives. Find the perfect noun for everything in the story. Alternates: Observer. You witness something frightening or wrong. Dont describe the scene; focus on your own response; or Photo 2. Write about this photo. Due Oct. 5
Unimpaired
BY JESSICA AUSTIN Grade 12, Essex High School 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 middleaged 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
Photo 2 Becca LeBlanc/Essex High School 2011
YWP IS ON VPR.NET EVERY WEEK... CHECK IT OUT!
VERMONT STAGE COMPANY

PRESENTS
THIS WEEK: Winning Winter Tales

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire. With the help of a team of students, we select the best for publication here and in 20 other newspapers. This week, we publish local pieces that were selected for Winter Tales to be presented by Vermont Stage Company until Sunday at FlynnSpace.
Ski lift
BY RACHEL CHAN Grade 4, Thomas Fleming School Riding up the ski lift, My little brother is perched on the edge, between my dad and me And he is looking at the skiers gliding down the mountain on the glittering snow, when suddenly CRASH! The lift stops, but my little brother falls forward. My dads eyes grow as round as playground balls as he reaches for my brother who hangs in the air, laughing, with just the safety bar under his arms.... Dad sets him back on the seat, And asks if he is okay. And my brother says, Yes! It was fun! But I dont think my dad thought so. Vermont Stage Company will perform this piece for Winter Tales on Sunday, Dec. 9 (matinee) at FlynnSpace, Burlington.
WINTER TALES
Until Sunday, Dec. 9 FlynnSpace, Burlington www.vtstage.org
This years holiday show includes 14 YWP writers, including the local students on this page!
ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Sweet comfort
BY EMMA CHAFFEE Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School I lean my head back on the cold, hard plastic, engulfed in the twinkling of the night. The cold lls my mind and relaxes every bone in my body. Im alone out here; the others arent bewitched with winters ever calling comfort. Theyre into all the horrifying cliches of winter: Santa, hot cocoa, rosy cheeks, cards with meaningless words, forced thankyous, and the ever-present annoyance of the snow. Thats not winter for me. Winter is my once-a-year sweet comfort. I breathe in the sound of the night and the thrilling chill of the wind. Vermont Stage Company will perform this piece for Winter Tales on Sunday, Dec. 9 (evening) at FlynnSpace, Burlington.
Special thanks this week to CHAMPLAIN INVESTMENT PARTNERS
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Gingerbread
(Inspired by Valerie Worth) BY PHOEBE GAMMAL Grade 5, Thomas Fleming School On a red plate a sugary, vibrant gingerbread house sits, adorned with all sorts of candy, from Airheads to Zagnut bars balancing on clumps of icing, when a green gumdrop falls from the roof, I catch it and put it back into the perfect spot, when, all of a sudden, like a blizzard of sugar sweeping through, the house topples over and all of my work, is gone. Vermont Stage Company will perform this piece for Winter Tales on Saturday, Dec. 8 (matinee) at FlynnSpace, Burlington.
Winter only comes once a year
BY JEREMY BROTZ Grade 8, Homeschool, Burlington
Im wet. Im cold. My nose is running. My gloves are covered in ice. Night is falling. My mom is calling. My friends are leaving. Im probably getting hypothermia. But its winter! Ha ha! I jump on my sled for one last run down the slope.
Eve Pomazi/Brattleboro Area Middle School
Bonres
(Inspired by William Carlos Williams) BY EMMA LACROSS Grade 5, Thomas Fleming School So much depends upon the tower-like ames that dance at night as my family gathers and snowakes fall drifting in the breeze to keep us warm. Vermont Stage Company performed this piece for Winter Tales on Friday, Dec. 7.
First snow
BY RILEY THOMPSON Grade 5, Thomas Fleming School As the snow falls down covering the ground with a bright white quilt the back door opens and two kids come out shoving past each other to get outside rst with joyful grins and gleams in their eyes in their winter coats, snow pants and their colorful hats and gloves with their sleds banging against their knees as they hike the hill snow ies everywhere Wheeeeeeee! Vermont Stage Company performed this piece for Winter Tales on Thursday, Dec. 6.
Vermont Stage Company will perform this piece for Winter Tales on Saturday, Dec. 8 (matinee) at FlynnSpace, Burlington.
NEXT PROMPTS
Kindness. You have performed an act of kindness. What is it? How does it make you feel? What happens?Alternates: Unsafe. Describe a place or circumstance where you felt unsafe; or General writing. Due Dec. 21. Puns. Have fun with a play on words (i.e. cereal number, sell phone, etc.). Try to t in as many puns as you can. Alternates: Essential. Whats one thing you absolutely could not live without? Why? or I believe... Start a piece with the words, I believe. Due Jan. 11.

Burlington Free Press Index 2012-13

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Three wishes

THIS WEEK: Wishes, Vacation, General

ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

BY KLARA MARTONE Grade 5, Champlain Elementary

Special thanks this week to BAY AND PAUL FOUNDATIONS

BY CATHERINE GILWEE Grade 4, Shelburne Community School

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

BY ZANIPOLO LEWIS Grade 4, Homeschool, Burlington

MORE GREAT STUDENT WRITING AT

THIS WEEK: Fairy tale & Technology

ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Special thanks this week to

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

Kevin Huang/Burlington High School

Death by the mourning dove

BY LYDIA MOREMAN Grade 9, Champlain Valley High School

MORE GREAT STUDENT WRITING AT

193 years ago

THIS WEEK: Music & Long ago

The new age

ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

BY EVA CUNNINGHAM FIRKEY Grade 6, Albert D. Lawton School

Special thanks this week to GREEN MOUNTAIN COFFEE ROASTERS

Rhapsody in Blue (An interpretation)

Long ago (a Haiku)

Prison boys excerpt

What you call faults

Loss and sorrow

MORE GREAT STUDENT WRITING AT

THIS WEEK: Dislike & White lie

YWP PERFORMANCE NIGHT

ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Special thanks this week to CHAMPLAIN INVESTMENT PARTNERS

FREE AND OPEN TO ALL AGES

Little white lie

BY MARIA CHURCH Grade 7, Edmunds Middle School

Squishy and mushy

Josh Kenyon/Essex High School

MILLENNIAL WRITERS ON STAGE

THIS WEEK: Farm Project winners

The chicken coop

BY EVA ROCHELEAU Grade 8, Williston Central School

ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Special thanks this week to

VERMONT COMMUNITY FOUNDATION

Summer on the farm

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

Dusty Creek Farm

Your little girl

THIS WEEK: Promise & News story

THE FARM PROJECT

BY ANNA HULSE Grade 8, Vermont Commons School

ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Special thanks this week to

The promise of hope

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

Margaret Slate/Peoples Academy