St. Albans Messenger Index 2012-13

MORE GREAT STUDENT WRITING AT

YOUNGWRITERSPROJECT.ORG

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EACH WEEK ON VPR.NET.CHECK IT OUT!

THIS WEEK: Wishes & Vacation

YWP is supported by the generosity

of foundations, businesses 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.

Special thanks this week toBAY AND PAUL FOUNDATIONS

THANKS FROM YWPABOUT THE PROJECT YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps

them improve and connects them with

authentic audiences. YWP runs young-writersproject.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.

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; and Best vacation. Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe,

civil online community of writers.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Melissa Stewart/Essex High School

Dear ReadersThis is the final week of Young Writers

Project’s student writing in this space for the 2012-13 school year. Thanks for being with us. We hope you enjoyed it.

We’ll 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 News-

paper Series, including the editors and publishers of Vermont’s newspapers who value the importance of writing and affirm-

ing 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 sum-

mertime submissions on youngwritersproj-ect.org, so don’t stop writing just because the sun is shining!

— GEOFFREY GEVALT, YWP FOUNDER AND DIRECTOR, AND SUSAN REID, PUBLICATIONS COORDINATOR

Three wishesBY LAUREN FORCIER Grade 8, St. Albans Town Educational Center

I wish for no wars, that being, world peace. I wish for no more rumbling stomachs, that being an end to world hunger.I wish that these could come true soon...

My perfect vacationBY JULIA REMILLARDGrade 7, St. Albans Town Educational Center

For me, vacation isn’t time to relaxIt’s a time to see new places and overpackTo have funAnd go somewhere with constant sunI’m not a big fan of the beachBut maybe an amusement park were I can let loose and screechOr a tropical cruise

A vacation that I can chooseSomething hot yet coolSomewhere with a big poolMaybe Florida Or the south of GeorgiaThe perfect vacationWith no complicationsJust me and my familyHaving funWishing for the vacation to never be done

Tropical paradiseBY MASON MASHTAEGrade 7, St. Albans Town Educational Center

My favorite vacation would have to be the one I just got back from. I went to Turks and Caicos, a small chain of islands in the Carib-

bean. It was the first tropical place I’ve ever been

to. We (my family) went down with over 20 other people. It was my first time flying so I was a little scared.

Once I was in the air I was fine. It was a re-

ally nice experience flying. Once we got there it was very hot! Right when we got out of the plane we started sweating.

We were all staying at a resort called “Beaches”. Once we arrived we were all kind of stunned by the beauty of the resort and the island. The employees there were very nice.

Right as I got out of the car they greeted me and handed me a fresh cold towel. I was still kind of in shock so I didn’t use it.

The week went by so quickly. I got to go snorkeling (where I saw a sting ray!), go to a water park, go parasailing, swim a lot, and do many other things. We were sad to leave the place. It was paradise. Finally, we got home. Although I was no longer on a tropical island in the Caribbean, I was happy to be home. It’s not as hot and not as tropical as Turks and Caicos. But it’s my home and I like it.

Beach dayBY MACKENZIE LAMOTHEGrade 7, St. Albans Town Educational Center

My perfect day would be so much fun,lying on the beach in the hot summer sun.Everyone would be there,friends and family from all around,playing on the beach where sea shells are found.When it starts to near dark, the parents would shout,“Kids come have a s’more!”As all the kids approach, the bonfire would roar,but the day isn’t over,the party’s just about to start.We would drive across the beach in a golf cart.

When dawn nears,and the sun appears,we would all leave the beach and go to bedwith dreams of our perfect day in our heads.

Silver beautyBY WILSON CAPONEGrade 8, Fairfield Center School

Wait. What did you say?I stare incredulously at my cousin, then

back at the gleaming machine of wonder aboard the cruise ship.

My grandparents are having their 50th an-

niversary, and for a treat, they are taking the whole family on my mom’s side island hop-

ping around Hawaii. I knew there was a Teen Lounge and fancy

restaurants, and all that stuff, but no one told me about this, until my cousin Michael told me about it now.

I alternate gaping at Mike and gaping at the silver beauty in front of me. Why didn’t I know two days earlier that the buffet had, at all times, a self-serve, soft-serve machine?!

There are three choices: vanilla, chocolate, and twist.

I immediately give myself a curl of vanilla the height of the Eiffel Tower on the mini-sized cones they have, and Mike does the same with the twist.

Later, we would go on to have six cones a day: one after breakfast, one before the pool, two after lunch, and two more before another pool visit late in the evening.

I will always remember the moment I felt sick after my third consecutive cone one day after a light lunch.

Best seasonBY BEATRICE HAWKINSGrade 7, St. Albans Town Educational Center

The Christmas tree shines for all to see,for the world and my grandparents plus me.The lights are bright and filled with love,as I walk in the house and hang up my gloves.The cats try to climb up the tree,but then we say, “Stop or you won’t get any food from me.”Then they run to the food in the kitchen.But I’m okay as long as I’m not bitten.So that is it and no more to come,but remember those Christmas songs you like to hum.Don’t forget about the shining Christmas tree,for the world and my grandparents and me to see.


EACH WEEK ON VPR.NET.

Living around farmsBY WILSON CAPONE

Grade 8, Fairfield Center School

My family and I are not very agricul-tural. We do not own a farm; we do not own livestock like cattle, horses, or pigs. The only thing we have ourselves is a garden encircl-ing the house, not a tomato and plants-to-eat garden, but just a simple flower garden. But that doesn’t mean that my lifestyle doesn’t involve farming.

We live downhill from a huge hay field, owned by Mr. Juaire. A lot goes on up there.

In the winter, it’s the longest, steepest, and fastest sledding hill in the world! In the fall, I would go up there and fly my kite, or just run down the hill for the heck of it.

Once, I even shot a model rocket up there, because it was a nice place clear of trees, besides the row of woods between the field and my house. One day, my Mom bought a remote-controlled helicopter for me and my brother, Leo. It was a small, red, cheap thing, and I was wishing for the big, darker red heli-copter that I saw in the same aisle.

I was having fun with it outside, flying it pretty low, until Mom said that I had to give Leo a turn. He just stood on the porch and flew it straight up. The wind took it over the line of trees and into the hay field.

I went up to look for it, but I could not find it. I just hope that one cow didn’t mind a few wires and plastic in his lunch.

That hay field is fun, but the hay field isn’t the only farm on our road. Just a hop, skip and a jump away down our road is a gigantic corn field and a farm that raises horses. That’s Gale and Tom’s farm. Even though the Juaire farm is great, this farm is the one I have the most memories of, because of the horses.

My favorite horse was the oldest, called Big Z. He was a jet black horse, a little worn from racing back in the day, and had a white star on his forehead. I used to go down there and help my neighbor out with brushing and feeding the horses, putting their pills in their food, and watching a guy come to the farm to file the horses’ hooves and put horse shoes on them. It was really fun to watch him, but I thought it must cost a lot, so if I win a prize, I think that the extra few bucks will help a lot with my neighbor.

My neighbor didn’t really own the farm, but helped out with it a lot. Since my neigh-bor helped out with the farm, we helped her. Once, Big Z lost his horse shoe in the pasture, and Leo and I had to go and look for it with a metal detector. The detector was no beeping, electronic thing, but just a huge stick with a metal disk on the end. We never did find the shoe.

Just across the road from the horses is the cornfield. In the corn field is a little road that splits it in two. At the end, there’s a little stream that you have to cross to keep going, but Leo and I stopped there all the time in the summer. I liked wading around, trying to skip rocks, and go down to the natural clay that’s on the banks. The cornfield itself was very connected with our house decorations. In the fall, for Halloween and Thanksgiving, Mom and Leo and I and maybe my sister Olive would go down there with a pocket knife.

We would cut down the stalks of corn that the farmer missed when harvesting and tie them in bundles to put on either side of the garage. It gives a festive, colonial look to the house. The bundles are kind of tied together like colonists would tie together their wheat and barley, kind of like a cylinder that’s pinched together in the middle, but not as big. It’s become a tradition to do that every year. And that’s how the farms around my house tie into my life and who I am today.

– Wilson’s story was written for the YWP

Farm Project. Read more great farm stories at

youngwritersproject.org/farm13

THIS WEEK: Fairy tale, Farm & Tech

YWP is supported by the generosity of foundations, businesses 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,

Burlington, VT 05401.

Special thanks this week to

BIRDSEYE FOUNDATION

THANKS FROM YWPABOUT THE PROJECT

YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences. YWP runs young-writersproject.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.





publish work in response to the prompts, Fairy Tale: Write

a fairy tale that includes the phrase, “one thousand peas;”

Farm: Write about an experience you’ve had on a farm; and

Technology: Your cell phone breaks. Now what?

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Kevin Huang/Burlington High School

One thousand peasBY JULIA REMILLARD

Grade 7, St. Albans Town Educational Center

One thousand peas line the treesIn a town of witches and wolvesHansel and GretelFalling rose petalsAnd apples that poison young girlsFairy tales the ones that have fire breathing dragons with scalesAre fake but classicAnd just plain fantasticOne thousand peasFly in the fall breezeOnly in this imaginary townOf talking frogs and clownsWhere fairy tales existDeep in the forest hidden under the mist

Broken!BY HANNAH EARL


OMG! What am I going to do? My phone broke yesterday, I left it on my desk and a kid picked it up and threw it! I am going to die today!

The people at AT&T can’t do anything until tomorrow! I have to go to school today and survive a WHOLE day without it ...I am going to die!

I walk into school already knowing the torture to come, not only the usual torture of homework, but also the torture of being one of the only people without a phone! We head to our first period English, and already everyone has their technology out. Without my phone, I can’t go on the Internet or anything. I have to use a..... LAPTOP. That is so old! Those things take forever to go onto the Internet. The worst part of it is when I get there all eight of the laptops are being used. Now I have to use a desktop! Those things are slower than slow. It takes me a half an hour to just get Internet Explorer to pop up.

After English, we have social studies, and just my luck we are doing current events on the computer. Everyone pulls out their iPods, iPhones and iPads, not me! I go to get a laptop. Finally I make it through that class and we head to lunch and recess; that is fine. A few people have their iPods out, but most are talking. I almost pass out when I hear we are going on a math web site next period. Luckily a lot of people use laptops because it is easier to see the math games, and on some devices you can’t play the math games.

When we go to science, the first half is technology free, but not the second! We have to make a table, research elements and tons of other technology-involving activities. I am so glad when that bell rings, but I have forgot-ten I have to ride the bus today. Everyone has some type of technology. The first- and second-graders pull out their DS’s, the third- and fourth-graders pull out their iPod Nanos. The fifth-, sixth-, seventh, and eighth- graders pull out their iPods, iPads, iPhones, Droids, Kindles and more. This is pure torture.

When I get to my house, I couldn’t have got off the bus faster. As soon as I walk through the front door, there are my twin brothers playing on their iPods, my younger sister playing on her mini-iPad and my older sister texting. I get out of the living room as quickly as possible. In the kitchen, I find noth-ing better though: my parents are both stand-ing there with their phones. I ask them what time my phone is coming in tomorrow, and they say that AT&T hasn’t called back yet. So I go through three painful hours watching my family on their technology when I have nothing. I decide I am going to read; I mean there is nothing else I can do. I read for about an hour, then decide I will do my homework. I finish my homework in record time. I think to myself, “Wow! You can survive without an i-Phone. You can get more accomplished in your day. I could survive a whole month of this!”

Next thing I know the phone rings and again that obsession of my phone rushes back to me. I pick up the phone, but Mom has al-ready picked up. I hang up and go downstairs, anxious for some good news, forgetting what I have said to myself less than a minute ago. My mom hangs up, says thank you and looks at me.

Then she says, “Sweetie, they are having a problem with your phone; they said they could send it back to the factory and get it fixed there. They said it will only take a week; until then you will have to go without.”

I stop and say nothing for what seems like forever. Forget what I have said earlier. I. Am. Going. To. Die.

Every night BY LAUREN FORCIER


Every night Mama tells me a storywhether it’s a sad one or one filled with gloryTonight’s a special oneone filled with a king and his sonMama walks in holding her bookand sets herself down into her nookShe opens the book and clears her throatHer voice is soothing like I’m afloat“There once was a prince...He fought dragons that would make any man wince...And they all lived happily ever after....”I love her stories filled with love and laughterThen she comes over and pulls up my sheets“Be strong, and be brave like little Prince Peete,”Mama says, “You can do anything you want if you have the right keys,and I love you more than one thousand peas.”She walks to the door and says good nightLooks back at me and turns off the lightWith a good story like this every daywhy does tomorrow have to be so far away





CHECK IT OUT!

THIS WEEK: Music, Photo 11 & General




GREEN MOUNTAIN COFFEE ROASTERS




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 flows from it; Photo 11; and General writing.

Read more great writing at youngwritersproject.org.

Loss and sorrowBY ABHI DODGSON

Grade 5, Homeschool, South Hero

A light drizzle falls as a bird sings softlyPeople in black walk the streets slowly drag-ging their feetTheir eyes heavy and downcastShoes make hollow sounds on the cobble-stonesThey enter an empty churchwhere the statues sing to the deadA sanctuary that saved hundredsfrom war from sickness

from deathTears flow into a rivermourningsoldiers returning from war disfigured and crazedAdults and children lying on their deathbeds slowly fading awayThe continuous sound of hammering as cof-fins are made every dayNo one has been in the church for yearsCobwebs fill the cornersA ray of sunlight illuminatesthe dustpiling on windowsills– The music I was listening to when I wrote this was Symphony no.3, II Lento E Largo -Tranquillissimo by Henryk Gorecki

© Isabella Byrne/TheSharon Academy

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

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 don’t

have one, it’s easy to sign up); click Newspaper Series and the prompt, Millennial. Or email your submission to [email protected].

Buzzer beaterBY SHANNON CALLAHAN


The sweat pours down my face as I look up at the score, 31-33, only 10 seconds left to go.

It’s only three points, I think to myself. I take notice of my surroundings, at any

way I can get past my player. I see him playing defense slightly leaning

towards the right, daring me to go left. I smirk because he doesn’t know what he’s

in for. I can feel my palms getting sweaty and the

ball pounding against the floor is like mo-notonous song in my head. I’m down to eight seconds left.

“Shoot, shoot!” the crowd roars in unison.I cross over before my defender can even

blink and I head for the half court line. I feel myself hit the floor and then jump

back up again. The ball leaves my hands, soaring through

the air like a bird, and it seems to take hours before the ball has reached the basket.

My heart is pounding at nearly 100 miles per hour, and I take a deep breath in.

Swish. The ball lands straight in the net and I fall

to the court with relief. I did it, I smile with the thought in my

head. I turn around to find all my team mates

sprinting toward me.Why can’t I have this moment forever?

Stuck upside downBY JULIA REMILLARD


The diamond sand fills my nostrilsIf someone doesn’t pull me out soonI’ll surely turn into a fossilMy eyes stingAnd my frantic thoughts singI was just taking a morning runFeeling the breeze and eating the sunBut somehow I tripped And ended up like this Upside downBeing stared at by the whole townI’m suffocating in this black hole of deathPanting for a morsel of breathI can now feel something grabbing meI hope it’s not a crabBut when I bat my eyes I realizeThat I am out of the holeGood thing because I think I saw a moleGlad to be out I run once againThis time more cautiously because I don’t want to trip again... But once againI trip on a rockUh-oh, here we go again

Photo Prompt 11: Falling to Earth © Li Wei

Mountain View FarmBY ARIEL SMITH


Most kids want a puppy or a kitten, but me, I wanted a calf. I wanted to be able to wake up in the morning and feed the calf her bottle and give her hay.

I kept her for two years, and then she went to my grandfather’s barn where she was to have her own baby and be milked.

My cow, Daisy May, or just Daisy for short, wasn’t just a regular cow. She always reminded me of a bull. She wasn’t black or just white – when she stood in the sun, you could see a red tint on her back.

Soon enough, it was spring. Spring means it’s time to go out and fix fence so the cows won’t get out.

My mom and my papa were out fixing the fence one day because one of the cows had already broken it.

Daisy was outside, in the fence while they were working on it, and without anyone notic-ing, Daisy pushed my mom to the ground and into a ditch.

Everyone ran over to get Daisy off her. My cow just wouldn’t give up until she finally dislocated my mom’s elbow.

A year later, I walked in the front barn door and opened the chain gate to start my after-noon loose chores.

Loose chores are when you clean out the dirty sawdust from under the cows, feed calves their bottles, grain the milking cows, and put round bales on the feeders.

I grabbed the shovel to clean out under the cows and I was not looking up because I was paying attention to what I was doing at the time.

When I did look up, I found Daisy staring at me. Turns out she had broken out of her stall and somehow broke loose of her neck chain.

I ran so fast down that 50-stall barn! I knew Daisy could hurt me and I was pretty scared of her.

After she had hurt my mom, everyone wanted Daisy to go to the slaughter house; everyone, except me. She wasn’t mean to anyone else except my mom. Everyone was just scared of her.

To me, one incident should not be enough to end her life. I begged and begged that they not get rid of her.

They listened to me and kept her. As of right now she is the top producer of

milk in the herd! I feel proud to call Daisy mine and not be ashamed of her.

When I walk down the manger to push the cows’ hay up to them, Daisy gives me a big lick in the face. I take it as a thank you.

– Ariel’s story was written for the YWP Farm

Project. Read more great farm stories at


True colorsBY SOPHIA BLOUIN


A flower lost in the world of shame. She wanted to be different so she changed to her true colors – purple, red, blue, orange, yellow, black, and light blue.

But in the middle she had all the colors of the rainbow. And everyone loved that she wasn’t afraid of her true colors.



CHECK IT OUT!

THIS WEEK: Dislike, White lie, General

YWP is supported by the generosity of foundations, businesses 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.


CHAMPLAIN INVESTMENT PARTNERS







publish work in response to the prompts, Dislike: Write about

something that disgusts you; White lie: You tell a little white

lie that grows and grows.; and General writing. Read more

at youngwritersproject.org.


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 don’t have one, it’s

easy to sign up); click Newspaper Series and the prompt, Millennial. Or email your submission to [email protected].

DislikesBY ABHI DODGSON


I dislike cleaning up after the dogs (it’s disgusting!) BUT anything to make a better environment!I dislike it when our ewes have difficult 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 it’s 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 don’t like when friends text instead of inter-acting.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Josh Kenyon/Essex High School

DarkBY ETHAN BAKER


The dark.It comforts me. It is someone I can tell my secrets to. It will understand me.It is a place where there is no judgment. No prejudice.If the world was dark, we would all be equal. Everyone thinks the dark represents evil. Everyone is wrong. The dark does not care about the color of your skin. It does not care about your orientation.The dark will listen to your secrets.It will understand.The dark is where you can go to be yourself.There is a fish that has lived in dark caves for thousands of years.The Astyanax mexicanus has evolved past the need for eyes.We could benefit from being like this fish.Blind. Blind to judgment. Blind to what is on the outside. We could judge people on what is on the inside.

White lieBY JULIA REMILLARD


It started out white.My throat got dry and tight.It grew to something big.I watched as my small lie snapped like a twig.I didn’t mean for it to go this far.It feels like I’m trying to find the brakes in my fast moving car.I didn’t want it to blow up like a balloon,but it did.Now I try to pop it,Scratching at the chance to stop it.But my mind is frantically spatting words,None that are true,Just a white-faced lie, pale, huh, must have the flu.I let the lie rise,Let it build up in my eyes.Now as I’m on the ground shuddering,Throwing my arms in the air muttering,I wish I never liedThat little white-faced lie.

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 - 6:30

p.m. After the

workshop,

stick around

for open mic

and pizza

from 7 - 8:30 p.m. More details

at youngwritersproject.org or call

(802) 324-9538.

FREE AND OPEN TO ALL AGES

Starting a fireBY ELLEN JOHNSON

Grade 12, Bellows Free Academy St. Albans

Have you ever analyzed an ember as it flew from the fire?Ever watched it twirl and fly higher as it got lifted up by the curlicues of smoke?If you haven’t, you must take the time to see its beauty.For I have seen that flickering dot of fire as it separated from the mass of flame.I watched as it floated up and down and all around,until it finally touched the cool granite ground.But then I saw it grow homesick; it missed its birthplace.Its eyelids fluttered closed, hoping to imagine a better world,and suddenly that brilliant piece of fire be-came dust,and no light remained.Now look again.Watch as the fire demonstrates how humans work.How when we try to separate from the masswe become nervous, we freak out.Filled with insecurity, we try to hit the rewind button.Of course it’s near impossible to go back to the start,which makes this insecurity the end of us.Our brilliance flickers out in the night.So remember if you want to be like an adven-turous ember,you need not only to find your vision but to spread it.Don’t land on the concrete and give up;crawl on your hands and knees till you get to a blade of grass.Inspire that grass with your ideas and set it ablaze;soon you will become your own bonfire,become more beautiful than an act of nature.Only then will you leave an imprint on this world.

THIS WEEK: Farm Project winners




VERMONT COMMUNITY

FOUNDATION



Congratulations to the six winners of the Farm Project writ-

ing challenge, whose work is published on this page today.

The Vermont Community Foundation, sponsor of the chal-

lenge, will award the writers $50 with an additional $50

donation to a local food or farm nonprofit of the winners’

choice. Seventy-seven writers participated in the challenge,

showing that farming and local food matter to young Ver-

monters. Read all the Farm Project submissions at young-

writersproject.org.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

Kelsey Eddy at her family’s farm in Wallingford, Vermont

Sheep poem BY EVA ROCHELEAU

Grade 8, Williston Central School

The lambs born in February and March leap togetherIn May when the fields are green The visitors comeAnd they ask us questions like “when” and “why” and “where”June, July rotate the pasturesShifting the fence, one, two, three, lift!Then comes AugustWhen we load up the trailersAnd off to the fairFull of top-notch churros and freshly ironed pantsThe days of blocking and fittingShowing and ribbonsAre long, tense, and sweatyAnd the sheep are loud and “fitted” their bestOnce Addison County and Champlain Expo are simply joyful memoriesWe pack up our lambs, all tuckered out, and head back to the farmWhere the shepherds are eagerly waitingSeptember, lambs are nearly forgotten Only photographs

The chicken coopBY DAVID AMOURETTI

Grade 5, Thomas Fleming School

I open the coop’s squeaky door.I pass the rooster sleeping in a feathery mass.He opens one eye, then closes it,Deciding that I’m not a threat.At the laying area, I reach inThe tiny room with the mother hens,White, brown, spotted,Sleeping on the side,Waiting for a peck,But nothing happens.I count 1...2…3…4…Four eggs.My trembling hands gently pick them up.They feel cold, chilling my fingersIn the already freezing winter.Careful not to drop them,I walk inside,Ready for omelets.

Summer on the farm

BY CARLEY MALLOY

Grade 7, Thetford Academy

I’ve 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, fenc-ing, cleaning up the winter’s 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

Living by a farm

BY SASKIA KIELY

Grade 7, Vergennes Union High School

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 surround-ing mountains that were the backdrop of my childhood. I arrived to see a bland town, no trees, and fields flatter than a pancake. The only thing I could smell for the first week was manure. My parents told me it would be a great experience and change, but I wasn’t convinced.

My new home is surrounded by farm all around; there is no escape. My first 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 fin-gers. 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 didn’t 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 think-ing differently about the farming lifestyle and the passion and dedication it requires. These people sacrifice so much time to wake up in the morning at 5 o’clock and take care of the calves or milk the cows. They don’t just do it because it’s their job, they do it because it’s what they love to do...

Within a week of moving to West Addison, I knew it was going to be so incredibly fun. I feel so lucky to live next to this amazing farm with outstanding farmers. I think what they do is very important for our state and I am so lucky to be able to have the privilege to con-nect with the animals whenever I want. Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/80618

Dusty Creek FarmBY 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...

I always loved cows, even though they were huge compared to me, and much stronger, but most of them were nice... Cows weren’t like dogs, but they had their own ways into my heart...

Milking a cow is complicated because there are many dangers. If the cow is used to another person, she will sometimes refuse to allow others to clean her.

“Blonde” was the one who did that. She only wanted my grandpa to milk her, and we didn’t argue. Some of our cows we have to sing to, so they will calm down; some you just

have to yell at and tell them you’re the boss. My grandpa was the toughest man around

the farm. Unlike me, who can be scared of cows at times, my grandpa was tough and fearless, even though he had his limits. He was the best grandpa I could ask for. My grandma was right with him; she loved the farm, and her grandkids, and always pushed herself, no matter what...

Farming was my life, all the hard times that we had to work through, from hay season where my dad and I raced to beat thunder-storms in the hay wagon, to fixing broken water tubes that water all the cows, to going in knee-deep water during Hurricane Irene to save the cows from drowning in the field, to the death of calves, that always silenced the barnyard. There were also good times that I will never forget, like watching my little sis-ters feed the calves, playing and brushing the calves, seeing a baby calf being born, grandpa teaching me how to drive the tractor, staying up all night talking about all the fun we have, and all the little things that I hold so dear...

But now, as I look around at our cows, hear the sound of the farm, remember all the good and bad, I can’t help but cry, because all this, that I grew up to know and love, is being sold this summer.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 wasn’t out of the ordinary; in fact, she was anything but different.

The heifer, the first 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 Seward’s each week, she caught my eye...

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 even-tempered, and her affection for me grew...

Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/80066

THIS WEEK: Promise & General


ton, VT 05401.


FAIRPOINT COMMUNICATIONS







publish work in response to the prompts, Promise: Write about

a promise you made but couldn’t keep; and General writing:

Write about anything in any genre. Read more great writing at

youngwritersproject.org.

THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE

Watch this newspaper and youngwritersproject.org

for the six winners to be announced next week!

Sponsored by The Vermont Community

Foundation’s Food and Farm Initiative

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Margaret Slate/Peoples Academy

NEXT PROMPT

Vacation. Recall a specific moment on a favorite vacation and describe it. Or imagine your perfect vacation. Alternate: General writing. Due May 17

NeverlandBY ELLEN JOHNSON


That girl twirling her Shirley Temple hair doesn’t understand it yet but she will,how we’re all a part of one machine that does what we’re told.We’re allowed different paths but all gears are eventually attached to the same machine.This machine that’s crafted out of success and failure, a machine welded by the poor and rich.They tell you not to grow up too fast, to enjoy the magic of being young.Yet that very same magic shrouds us from knowing how good we have it then,how even though we aren’t as privileged we are still allowed to be unique.Instead a fog plagues our minds,making us believe being an adult is the best option.At that age we aren’t a gear yet, we’re just screws.Some remain screws all their lives, falling where screws always do,onto the floor or into the trash.The machine acknowledges these screws but can’t help but look down upon them.For the machine only values those who grow up to be important cogs,those who trade the magic of individuality for success.Yet without screws how would gears maintain their hierarchy?Who would be willing to assist in their climb to soulless success,None other than the hapless screws whose tears are marked by the greasy gear’s foot-print.That little girl with the Shirley Temple hair grew up.She realizes how cruel this world is now and wants to meet Peter Pan;For he always knew never to grow up.The little girl’s mind was stuck between gears,told she wasn’t meant to be a part of the machine.She disobeyed the machine and didn’t con-form to its squeaky iron clutches.That girl had managed to stay unique through it all but it wasn’t enough.This world doesn’t accept her type;It takes a god-like strength to survive being a successful screw.So the little girl with Shirley Temple hair went to see Peter Pan.The others swore they never saw the signs,that they didn’t know why she did it.One even claimed he saw her go up to the roof.They don’t understand, of course.How else are you supposed to get to Never-land if you don’t fly?



CHECK IT OUT!

A promise that I couldn’t keepBY JULIA REMILLARD


I promised not to tell anyone.I tried; I even bit my tongue,But the secret was just too big.I told. I snapped like a twig.

I couldn’t let you get bullied By someone bigger than you,But you’ll be safe now.This is a vow.

So I’m sorry I told,But I had to be boldAnd get help.I’m sorry I didn’t keep it.I’m sorry I leaked it.Please forgive me.

- Your friend

Lucky pennyBY MASON MASHTARE


One day I was walking down the street and I found a penny.

I looked down and saw that it was heads up.

So I snagged it and put it in my pocket. Then I continued walking down the street. I could see a hot dog stand on the other

side of the street and I was hungry. Too bad I couldn’t buy a hot dog though,

because all I had was a penny. All of a sudden the hot dog seller yelled,

“Free hot dogs.” I walked up and got a hot dog and it was

delicious.That was lucky, wasn’t it? After finishing my lunch I decided to go

into the park. There I found my four best friends playing

baseball. Whack! I heard Dan hit the ball. “Darn!” I said. I wanted to play baseball with them so

badly, but I didn’t have a glove. All of a sudden a glove fell at my feet. I grabbed it and went to play ball with

them.After playing baseball I was puzzled about

what just happened and then I discovered it must have been the penny.

Ever since I found it I had good luck. I was thinking why it gave me good luck

and then I realized that it was heads up and it must have been a lucky penny.

So I looked at it and the copper glimmered in the sunlight.

I flicked it up, caught it and threw it in my pocket.

I decided I should go home and get some dinner, so I headed home.

As I was walking I saw a little boy with a ripped up shirt and pants that didn’t quite fit him.

He was very, very skinny. I looked down and saw an empty can that

the kid was holding. It had something in it. It was pocket change

that other people had given him. I took the lucky penny out of my pocket

and put it in the can. I was hoping the little boy had good luck

just like me and would have a better future.

Where I come fromBY GRACE ADAMCZAK


Where I come from is where the colorful leaves fall on the black tar road. Where the bitter cold nightsin the white winter and the blissfully warm summer nights are cherished. Where skiing and snowboardingare a must! Where going to Jay Peak is fun! Where I enjoy swimming in a poolwith my cousinand building a snow fortin the snow with her.I’m from building hockey team memories. I’m from hometown banquetsto small family dinners. Where I’m from iswhere we have a big Christmas partywith lots of memories. I’m from St. Albans, Vermont! MORE GREAT STUDENT WRITING AT




CHECK IT OUT!


submissions from students in Vermont and New Hampshire

in response to writing prompts. The best writing is selected

for publication here and in 21 other newspapers and on vpr.

net. This week, we publish work in response to the prompts,

35: You wake up and you are suddenly 35. What happens?;

and Strength: Describe a time when you had to be strong.



THIS WEEK: 35 & Strength

NEXT PROMPTS

Music. Choose a piece of music and write a story that flows from it. Tell us what music you were listen-ing to. Alternate: Three wishes. What would you wish for? Tell us in three sentences. Due May 10

Vacation. Recall a specific mo-ment on a favorite vacation and describe it. Or imagine your perfect vacation. Alternate: General writ-ing on any topic, in any genre. Due May 17

YWP is supported by the generosity of foundations, 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, Burling-

ton, VT 05401.


VERMONTIVATE

YWP is an independent nonprofit 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 pro-gram 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.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Nate Ertle/Essex High School

THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE

Watch youngwritersproject.org for the six winners

to be announced soon!



PLAY VERMONTIVATE!

The community sustainability

game that ends with a huge

Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream Party!

Find out more at vermontivate.com

Who is that woman?BY AMAYALUNA MORFIN


I woke up to the smell of hot coffee and the sound of crisp toast being broken.

The sky was blue and the sun was shining, brighter than ever. I had a pleasant feeling like everything was normal. A nice, normal Saturday morning.

I got up, walked to the bathroom and washed my face. I looked in the mirror and felt my heart stop. I looked OLD. Not that old, but still old. I decided to forget it. After all, I had just woken up and was seeing blurry.

I dried my face, then felt my stomach growl. Kitchen. When I got there, I saw a small child running around, with red paint on her face. She looked up at me, her eyes pop-ping out of her head and her face pale.

To the left of the kitchen counter I saw three cans of soda, opened and spilling on the floor. After running on the table, she came to me, hugging me and rubbing her red face all over me. Paint? On the table next to a clock reading 10:00 was a spilled mess of red wash-able paint.

“Oh my...” Last time I remembered, I was 12, now I

had a 3-year-old little girl rolling red paint on a couch. I grabbed the girl, ignoring the screams and bites and scratches. I plopped her on my bed and closed the bedroom door.

“OK, who are you?” I blurted.“What do you mean, Mommy?”“One second,” I said, running back to my

bathroom. I looked in the mirror and again saw the 35-year-old woman looking back at me.

From kid to adultBY MASON MASHTARE


I was in a deep sleep. I was dreaming of a being an adult. Adults could do anything they wanted. They were treated with respect and not like a little kid, like me.

“When I become an adult, I’m going to have so much fun,” I thought. “It’s going to be great”.

SNAP! I woke up. I picked my head up from my fluffy pillow and peered around the room. Did I sleep over at a friend’s house? This isn’t my room. Where had my rock and roll posters and basketball cards go? The room looked the exact opposite. It was all boring and it was clean. This couldn’t be my room; my room is never clean. I stood up and felt a lot stronger.

I didn’t know where I was, but I was hungry. I walked into the kitchen and looked for some cereal or pancakes. I looked in the fridge. All I found were eggs and something else on the top shelf. It looked like some kind of disgusting protein shake.

“YUCK!” I said. I continued through the house looking for

somebody, anybody. I found myself in a bath-room. I looked in the mirror. YIKES! That is not my body. I looked similar, but way older. I touched my chin with my hand. It was scruffy and spikey. Clearly I had grown, but I hadn’t

even noticed. I decided that I should walk around town

since I’ve wanted to be an adult. I put on clothes that fit me perfectly and walked out the door. I had something in my pocket. It was a wallet. I took out an ID with my picture on it and looked at the year. It had a totally differ-ent year of birth. I was born in ‘99, but it said I was born in ‘78. I was no longer 13 years old, but 35 years old. Outside was a newspa-per I almost tripped over.

“Adults usually read newspapers,” I whis-pered. “Maybe I should try.”

I picked it up and read the first article. It was alright. Some stories could get boring, but there was this free writing section which I enjoyed. I continued walking down the sidewalk. There was a food stand up ahead. Maybe I’ll grab a coffee. Adults love to drink coffee, I thought.

I got one and took a big gulp. EWWWW! Coffee tastes terrible. How do adults drink this? I continued to head into the town.

After a long time of hanging around the town, I went home. Being an adult was not fun at all. I learned I had to pay for my home, which my parents usually paid for, and I couldn’t go to school and have recess with friends. That’s when I woke up. I peered around the room. It was back to normal. I touched my chin and it wasn’t scruffy. That’s when I realized it was all a dream.

If I learned one thing from this experience it would be that I need to cherish my child-hood, while I have it.

A musher’s adviceBY KYLIE CALLAN


As my team of dogs crossed the finish, my heart was pounding. From the journey we just traveled, from the land we just crossed, from the experience we felt. We all came together in the end. First, you think? No, last, last by three days. I don’t care about winning. Why do you think that I have all the dogs I started with and all the other mushers had dropped a few?

The journey was amazing. Together we traveled on and on and on as a family. It seemed as if we were flying. Flying through the sky on an endless trail.

The land, oh the land, it was the most beau-tiful sight. Traveling across the land was the best; it was smooth across the lakes, bumpy across the land.

But the best part of all was the experience, the experience was marvelous. Watching the dogs in front of you run, just run and run like in a trance, in a different world. The views slide by you; the world is your home. The dogs are your family, the sun your stove. No arguing. Just going with the flow. Your dogs are your children; they are your life. Without them, you feel like nothing.

The dogs lead you through a maze of turns and tunnels. But your trust shall always be with them.

You have to stay strong, strong through storms, strong through frostbite. You have to stay strong because you can only trust your dogs but you can only communicate through a bond that grows. The world could be against you, but you have to stay strong, even in the hard times.

The best advice for a musher is to stay strong. It’s you and your companions against the world.

Just a dream

BY LAUREN FORCIER


I wake up one morning and feel sort of strangeLike my whole body has been rearranged.I stretch and peer into the mirror;I’m not me anymore, that couldn’t be clearer.I’m older, and taller and grown. My mind is blown.I look 35!And I didn’t even get to watch my life go by!Maybe I should go back to bed.What if it doesn’t work? That’s what I dread.I close my eyes and relax.This can’t be possible. I mean, look at the facts.I open my eyes again, not sure what to see.I run to the mirror and see regular me.And so it would seemThat I really did just have a dream.







THIS WEEK: Six words & Outrageous


ton, VT 05401.


BAY AND PAUL FOUNDATIONS

THANKS FROM YWP





publish work in response to the prompt, Six words: Write as

many six-word stories as you can; and Outrageous: This is

the funniest story I’ve ever heard...Finish the story. To read

more, go to youngwritersproject.org.

NEXT PROMPTS

Technology. Your cell phone is broken and you can’t get a new one. It’s your first day without it. What happens? Alter-

nate: Photo 11. Write a story about this photo. Due April 26.

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.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Andrea Marie Neville/Chelsea Public School

ABOUT THE PROJECT


Take off!BY ABHI DODGSON


This is the funniest story I’ve ever heard...When my dad was younger, he loved superheroes. He couldn’t think about anything else.

In kindergarten he would drift off into superhero land where everyone was a superhero and he was Superman.

One Saturday morning, he walked into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He kept eyeing the curtains that came down to the floor.

Before he could think any further, his dad called to him and told him to get on his clothes so they could go to his uncle’s.

Later that day, my dad thought he could fulfill his dreams of flying by carrying out his plan.

He climbed up on a small wooden stool and tied the long curtains securely around his waist. He took a deep breath and jumped.

For a second he swung wildly through the air. The next moment he was lying face down on the floor and felt a great whack on his back. He heard footsteps and his dad threw open the door.

“WHAT ON EARTH?!” “Sorry,” my dad mumbled, ashamed of himself. As a punishment he received a smack with a slipper and a nice little chat about ripping

the curtain rod out of the wall.And that is why my dad was never interested in superheroes again.

Six-word stories

BY JULIA SCOTT


Rain. The sky cries with us.Sunlight burns with the harsh truth.Snow falls like Earth’s renewing blanket. The dry desert longs for rain.Everything is in motion, never stopping.The lion masks its fears well.Deep breath, step back and dive.

BY KEEGAN MORIN


Bruins are the best hockey team.Canadiens are the worst hockey team.Hockey is fun. Hockey is life.School is over, ready for hockey.Drop the puck, drop the puck.Bruins score. They win the Cup.

BY MACKENZIE LAMOTHE


Flowers swaying in the cool breeze.

BY MASON MASHTARE


I love fishing in the spring.The deer galloped in the meadow.It was thundering loudly last night.The book was fast-paced and exciting.The sunlight gleamed off the lake.The sight of it was glorious.He spooked the horse, it galloped.The cheeseburger melted in my mouth.

BY AMAYALUNA MORFIN


She never came back again, gone.

BY MIKE HAWK

Grade 9, North Country Union High School

The mouse consumed several respectable cheeses.

Funniest storyBY JULIA REMILLARD


This was the funniest story I’ve ever heardIt is truly absurdFull of elephantsAnd camping tentsYou wonder how all of this fits togetherThen I add in all the crazy weather The crazy girlDon’t forget the roller coaster that makes you hurlI’m telling you this story was wildIt would never be able to be understood by a childWhere’s the jelly bean The crazy woman screamedI don’t knowSaid the man named JoeThis story is so funnyI’m laughing so hard my eyes are getting runnyIf you’re still piecing this puzzle togetherLet me shed some light on the subject so you understand it betterYou’re reading the funniest story everIt’s a mix of mystery and adventureStill not getting why this is clever?Probably not, because this is the most confus-ing story ever

BY MACKENNA SHEA-SMITH


Thinking of what to write about. Food is my life, nom, nom.

BY KOLBY CHURCH


Animals are so very, very nice.Turtles are so very, very slow.Penguins on ice are so nice.

BY COLE BRACE


Sled dogs run and run forever.Elmo vs. Barney. Who will win?



CHECK IT OUT!

That rock I kicked

BY JULIA REMILLARD


I kicked the pebble as hard as I could.It traveled much farther than it should.It was as if that small piece of rock was lead-ing me to the answer.I twirled to where the pebble lay like an elegant dancer.I gleamed at the blank gravel with glory.Somehow this pebble knew my story.Although there wasn’t a written answer,I knew in my heart the answer was simple.This clump of minerals led me to a change of mind,Met me at the end of a confusing climb,Gave me an incomprehensible answer.The tiny pebble I kickedThat bounced across the road with quiet ticksAnswered me,Answered questions no one even knew about.Was this little rock magic? No doubt.

THIS WEEK: Rhyming & General


ton, VT 05401.


GREEN MOUNTAIN COFFEE

ROASTERS



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 for

Rhyming poetry and General writing. To read more, go to


PHOTO OF THE WEEK


A little boy who triedBY MACKENZIE LAMOTHE


There once was a little boy who couldn’t.He wanted to ride a horse,but he didn’t know how to, of course.He fell off, then got back on.Then the horse took off,and he was gone.The boy came back with no horse.He just said, “I wish I could, but I couldn’t.“I wish that a horse would let me, but it wouldn’t.”That little boy tried again; he hopped on,then fell off.He got back on,then fell off.He decided he was going to try one more time,and was as quiet as a mime.He put one foot in the stirrup,and pulled himself up.The saddle was as smooth as syrup.The little boy breathed in and breathed out,Then said, “I am ready.”He had no doubtThat he could ride a horse.He rode the course,with the horse.Victory was his,he was a horse whiz.He tried and he tried,and he could.

Heart bleeding ink

BY ELLEN JOHNSON


The pen dodged criticism and containment as it fled across the page. It tried to break free of the rusty iron chains of grammar to keep the flow of thoughts running.

Yet sometimes, grammar’s nasty grasp caught up with the rushing pen and slashed its ideas out in a furious scribble.

The pen urged on, determined to write till its heart ran out of ink; till it bled a blue puddle onto the page.

This pen would die for its country; for the glory of uncontained thoughts being thrown on parchment. The end product: words inter-mingled with blue scribbles of the grammar Nazi’s reign.

The pen must urge on or else its life’s work becomes a morgue of what people expect to hear instead of what they should hear.

Lesson from a survivorBY RILEIGH GOULETTE


As I pick at my citrus-colored nails, the specks of zest fall onto the brick bench I propped

myself on. My legs vibrate rapidly as I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I gaze at the giant in front of me, squirrels trotting about his arms, reaching his leafy green

fingers. The strangers, like trains, take the pebble path to their next destination. One man has powdered flour hair and eyebrows like rainbows above his emerald eyes. His

eyelid is sagging and I notice the red underneath. He wears striped suspenders as he travels toward me and my orange.

He displays a look of happiness that old people give. His grin stretches out towards the edge of the world.

His body treadmills towards me and I have no escape route. People with smiles may carry a weapon, so I prepare myself for anything.

My face staring, and my heart pounding at the object headed for me, I slide over on the bench to give him as much room as he needs, and to allow myself time to react.

He sits next to me and my pile of zest. I offer him change; maybe that is what he is approach-ing me for? Shaking his head, he extends his hand to reveal calluses bubbled up in his palm.

It’s not the calluses I am interested in. I see an array of numbers lined up that continue under his sleeve. A scar permanently marked.

He pulls out photos of what is left of a town. I see bodies in the array of bricks on the street. A camp in the background with flames towering over what is left.

He is a survivor, and I should be, too.

QuestionsBY GRIFFIN KNAPP


Why is the sky blue?Maybe it has the flu.When did Columbus cross the sea?Well, of course, it was 1693...Why are plants so small?What are you talking about? They are tall.Why do you ask me so many things,When I don’t know anything?

InspirationBY KRISTEN BELL


Inspiration can’t be taughtNeither can it be boughtIt can only be sharedFrom one person to the next (don’t ever share it through text)It can’t be written downNever then and never now

NEXT PROMPTS

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 can’t keep up. Due April 19

Technology. Your cell phone is broken and you can’t get a new one. It’s your first day without it. What happens? Alternate: Photo 11. Write about the photo above. Due April 26



THIS WEEK: Lesson & General


ton, VT 05401.


MAIN STREET LANDING







publish work in response to the prompts, 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? and

General writing.Read more at youngwritersproject.org.

NEXT PROMPT

Dislike. Write about something that disgusts you, no matter how wrong, distasteful or awkward it is. Alternate:

Fairy tale. Write a fairy tale that in-cludes the phrase, “one thousand peas.” Due April 12

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Alia Jenkins/South Burlington High School

THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE

WIN $50 FOR YOU

AND $50 FOR A FOOD OR FARM

NONPROFIT OF YOUR CHOICE

WRITING PROMPTS

AND CONTEST DETAILS AT


DUE FRIDAY, APRIL 12

Sponsored by the Vermont Community


Waiting for happinessBY JULIA SCOTT


They are waiting,Waiting for a train that will never arrive.Waiting for a train that they hope will bring them some place better.Waiting for a train that has no destination.Waiting for a train that has no end.Waiting, always waiting.They are happy.But I do not envy them.I do not wait for happiness.I look for it.

Park benchBY DYLAN BARANIK


In autumn, on an old park benchwith green, flaking paint over rotting wood,I sit, silently, listening to wind and birds and water.Like water, people flow by.They move at variable pace.A child seeking ice creamgets lost from his mother, for a second.A yellow autumn leaf drops anda man, moving slower than the others ap-proaches.Clearly in sight, he sports a wooden cane,even equipped with a tennis ballto avoid scuffing the floors.He has this rhythmic limp, like a drum.Bu (he steps forward)dum (completes the step)and pauses, to drag his left leg forward.He does this, budum, budum, budum,waltzing over to the bench; he sits, exhausted.I give him plenty of space, buteven still he manages to sit too closely.He smells potently of mildew and mothballs.After a while, he opens his mouth,greets me with, “Good day.” I, “hello.”He asks me how the weather is,but not here – instead, in my hometown.I ask him how he knows, – replies“Of course,” pauses, “you can’t judge... hrm... a book by his cover.”I turn to him, remembering him, his eyes, his relation, andlike that, he’s gone, disappeared like dust into the wind.

ForgivenessBY ASHLEIGH PETERSON


The old man sat beside me on the wooden park bench, twirling a navy blue Red Sox cap between his fingers.

He whistled a tune and watched pigeons peck at the dust. I picked at the chipping paint on the seat, internally fuming because I real-ized I had been pick-pocketed somewhere on my walk to Central Park.

The man, still facing the pigeons, greeted me cheerily. “Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?” He turned to me and smiled, showing a set of surprisingly straight teeth.

“Mmph.” I shrugged. “I suppose.”The old man slid about a half an inch closer

to me. “You’re in New York! What could pos-sibly upset you?”

I explained that somebody had stolen all my cash. As I talked, I kicked the bench with my heel.

His forehead wrinkled and his eyebrows inched toward each other. “I suppose that is upsetting,” he mused.

I exhaled hot breath, relieved; he under-stood me. “Exactly! It’s infuriating,” I said.

“Oh, not for you.” The man offered a pa-tronizing smile.

“I was pitying the poor thief. Imagine liv-ing with such little faith in yourself that you have to cut purse strings to survive.”

I choked on saliva. Words wouldn’t form in my head. Before I could create any coher-ent reply, the man stood up, walked away, and began feeding the pigeons chunks of bread.

Though I never uttered a word of gratitude, I realized that he was right; I needed to be more sympathetic. The old man, whose name I will never know, taught me to forgive.

Someone who cares

BY KRISTEN BELL


Sitting in the park, completely alone, I listened to the quiet sound of the wind as it rushed through the trees and helped guide the birds to their destination.

The silence was broken when an old man sat next to me. The creaking and groaning of the bench was not a lot of noise, but enough to make me realize I was not alone anymore.

He tried greeting me, but he ended up getting farther away from me when I moved closer to the opposite side of the bench. Away from him. Didn’t he get that I wanted to be alone? He repeatedly tried to greet me and asked how I was. Each time, I never replied.

After the 50,000th time, I’d had enough. Gritting my teeth, I quietly said, “If you don’t mind, I would like to be left alone...”

Then he simply asked this: “Would you rather have no one care at all and never say anything, or have them repeatedly ask you how you’re feeling and care tremendously?”

I didn’t even have to answer; I could tell he knew already. He knew all of my past and how people, even my own family, had never even bothered to ask how I was feeling. It set the image in my mind that no one cared, or even thought of asking if I was all right, or if I was enjoying myself. I’d seen it so much that that’s what I now thought.

No one cared about me or even wanted to know about me. That’s what I thought until now. This stranger, who just happened to be an old man, didn’t even know me but could tell that I needed someone to talk to, that I needed someone to care about something other than themselves, like me. And he did. That’s all I ever wanted...

Afraid to fallBY ELLEN JOHNSON


I am like a loose thread clinging onto an old shirt. A thread on the cusp of falling into unfamiliar territory. The thread tries to cling to what’s familiar; to what it used to be a part of.

Yet, the shirt would be better off without the struggling thread. Then all of a sudden, the loose thread is severed by scissors; severed from its safety net. Only to land unexpectedly well onto a cushy carpet, which it will call its new home. Like the thread, I find change scary, but no one can truly grow up by cling-ing to what’s comfortable.

Sometimes it’s better to try to adjust to new phases of life, rather than remain the only thread afraid to fall.



CHECK IT OUT!

THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE

WIN $50 FOR YOUAND $50 FOR A FOOD OR FARM


PROMPTS:

1. FARM: Share a story about a farm or farmer that you know. Write about an experience you’ve had on a farm, or, if you live on a farm, the daily joys and challenges your family faces. Tell a specific story or anecdote to bring it alive and to show why farming is important in Vermont.

2. FOOD: There’s so much great food that’s 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, cook-ing or eating local food. Tell about a specific experience you’ve had or hope to have with local food.

SUBMIT: Write on your YWP account, click prompt “Farm13,” or email [email protected].


Contest details at youngwritersproject.org/farm13



NEXT PROMPT

Mystery. Some-thing very strange just happened, and you don’t 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



THIS WEEK: Purple egg

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 21 other newspapers. This

week, we publish writing in response to the prompt, Egg:

You go outside one day and find a big, purple egg. What

happens? Read more at youngwritersproject.org.

ABOUT THE PROJECT

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.


THE TURRELL FUND

THANKS FROM YWPYWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences. YWP runs young-writersproject.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.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Ashley Warren/Essex High School

My new petBY KAYLAN HATHAWAY


The world is in terror; all are screaming while my pet is by my side. It all started yes-terday. I saw this big purple egg in my back-yard. It started to crack, the earth shook, light shot out of the egg! It created an explosion so powerful that it knocked down the block, and the next block, and the next, and the next. Then this creature was left. I thought it looked cool and I gave it a name, Mr. Cuddles... Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/78654

The Unipegagriffin BY GRIFFIN KNAPP


It all started one hot summer day. I stepped outside and there it was. The purple egg,just sitting there, halfway out of the ground. I didn’t know what to do, so I kept it. A week later, my egg hatched and out came twins, a boy and a girl. They had a horn, wings like an eagle, horse legs and a beak. And when they walked, rainbows formed behind them.

I was so excited, I called Liam over... Liam and I came to the conclusion that we would call them Unipegagriffin because they were a mix of unicorns, Pegasus and a griffin... Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/78577

Hatching a dragonBY TAYLOR PELKEY


One day when I was in my backyard, I saw a purple egg. I didn’t know what would be in-side so I kept it in my old fish tank and waited a while for it to hatch. When it did, I saw a newborn dragon hatch.

At first I was scared but then I realized the thing is only a baby so it probably has no idea how to breathe fire, or fly around, or even pick people up and bring them god knows where. I was wrong.

The baby flew right to the door and set my door on fire. It picked me up and flew me down the stairs... When it put me down I held it behind my back and prayed it wouldn’t burn my hand as I ate. After breakfast it seemed to figure out how to crawl up my back and fly me again and this time it brought me up-stairs into my little sister’s room. It dropped me right in front of her bed and nudged me toward her. I had just realized it was time to wake her up for school. I woke her up and I found myself chasing the dragon down the stairs to where he put her in the chair.

I realized the dragon was being helpful so after school I trained it to do anything I asked it to, and it did until it grew too old and I had to set it free and hope it could find where normal dragons go. I never saw it again but figured it was doing OK because it flew right through the clouds.

How Emi came to beBY BECCA FAUTEUX


I curl up in bed, and Emi crawls into my room. With a flap of her tiny wings, she flies onto my bed, curls up next to me, and we both fall asleep.

I know what you’re thinking, “What is Emi supposed to be?” Emi is a dragon, and this is how I got her.

I was sleeping in one Saturday, when a huge crash interrupted my dreaming. I jolted up in bed, bolted out the door and ran toward the back yard where the noise came from.

Through the thick, smoldering smoke, I made out a huge purple egg. The egg was about the size of my backpack, pretty big compared to even an ostrich egg.

I reached out my finger to touch it. “Yeoww!” The egg was scorching hot.

I felt like I should take it inside, so I ran to the garage and grabbed my gloves. This time, I could touch the egg without burning myself. I picked it up and carried the egg to my room.

Wrapping the egg in my blanket, I hid the egg in my closet to keep it warm.

For the next few days, I checked on the egg, warming the blanket and rewrapping the egg with it.

About a week later, I was about to go and warm up the blanket when I noticed the egg had a crack in it.

Then more cracks appeared. With a crunch, the top popped off.

The whole egg collapsed, revealing a small, purple dragon. She had tiny horns, a pair of tiny wings, and big eyes. She stared at me endearingly with loving eyes, which I just couldn’t resist.

I scooped her up and gave her a big hug, and that’s how Emi came to be.

Easter egg huntBY OWEN PELKEY


“... OK, everyone!” my mom yelled. “It’s time to start the Easter egg hunt! You all know the rules, but I’ll go through them.

“1. Have fun! 2. Do not steal eggs from an-other. 3. Have even more fun! Let the games begin!”

The whole party ran around my yard. I found 12 eggs when all of a sudden I spied with my little eye something purple. I’m not going to make you guess.

It was a big purple egg, one that I don’t remember painting, and it was cracked at the top. I picked it up, and as I was just about to tell my mom, she yelled out, “Time’s up! Count your eggs!”

I tried to tell her again, when the whole party was yelling numbers. “20 eggs!” “Haha, I got 30! Beat that!” “Well I got 31!” This went on for about 20 minutes, when we found out the real winner only had 15 eggs. Some people are just so competitive.

Anyway, I couldn’t tell my mom since she had a party to go to, so I decided to keep the egg in my room. I decided I was going to work on my stupid math homework until my mom got home. Crack! I spun around in my chair. All of a sudden music started playing like: “Duh, duh, duh, duh!” and I saw a baby purple unicorn come out of the egg. I started freaking out, and pinching myself. I sat there in silence staring at the unicorn, and it was staring at me, too.

“Well, are you going to say something?” the unicorn asked.

“You can talk?” I questioned.“Um... duh. Did you think I couldn’t?

Oh, and let me guess, you thought unicorns weren’t real too?”

THIS WEEK: Photo 9 & General


05401.


VERMONT BUSINESS ROUNDTABLE






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.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE

WIN $50 FOR YOU

AND $50 FOR A FOOD OR FARM


WRITING PROMPTS:

1. FARM: Share a story about a farm or farmer that you know. Write about an experience you’ve had on a farm, or, if you live on a farm, the daily joys and challenges your family faces. Tell a specific story or anecdote to bring it alive and to show why farming is important in Vermont.

2. FOOD: There’s so much great food that’s 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 specific experience you’ve had or hope to have with local food.

SUBMIT: Write on your YWP account, click prompt “Farm13,” or email [email protected].


Contest details at youngwritersproject.org/farm13



© Eve Pomazi/Brattleboro Area Middle School

NEXT PROMPTS

Promise. Write about a promise you made but couldn’t keep. Alternate: Strength. Write about a time when you had to be strong, physically or mentally. Due March 29

Mystery. Something very strange just happened and you don’t know how or why. Write a story. Be suc-cinct. Alternate: Photo 10. Write about this photo, from any angle. Due April 5

Photo 9 © Carl Mydans, Hyde Park

(Library of Congress)

MemoriesBY ABHI DODGSON


I opened the creaky barn door. The win-dows 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 floor.

I looked at all the old shovels, hay, rib-bons, 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 shak-ily 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 aban-doned and felt the memories that came to life through my imagination.

Old wooden houseBY JULIA REMILLARD


You can hear the old crickety-creak of the little feetComing all the way from the house at the end of the streetAnd I can hear their wordsThrough their dirty wooden doorEven though they’re subtle and softI can still see the shadowy figure from the top of the loftThe fenced-out propertyLooking close to the verge of topplingThe old wooden houseYou never heard anything from it except an occasional mouse

Skin deepBY ELLEN JOHNSON

Grade 12, Bellows Free Academy, St. Albans

CHAPTER 1

I bang my cold, depleted hand against the metallic wall again, desperately hoping for a rescue. My hands slide down the wall, slid-ing over every imperfection on the way down. When I woke up here, I quickly found out that the only way to escape was to look at the riddle. The only thing in this room that isn’t made of cement.

I roll out the rumpled sheet of parchment again and read, “Nirvana, we already know your skin is tough but hopefully your brain is just as impressive. Figure out what lays skin deep, but tells more about you than your own mother ever could.”

Whoever is playing this game is expecting way too much from me. Digging my finger-nails into my scalp, I fall on my knees. My head is dragged to the floor; gravity wants to take a crack at my sanity as well. Curled in the fetal position my locket creates a loud metal clang when it hits the ground. I almost forgot about it, the metal piece of jewelry

that held my strength. My fingers clutch onto the locket and pry it open, revealing a picture of my father. If there was any reason to keep a strong head it was him. I manage to gather myself enough to stand up. I need to look at my surroundings in a more analytical manner before I try and decipher the riddle.

I’m in a room with three huge metal walls and one wall that has a square mirror stretched across its entire surface. There isn’t anything special about the stiff fold-away bed so the only object in the room that is questionable is the mirror. I roll out the rumpled sheet of parchment again and read it. But why a mir-ror, in an enclosed room? It just doesn’t make any sense. I slap my forehead when I realize how stupid I was.

The clue talks about my skin, something that is skin deep, and there’s a giant mirror in the room. I walk over to the mirror and start eyeing my body, this has to be the way out. “Well there’s nothing on my face or on my neck...” I pull down the shoulders of my shirt to see if anything is on my back and there it is, square in the middle of my back. I take off my shirt in a hurry and it’s right above the white line of my cami; a simple black tattoo. How can that be there without me knowing?Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/77890.

The old fellowBY MICHAEL ADAMS


After school today, I went to the park and sat on a bench wondering about what I’m good at. As I looked around I saw kids playing sports, people walking, some running... Then I saw a vehicle coming toward me.

An old man got out of the front seat and sat next to me and said, “How are you?”

I answered, “Good,” not really wanting to talk. Then he said something weird. “What do you want to learn?” he asked as he stood up.

I thought, “I want to learn what I’m good at,” as I looked around again.

He waved his hand in the air and made all the bikes and toys dance, and I started to get frightened. Then he waved his hand at me.

“There now, you know what you are good at. Now go live your life and you'll know what you’re good at.” I got up and said, “Thank you,” and walked away.

Photo 10 © Katy Trahan/Essex High School



THE FARM PROJECT

WRITING CHALLENGE

WIN $50 WITH A MATCHING $50 FOR A FOOD OR FARM NONPROFIT

OF YOUR CHOICE

PROMPTS:1. FARM: Share a story about a farm or farmer that you know. Write about an experience you’ve had on a farm, or, if you live on a farm, the daily joys and challenges your family faces. Tell a specific story or anecdote to bring it alive and to show why farming is important in Vermont.

2. FOOD: There’s so much great food that’s 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 specific experience you’ve had or hope to have with local food.

HOW TO SUBMIT: Use your YWP account, keyword Farm13, or email your entry to [email protected].


Contest details at youngwritersproject.org



THIS WEEK: Eternal Night & Package


ton, VT 05401.


PHYSICIAN’S COMPUTER COMPANY







publish work in response to the prompts, Eternal Night: The

sun doesn’t rise one day or the next day. What happens? and

Package: A package arrives for you. What’s inside? Read more

at youngwritersproject.org.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Audrey Dawson/Westford Middle School

Wake up the sunBY ELIZABETH SIMPSON

Grade 7, Troy School

I woke up one morning and the sun didn’t rise. Nor did it the next day.

What happened?Did the sun disappear? Did it not want to

rise? Is it hiding? That’s when I found out it was still asleepI realized that’s why the moon was still out.

Now what can we find to wake the wonderful summer sun?

We can bring all the little children who want to play and run in the hot summer sun out and have them do as they do every day to cheer the sun up. For it to rise, they’ll have to scream and holler.

Forever CoronaBY BECCA FAUTEUX


Monday morning. Always one of the worst parts of the week.

Although today was different. It seemed way too dark to be...8:30?!

I leapt out of bed, my blanket trailing behind me. Fell down the stairs. Rushed to the kitchen, grabbing a bowl of Cocoa Puffs along the way.

Nobody else was around. What’s up here? I limped to the living room, still hurting

after my fall earlier. Snatched the remote. Switched on the news.

“A total eclipse of the sun greeted us this morning... and is still going. Our moon has slowed down enough that it stays in front of the sun for... who knows how long? Certainly an eclipse for the record books, people,” the anchor explained to me.

A solar eclipse! This, I had to see. I jogged outside and sure enough, there

was the bright blue corona showing me all its heart-stopping beauty. I almost cried at that moment.

Just then, my family all came out from the garage.

“I wanted to wake you up, but you seemed peacefully asleep, so we left you.

“By the way, they canceled school,” my mom explained, hugging me at the same time.

I kind of like life this way. I’m fine with an eclipse 24/7. Just fine.

Dark skyBY JULIA REMILLARD


The dark sky ignites the dayA dull, shimmery grayA cloud covering the sunA nightmare coming undoneNever will it rise againI can almost see a glimpse of light now and thenA burning hole inside of meI need the sun and I think you’ll agreeWe need it backTo fill this sky of blackWithout the sun, we’ll freezeSo, sun, come back, please

Love in a boxBY SOPHIA CANNIZZARO

Grade 7, Homeschool, West Glover

I eagerly rip off the tape and open the box, being careful to keep my weight on the stool, so as not to fall in.

The box is full to the brim with packing peanuts. Oh good, I think. I can make some beanbag chairs with those.

I dig through them, waiting to touch my surprise from Gram.

She always buys me really expensive, nice stuff. I dig and dig, but I don’t find anything. I finally dump the box over and crawl inside, trying to find whatever is in it.

I can’t. I dump all of the packing peanuts out, and there isn’t anything in the box except a piece of paper.

I look at it, hoping it’ll be money, or a gift certificate.

But no. It is a drawing, very good, by Gram, and a word. Love.

NEXT PROMPTS Six words. Create as many six-word stories as you can. Alternates: News story. Write an opinion piece based on a current news story. Take a side and make a persuasive argument – in a maximum of three paragraphs; or Gen-eral writing in any genre and any style. Due March 22

Promise. Write about a promise you made but couldn’t keep. Alternate: Strength. Write about a time when you had to be strong, physically or mentally. Due March 29


EACH WEEK ON VPR.NET

CHECK IT OUT!

Package in the mail

BY FRANKIE RICHARD


I wouldn’t shake it...It might be a puppy.I wouldn’t kick it...It might be a person.I wouldn’t throw it...It might be breakable.I would open it...It could be anything.

Mine

BY SUMMER GETTY


I can see the headlightsas they get increasingly closer.I start to read the letters on the side.UPS, I read out loud.My ball of excitement grows.I know it’s my package.I’ve been waiting for this far too long.I’ve got it.Only one long stripe of tape keeping me from my package,no one else’s. Mine. I carefully peel the stripe off,not needing to read the name of whom its from.It’s from my older sister.I haven’t talked to her for years.She always sends me a packageright before school.It contains school supplies,clothes and a bag.It’s not much to get excited over.It reminds me that she still thinks about me.She cares enough to send that packageevery year, once a year.

RunningBY JULIA REMILLARD


I run barefoot on the concreteThe black tar staining my feetThe wind brushing my faceRunning with fierce graceThe clouds washing away the sunsetAs the birds fly awayThe distant light Giving me something to fightOn this bending road of lifeMy shawl acting as a kiteMy personal runway ready for me to take flight

THIS WEEK: Surprising & Photo 8


ton, VT 05401.








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 you’ve never heard; and

Photo 8. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Katlyn Schmigel/Essex High School

Photo 8 © Kayla Rideout/Essex High School

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

Presented by Young Writers Project

and Vermontivate – the sustainability

game for Vermont communities

LuminousBY ABHI DODGSON


I chose to interview my friend Jean Luc Dushime. He escaped the Rwandan genocide in 1994. He lives in Vermont.

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 “fluorescent” 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. It’s something he’ll always remember.

“Maybe there’s a reason those trees glow,” he said.

The boy on the benchBY TAYLOR PELKEY


One day, when I was walking down the street, I saw a kid sitting on the bench waiting for the five o’clock bus.

I strolled over to him, and he picked up his head, revealing a big scar down the left side of his face, going from his forehead to his chin.

I jumped back in shock and asked him what had happened.

He told me a big story about how he was on the subway two months ago with his parents when it crashed.

His parents died, but he lived and ran away and had been living on his own ever since. He got money from his parents’ bank account by using the ATM because he took the ATM card before he left the subway scene.

I felt badly and told him he should go to the police and say he had no parents.

That was when he ran away, and I tried to chase after him, but after I ran two steps, it was too dark to see which way he went.

The next day I drove to the police and reported him.

The police showed me pictures of differ-ent kids to see which one I was talking about. The last one they came to was the boy on the bench.

The police had a shocked look on their faces and said, “We’re very sorry, ma’am, but that little boy died two years ago in a subway crash.”

SunsetBY MACKENZIE LAMOTHE


I see the sun setting,Which I won’t be forgetting.Blue, orange, yellow and pink,All of those beautiful colors mixing,Makes a fabulous sunset, I think.While I watch it go down,I see the light draining in this little old town.I hear the frogs croaking,sounding as if they’re choking.Sunsets like these only happen once in awhile.They give everyone in towna big happy smile.Now the sun’s going down,and it’s getting late.My mother will be worried,and I know there is a cold dinner plate.Waiting at home for meis a fresh cup of tea.So I better get goingbefore the night wind starts blowing.I hurry up and eat,then get into my clean bed sheets.I start to fall asleep,and don’t make a peep.I just dream about that beautiful sunset.

Determined to flyBY JENNA LAWRENCE


I woke up one day thinking, “I can fly if I put my mind to it. Anything can happen!” So I went for it. I leaped to the sky and I was go-

ing, but then I fell on my face. I didn’t get it. I put my mind to it, so why didn’t

it work? Well, I guess we can’t fly without a little help, I

thought. So I needed to get some. I ran down the stairs and into the livingroom

where my brother was laying on the floor playing video games.

I walked up to him and asked, “Why can’t I fly?”

He looked up at me and stared, trying to hide his laughter behind a dry smile.

“We can’t fly! You should know that by now, so leave me alone and stop being stupid!”

So that was stupid. It didn’t even help. I ran upstairs and cried.

But then I ran, ran away with my scarf behind me, yelling, “I will fly! I will fly!”

Finish lineBY KRISTEN BELL


Sweat falls down my face, my head pound-ing. I can be very competitive when I want to. And I do.

It’s draining all of my energy, but I need to win. My legs tell me, No more! But I keep going.

The only cool I get is the wind rushing past me, and there’s not much of it now.

The finish line is close. I can barely see its words written in bright colored letters: Finish line!

Finally I pass the finish line. My coach greets me with a high five and an icy cold bottle of water. I drink it slowly, not wanting to waste its refreshing taste.

I won!

NEXT PROMPT

Outrageous. Write a story that be-gins, This is the funniest story I’ve ever heard… Alternate: Thirty-five. You wake up and you are suddenly 35 years old. What is your life like now? Due March 15



THIS WEEK: Bottle, I believe & General




JANE B. COOK CHARITABLE TRUSTS

THANKS FROM YWP





publish work in response to the prompts, Bottle: You find a

message in a bottle. What is it?; I believe...; and General

writing. To read more, go to youngwritersproject.org.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Lindsey Stuntz/Woodstock Union High School

ABOUT THE PROJECT


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?Or2. Do you believe the world can solve the climate crisis? Tell us why.

Contest details at youngwritersproject.org.

Presented by Young Writers

Project and Vermontivate – the

sustainability game for Vermont

communities

Happy endingsBY LAUREN FORCIER


I believe in happy endingsI believe in broken hearts mendingI believe that everyone needs an idolI believe and hope that one day no one will be suicidalI believe we can end world hungerI believe that one day people will embrace getting old and stop trying to be youngerI believe in my family and parentsand that one day bullying will stop and no one will be transparentI believe in being honestI believe in trying my hardestI believe that everyone will have a friendAnd that no one is left hanging in the endI believe in myselfI believe that one day knowledge will be wealthThat is what I believe and for years to comeNo matter how much people pester me and say I’m dumbI respect you as you should meBecause that is what I believe

My land of dreamsBY SUMMER GETTY


I believe in a placefar, far awaywhere you are left to playthroughout the day. There is no rain in this placenor anger in this place;there are only dreams at the base.This place is the land of dreams,a land that anger can’t burst at the seams.No one is allowed inside.No one can make me decide.I already know this place all too wellas though this is wheremy true self dwells.At night when I close my eyesI know with my wandering mindthis place is true;this place is my land of dreams.This place is mine.

Four thingsBY BEATRICE HAWKINS


I believe in peace, faith, hope and joy. If we didn’t have these four things, what would we be?Without peace, our world would be like Iraq.Without faith, our families wouldn’t care about the people fighting for us. Without hope, we wouldn’t care about any-thing or hope for anything.Without joy, what would be happy in our lives?I hear people say, “_____ brings me joy.”If we didn’t have joy, the quote would be, “_______ brings me nothing.”Believe with me.

Three wishes

BY SOPHIA BLOUIN


When I was visiting my grandparents in Florida we went to Cocoa Beach. It has white sands and a beautiful ocean.

When I was walking on the beach by my-self I tripped on something hard. I picked it up and it was a bottle with a note saying, “If you come to this beach all week alone, then I will come and grant you three wishes.”

I hesitated because it could be a murderer or a serial killer, but I agreed to come back. The next day I came back to the same beach to find the bottle full of money. I picked it up and read the note. It said, “Ahh, I see you’ve come back for more. Each day you come you get rewarded with 1 million dollars, but if you don’t come back to this same beach at the same time, the 1 million dollars you were supposed to pick up on your way won’t be rewarded.”

I paused for a minute and continued on my walk. The next day I came to get the 1 million dollars and I was thinking that there might be a serious consequence if I forgot to come and I just wanted to enjoy myself in the nice weather, but I collected the money. And the next day I remembered to go to the beach, but I felt greedy. Maybe I took too much. Maybe I don’t need this money to be happy. So I didn’t go to the beach for the rest of the week and I realized that life isn’t about being greedy. It’s about being happy with what you have, not with something you bought. Money can’t buy happiness – that’s what I learned from my vacation to Florida.

Captive on an islandBY TAYLOR PELKEY


One day while I was walking on the beach, I saw a bottle. It was a beautiful blue vase with some fine paper inside. I pulled out the cork, held the bottle upside down and a note slid out.

I unrolled it and it said, “Help! I’m being held captive on the south side of an African island. I have no clue where, but I have my old compass and I know I am in the south.

“If you are reading this, I seriously need you to go to the cops or the president ... I am chained to a tree and I can’t see past the fog on the water in the distance. Please! I need help. I can guarantee this is not a fake note...”

I was shocked so I showed my mom and she said we needed to go straight to the police, so we packed up all of our things and got in the car...

Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/77654

NEXT PROMPT

Outrageous. Write a story that begins, This is the funniest story I’ve ever heard… Alternate: Thirty-five. You wake up and you are suddenly 35 years old. What is your life like now? Due March 15

ChangeBY JULIA REMILLARD


I believe in change and being rearrangedHope and peaceAnd letting innocent people be releasedCaring for others, thanking my mother Being thankful for what I haveAnd trying to not be badIn being me and trying new things like teaI believe in loving lifeBecause we’re not a cat with nine lives And one day I will die and when that happens I want to die knowing that I had a good time

Easy to breakBY ADSEL SPARROW


I look around. Is she here? I casually step out of the stall. Then I hear her.“You’ve been gone for the last 12 minutes. No one is ever out of class that long. You’re such a loser.”“Shut up,” I mutter.“Don’t be rude to your superiors, Linsey.”“Why are you rude to me, but I can’t be rude to you?”“What do you mean?”“Never mind.”I try to walk around her, but she blocks my way.“Scooch!” I shout.“Why should I?” she yells.Then I’m on the cold tiles of the floor. A small stream of blood is beside me and she starts to talk again.“So easy. So easy to break.”Then she leaves.I sit up and I think to myself, Why? Why am I easy to break?

Robot heartsBY RACHEL ANN LAVALLEE

Grade 10, Milton High School

I have a heartLivingPumping bloodThrough my bodyDown my armsTo my headTo my legsFlowingGivingOxygenBut that all changed when the robots cameThey were steelMoved with jerking motionsThey dressed the sameLooked the sameAte the same foodAnd when they spokeIt was in unisonWhen I touched themThey were coldAnd I wondered how their blood could flowThrough screws, nuts, and boltsI placed my hand over their rib cagesTo see how their heart workedBut I felt nothingThere was no beatJust a hardened batteryMatching where their heart should goI looked into their eyesStaring at meDeadUnseeingTheir eyes never focused on my faceBut the hinges on their mouthsOpened slightlyHungryI pressed my hand to my own heartI looked at their facesThey needed this more than I didI had a heartUntil the robots cameBut they were hungryAnd soI gave them each my ownAnd nowI have hearts everywhere

THIS WEEK: Vermont Writes Day


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

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

Hundreds of students, teachers and school administrators

participated in Young Writers Project’s 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.

YWP is supported by the generosity of foundations, businesses 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.


AMY E. TARRANT FOUNDATION

© Alia Jenkins/South Burlington High School

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 Vermont’s 14 counties. Find out more at hungerfreevt.org or email [email protected].

NEXT PROMPT

Lesson. You are sitting in a park and

an old man sits down beside you. At

first 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

Vermont farmBY NICHOLAS A. VOYER


A farm visible through the window of my house keeps me thinking about how it pro-duces most of the healthy food that is in our pantries and cabinets.

I think of this often, and think of how grateful I am for the people who put time and effort in keeping the farm in good condition.

I thought of going down there to help the man with his work one day, and caught him in the fields giving hay to his cows.

I asked if I could be of any assistance with his hard work, and he was more than happy.

We stacked hay in the barn for about an hour when we both started feeling the effects of the warmth of the summer.

The farming boyBY COLE BOUDREAU


I live in a town called St. Albans and I farm cows, bulls, sheep and chicken. It’s pretty hard around here and I work alone. I have a big barn, built a couple years ago. I wake up at 6 in the morning.

Farmer LaddBY SEAN HONSINGER

Grade 6, Swanton Central Elementary School

I know a farmer named Farmer Ladd. He lives on a farm with cows, pigs, sheep, goats, chickens and horses.

If we did not have farms, there would be no dairy products or meats.

I have worked on a farm before. It was cool to be able to see and experience the different kinds of animals. But it was also not that cool to have to clean up after the animals and bring them inside and milk the cows twice a day and to get the eggs from the chicken coop.

Farming is a hard job.

Robot rhymeBY RILEY GAMACHE


Once upon a time, long, long ago, people were safe from their head to their toe. Humans were calm and lions were tame, but that all changed when the robots came. One first showed up and came now and then, and then there were 2, 3, 4, and soon 10. But something went wrong and the robots turned mean. The creator then realized he needed to stop these machines. He lunged for his computer, and glanced at the screen. He saw the robots’ numbers shoot up to 18. He unplugged his computer, which shut the robots down. He was happily surprised that the robots all left town. The creator soon went up in fame, and that’s the story of when the robots came.

LambingBY ABHI DODGSON


It was a cold December morning. Our ewe, Miney, was about to give birth. For the last five months she had been getting ready for this day.

She was agitated, laying down and getting up. Suddenly, a clear sack appeared at her back end. It came out slowly and burst on the floor.

Miney turned around and started licking the steaming fluid (this is what ewes do before giving birth – they can smell their lambs) and cooing to her lamb.

The lamb was presenting normally. With its legs and head pointing straight forward, Miney’s first lamb started to enter its new world.

It took only seconds for it to be born. Miney stood up and licked the lamb with her dry tongue. It was a boy and we named him Christmas.

All of a sudden, Miney started to twirl in circles (a sign of discomfort and another birth).

She lay down and got up and another water bag started to spill out. It broke all over the barn floor. She licked it up quickly and lay down, pushing.

We could see the back legs of a lamb. Usually, if a lamb is backwards, it can be a big problem. But Miney kept pushing and heaved the lamb out. A girl. Creme.

Seconds later she started pushing again! We had been expecting twins. She surprised us and Coco, another ram lamb was born.

Miney got up and licked off the last two lambs. We rubbed all of them off with warm towels.

We pushed the lambs gently toward the teat to start sucking the warm colostrum and milk. Colostrum has antibodies and nutrients to give the lambs a healthy start.

This was a birth where everything went well, but there are plenty of difficult and hard births. Hard births take a lot out of you and make you worry about the ewe and lambs.

I love sheep because they all have differ-ent personalities.

I love watching for the signs of labor. It makes me very excited and a little nervous.

After so many years of lambing, I’ve gotten very good at predicting when births are going to happen.

Farming is important because caring for animals keeps you connected with the outside world and nature.





THIS WEEK: Reflection, Photo 7 & I like


05401.


UNITED WAY

OF CHITTENDEN COUNTY







This week we publish work in response to the prompts,

Reflection: What is something you wish you’d been told

when you were 5?;Photo 7; and I like... To read more, go to


NEXT PROMPT

Egg. You go outside one day and find 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. What’s the story? Due March 1

Photo 9. Hyde Park, VT, Aug. 1936 © Carl Mydans (Library

of Congress)

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Jenna Rice/The Sharon Academy

!

Wish I’d been toldBY HILARY DEVARNEY


I wish when I was 5, my parents had told me Play-Doh wasn’t good to eat and don’t try to learn how to ride a bike on a steep cement hill.

I wish when I was 5, my parents had told me not to try to cut my own hair and not to use permanent red marker as blush on my cheeks.

I wish when I was 5, my parents had told me not to try to fly off the porch roof or give my cat a bath.

I wish when I was 5, my parents had told me not to use the good dishes for a tea party with the dog or try to dress up the cat like a baby.

Bully runs awayBY MATTHEW KONRAD


Anger rushes over me and instead of fight-ing or blurting out dirty words, I walk away.

But the bully comes back and bullies me more. I am more angry than I ever was, but still, I do not fight or say dirty words.

I keep my cool and say, “Stop it.” The bully looks even angrier. I turn pale. I freeze. I am nervous.

Everyone is a bystander and that makes me feel alone – that word rushes in my head and I stop. Then I notice. I do not feel so scared and I say, “Yeah. Stop it!” with great power.

The bully runs away with a mad face, but I am happy.

All the stressBY AMAYA MORFIN


When I was 5, I wish I had been told about everything I have to do today. I wish I had known that I’d have to do homework and wake up early for school every day.

I wish I had known that I have to do certain things for others that rely on you. I wish I had been told about all the stress and responsibil-ity that will only increase as I get older.

I wish I would’ve known that you have to deal with people you don’t like and drama you don’t want.

I wish that someone had told me that noth-ing’s going to get easier. But I guess that if someone had told me, it wouldn’t have mat-tered because I wouldn’t have experienced it yet to know.

Growing oldBY JULIA REMILLARD


I wish I had been told That I would grow oldAnd I wouldn’t stay a kidI wish my parents told me that when I was 5But they never didNow I’m bigAll grown upI no longer use sippy cupsIn just one year I’ll be in high schoolI’m way beyond preschoolI don’t mind that I’ve grownBut I still do wish I was told That I would grow old

I like winterBY TIM KENNEDY


I’m not your standard person. I like the cold mountain air, the smell of the snow, the soft swishing of snow.

I love winter and winter loves me – I can tell by the way the snow falls long and plenti-ful.

I like the frost on the window. I like the chill on the chairlift, but resent it

at the same time... I like that one bead of sweat that rolls

down your jacket and reminds you of the work and pain it takes to find the perfect run.

I love when you can’t see five feet in front of you because of the snow.

It reminds me that humans are not the only thing in this universe.

I would think my favorite thing in the win-ter is icicles that hang down a cliff.

But all things must come to an end, just like winter.

When summer comes creeping along, a part of me dies but I don’t hate it, just a new part of me comes along – the summer me.

It’s nowhere near as fun as the winter me.

Singing in the fieldBY ABHI DODGSON


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 field 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 flavor 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, writ-ing a novel, public speaking.

I like drawing, letting my pencil flow around the paper like a bird flying.

I like winter (when it’s not freezing) and the soft fluffy snow on the ground.

I like being with my friends and doing fun things with them.

TimeBY HANNAH EARL


Not many people think about time.Not many people watch a clock and study each tick and tock.The two hands moving together, until finally aligned and then moving apart again.Time is every-thing.If there was no time, there would be no deadlines, no years, no days, and therefore no us.Time keeps everything together.Such a simple thing that plays such a big part in our world, but no one seems to care.Everywhere I look I see time.Time is never gone, we go to sleep and time keeps going.Time is restless.No matter what happens, time stays strong,Never late nor early.Time keeps us organized and together.We always know exactly what time it is and can trust that it is right.Time is a shoulder to lean on,Always honest, always right.Time is everything.

Photo 7 © Brady Bessette/

Essex High School

Two handsBY HELEN BARROW


I am a clockAnd I go tick tock.I have two hands But I have no arms.But don’t you worryI do no harm.My big hand Has all the strength and power.But my small hand just keeps going By the hour.The big hand is quite fast. If they were to race, The small hand would come in last.Now you have to meet my friends That help me tick tock,Half past, Quarter past, Quarter to O’clock.



CHECK IT OUT!

THIS WEEK: If only, Invisible & General

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,



BAY AND PAUL FOUNDATIONS






publication here and in 21 other newspapers. This week

we publish work in response to the prompts, If only...Write

about a situation in which you wish you had done things

differently; Invisible: Imagine being invisible for a day; and

General writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Coyote Farrell/Richmond Middle School

Perfect worldBY KRISTEN BELL


If only the world was perfect, I would be so much happier. And so would all my friends. Bullying would cease, judging would disap-pear, and everything would be fine.

No one would get tired of each other; we’d all be grateful for one another. No one would be annoying.

And it would all just be love and kindness. No one would be left alone to sadness.

But the world isn’t perfect. It’s cruel, mean and selfish.

We take things as if they are our own. We judge each other.

And all the mean girls and boys never stop their mean words and hurtful looks.

The world will never be perfect, but can’t we at least try? People have been trying for years. And yet, not for one day in all of time has any day been completely perfect.

I think the world needs to try harder. I think the world needs to get rid of and

throw out all the nasty things people do.We need to practice things that will help all

of us, not bring others down.I’m sure everyone’s seen something bad

happen to either them or someone else, so why do we let it happen?

We need to mend the broken hearts that shattered because of our own selfishness.

We need to practice helping and listening to others before ourselves.

So, this is my advice to you: Lend a helping hand, always.

Casualties of war BY KEVIN YEUNG


I stepped down on the old, wooden floor boards without making a single creak. Distant explosions rumbled in the distance. I waited.

Seconds later, the entire house shook violently; dust flew from the ceiling, settling gently onto the floor.

The shaking stopped, and then I continued walking down the stairs. At the bottom, I heard a faint crying.

A mother and two kids sat in a corner, hud-dling and sobbing. I walked over and stood beside them.

They didn’t move or give any clue that they knew that I was there.

All of them had the look of fear in their eyes.

The little girl, her eyes all red and swollen from crying, was hugging her mom’s arm.

The boy was silent, staring right through me as if I weren’t there at all. He had the look of vengeance in his eyes, along with a twinge of bitterness.

The mother hugged her daughter and tried to comfort her son. She looked helpless and dejected.

The mother glanced at me and I froze. But then I realized she wasn’t looking at me; she was looking at the closet door behind me. I walked over and threw open the doors.

I finally understood why they were so depressed.

An old uniform, helmet, and gun hung on the rack in the closet. And there was a torn hole in the uniform.

One thingBY JENNI DELARICHELIERE


If only I hadn’t said that one thing. If I hadn’t said that one thing, we would be

closer together. We would still be friends, best friends. We would still have sleep-overs, go to the

movies and much more. I wish I hadn’t said that and we didn’t have

that fight, and have that silent treatment. It was hard to see you in the hallway and

you would look away from me, and people would ask, “What’s wrong?”

And I would just say, “Nothing is wrong,” when something was wrong.

We were friends forever until we had that fight.

I would do anything to reverse time and take back what I said and the fight we had.

To me, we will always be best friends.

Invisible for a dayBY BRITT DAVIS


Invisible for a day, what a thought!Wonder if anyone would miss me.Probably not...I would be a little fly on the wall,watching people walk down the hall.All my friends would wonder whereI would be.All the chit chat would be about me.I want to tell them, “I’m here!”But I wouldn’t do that, my dear.

Is anyone there?BY TAYLOR PELKEY


If I trip over my own feet,will you be there to retreat?If I get a bad grade,will you take me out of the shade?If I need a friend, will you be there until the end?If hurt comes along,will you keep me strong?If I feel left out,will you take me with no doubt?I ask you thesebecause I am stuck in a breezethat takes me the other way,and I just need to stay.

Ice stormBY MEGHAN CONNOR


One day after school I was going to the bus, when an announcement came on that said people who live on French Hill and Fairfield Hill had to be picked up in the front office.

Luckily my dad was at his office down the street, and he could pick my brother and me up.

It was all ice on the hill. There was a line of three cars, and we were

the fourth. The first car went up the hill and the second car waited for three minutes.

Then the third car went up the hill. My brother had a game at 4:30 and it was 4

o’clock. We had to go and get my mom at the house.

Next, my dad started to go up the hill. He waited a little longer than the other cars

did because we couldn’t see to the top of the hill.

Finally, we were at the top of the hill. We made it. Yes!

NEXT PROMPT Eternal night. You wake up one morn-ing and the sun doesn’t rise. It doesn’t rise the next day either. What do you do? Alternate: Silver lining. When bad things happen, how do you recover? Due Feb. 22

They’ll rememberBY SOPHIA BLOUIN


If only some things had never happened. But if they hadn’t, most of my future would be changed.

You don’t realize it now, but how you act and present yourself is how people will remember you.

They will remember you as a kind or selfish person. A mean or sweet person.

People don’t forget about you. They will remember you, and just as you.

How I regretBY JULIA REMILLARD


If onlythat horrible thought wouldn’t keep attracting my brain like a magnet.If only I hadn’t looked back.If only I hadn’t followed the pack.I could’ve been happy instead of unhappy.Oh, how I regretfollowing the crowdand never being proud.I would go back and fixall those mean, nasty tricksthat I let slip by me.Oh, if only.


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,



ORTON FAMILY FOUNDATION







publish work in response to the prompts, Photo 6, below, and

General writing in any genre. To read more great student

writing, go to youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil online

community of writers.

PHOTO 6


Photo 6: Tower 22, Looking East. Mad River Glen © Jet Lowe, 2006 (Library of Congress)

Vermont Writes DayFebruary 7, 2013

Join YWP and Vermont schoolsfor a statewide day of writing!

Set aside just 7 minutes on Feb. 7to write.

Find out more at vermontwritesday.org.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

NEXT PROMPT

Package. The UPS truck arrives with a huge box addressed to you. What’s in-side? Who’s it from? Alternate: General writing. Due Feb. 15

Empty resortBY TAYLOR PELKEY


One day my friends and I went to the place where we always meet, the old resort.

We call it the old resort because the sign at the entrance is faded due to about 30 years of snow and sunshine and not being tended to. We don’t know what it’s actually called. The place has been empty for years.

We were all talking and giggling when suddenly a shadowy figure came out from the woods and said to us, “Get out of here before they get you!”

He started chasing us until we were out of the resort and he told us not to go back and then we heard him scream.

We all ran home, but the next morning we arranged to go back. We did the same thing and we saw the figure again, except he looked freezing cold and couldn’t talk very well. But we made out some words that he was saying: leave, tear you apart, woods, monster.

That was all we needed to make us want to go see what this figure was trying to hide from us. We left to go see what it was. We heard the figure say, woods, so we were guessing that the thing was in the woods.

We heard footsteps but they didn’t sound like they came from the shadowy figure. We kept walking and we heard the footsteps get-ting louder and closer... To read the ending of this story, go to young-writersproject.org/node/74646

All the bad thingsin the worldBY KYLIE TRIMM


I breathe inAnd with the air,A realization hits meLike I have been slapped.Hard.My world is crumbling around me,And with every step I take,Another person seems to feel pain.I want it to stop.I need it to end.For them. For everyone.I see a mom, with her baby,Tears streaming down her face,Hands shaking so hard,I thought the baby would fall.I hear the baby crying,And then, all of a sudden,The cry stops.The mom stops,Then cries hard,And hugs the baby toward her.A beggar on the street,So skinny, he could snapIf you poked him.He stares at me,Breathes in, then out.But his breathsSeem unnatural.I kneel by him,Tell him everything’s alright,But he knows it isn’t.He smiles and says,“I haven’t eaten anything in a week.Haven’t drank in two.To some, life is a treasure.To others, life is hell.No one ever looks at me,Never takes a glance.God has let me down,Angels never came.When I leave,I will remember you.”He smiles and his hand goes limp in mine.One step at a time, I think.Always breathe, remember to blink.Life is a lie.The sky’s never blue.But I knew the beggar is wrong.Someone is here for us.Talking to us.All we have to do is listen.

The doeBY JENNIFER DELARICHELIERE


It was a beautiful morning; the sun was peeking over the mountains, the air smelled crisp and fresh, the birds were chirping. It was peaceful.

A little doe, no bigger than 70 pounds, was walking down her favorite trail in the woods to an old apple orchard.

As she was walking, nearing the orchard with all its nice, plump, juicy, ruby red apples waiting for her to eat, she noticed something had changed. It was as quiet as a mouse; the birds stopped chirping. She started to tremble. She was frozen to the ground.

The doe started to ever so slowly creep away. She reached the apple orchard with its big, plump, ruby red apples. As she started to take a bite of an apple, she smelled a nasty, musty odor. Crack! A twig snapped in the distance.

She turned as white as a new sheet of snow, and began to tremble and shiver in fear. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a

glare of light, it was the scope on a hunter’s rifle pointing directly at her. She bolted to the entrance of her favorite trail...Bang! She jumped out of her fur as the bullet hit the apple that she was about to eat.

She was out of sight when she heard another shot hit a tree. The doe was leaping back to her herd.

Once she reached her herd, her muscles started to relax. Her herd was deep in the woods where no hunters could be found.

She was safe.

Snowy hillBY JULIA REMILLARD


I ride to the top of the hillI hope on the way down I won’t have a spillI slide off the chair The steepness of the hill I can hardly bearBut I breathe in and start my journeyI race down the hillMy face burning from the chillBut still getting quite a thrillIn my head thinking I’ll never reach the bot-tom But finally I come to a stopOut of breathI take a few stepsRight back into lineAs I ride the lift just one more time

FriendsBY ELINORE VRANJES


ForeverRespectImagineExcitementNewDelightfulSilly

YWP ON VPR

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CHECK IT OUT!

THIS WEEK: Object & General

YWP is supported by the generosity of foundations, business 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, Burling-

ton, VT 05401.


THE TURRELL FUND


YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authen-tic audiences. YWP runs youngwriter-

sproject.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.





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


PHOTO OF THE WEEK

Set flour to the wind © Emily Aldrich/Grade 7, Mount Abraham Union Middle School

Puppet BY MARIAH BATHALON


Have you ever thought about how a pup-pet would feel and what it would be like if it could talk? Well, I used to question that until one day, it came true.

I was walking downtown to my job as a puppeteer. Jolly day, I would say. My morning was going like any other. I would get to work, struggle to find my keys in my bag, always get the key stuck, walk into the back room, turn on the radio, then go and admire my puppets.

When I walked into my workshop, things just didn’t seem right. It seemed that things were out of place. I usually clean my work-shop before I leave, but it was a horrific mess. Did I get robbed? I walked around the workshop, investigating and creating differ-ent scenarios of what could have happened. I decided I would open a little later and tidy up.

I went to get my broom and started sweep-ing. When I found one of my puppets’ hats lying there, I knelt down to pick it up. It was Sir George’s hat. Well, that is weird, I thought. How could his hat be lying here? It’s almost as if he had come alive and walked around the store! But that would be absurd; I mean come on, get real. So I pondered and pondered. Finally I approached the room where all my puppets lived and then I saw it.

My puppets were having a party. I dropped the broom immediately. All of the puppets stopped in their tracks and so did I.

Sir George and I stared at each other for maybe 10 minutes when finally Amelia Bobila spoke up,“ Are you guys gonna talk or just stand there like a bunch of doofuses?”

I closed my mouth and gulped hard. I slowly walked toward the table and Sir George straightened himself out. I reached the table and knelt down. I looked at all of them astonished, amazed, scared.

Lea walked towards me; Lea is my new puppet. She touched my face and said “Hello, thank you for adopting me from my biological family; they didn’t treat me very well.”

I looked at her, a little scared but touched. “Aw, you’re welcome Lea, anything for you,” I said, my voice kind of shaky, trying to wrap my mind around my puppets being real.

She slowly brought her hand from my face and walked away. I stood up and looked back at Sir George.

He looked at me, looked away, then looked back at me. “So what do you think?” he asked.

I took a deep breath, “It is going to take me a while, but I think I can handle it.”

Snow angelBY CAMERON ERNO


The white needles fall from the skystinging my face and my eyes. I walkalong the monochrome field, inhaling theIce while my lungs freeze overThe searing white of the groundreflecting the glare and shooting it at meMy exhale existsbut my presence is notThe ice fills my boots, my glovesMy hat and my coat as wellThe numbness and theTingles turn into throbsThe life of sorrow must endThe weather shows discrimination to no oneMaking cheeks and extremities numb andRedI dust the flakes off my skinI shed my shell and become bareLaying in the stunning whiteAs the monochrome field devours me

Forgotten by them allBY AARON CLARK


The icy gale whined outside,the winds whipped at my soul,slowly changed my beating heart into a blockof ice.The punishing cold kickedand beat me slowlyinto submission.Mother nature,taking out her furyupon mortalslike Poseidon on cursed Odysseus.Father time continueshis monotonous creep forward,leaning heavily upon his scepter,unconcerned with my trials and tribulations.For even though they have forsaken me,I anxiously awaitDemeter’s returnand the end of winter.


January thawBY CAMERON BEATTIE


January thaws are not cool at all.You miss the snow that falls and falls.Since when does a Vermont winter feel like spring?I feel like the birds have come back to sing.Leave Vermont and never come back.We need our snow to get back on track.January thaws, January thaws,I do not like you ... at all!

DreamsBY KAYLAN HATHAWAY


Come with me to a magical placetons of monsters that you can facebut if that’s not your thing we can go slowsit down and watch this wonderful showspaceships, flying and adventuringyou can do all of these thingsso come with meand you will seewe will split you at the seamstime to look inside your dreams

Join YWP, schools and community groups for this

statewide day of writing!

Set aside just 7 minutes on Feb. 7to write.


NEXT PROMPTS

Three letters. Choose three letters. You can write a poem or a short story, but all words must either start or end with these letters. Alternate: Bottle. You’re 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 you’d never heard. Alternate: Photo 8. Write a story or poem based on this photo by Kayla Rideout of Essex High School. Due Feb. 8.

Package. The UPS truck arrives with a huge box addressed to you. What’s inside? Who’s it from? Alternate: Gen-eral writing in any genre. Due Feb. 15

StrandedBY JULIA REMILLARD


I let the smooth yet frightening air absorb meMy mind lost at seaMy eyes locked on the sinking boatMy legs keeping me afloatDon’t be afraid, a great poet once wroteBut that’s nearly impossible In fact it is not possibleSimply stranded out here all aloneThe sky turning a shaded toneI feel a brush at my feetLuckily it’s just seaweedThe water -32If I don’t die, I’ll surely get a cold or fluIs that a rescue boat in the distance If they don’t hurry I’ll no longer be in exis-tenceBut finally they’re hereThe salty water dissolving my tearsRushes into a roomMedicine as my fumeI awake to a toy boat on the tableJust looking at it makes me unstableBut I do have my land legs backSometimes I stumble, but cut me some slackNever will I swim in the ocean againI’ll just stay in my tub instead



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Cold as death

BY MAYA VIENS


Huddled tight in neon fabricScuffed up boots stained with saltmismatched mittensThis is my armor against the coldSo different from the skins my ancestors worewrapped up in the deadGhosts of wolves nipping at their backsI ruin the flakes of white diamonds with my dirty printWhite to blackDiamond to dirtThey cry out for mercy under my stepbut I give them noneI am too cold to carefreezing, shaking, shiveringMy fingers and toes feel deadBlood rushes to my midriff to protect my heart from Jack Frost’s teethJack Frost is beautifulglistening, sparkling, purean illusion of beauty that fools foolsUnderneath the white gemmed wealthis the grimhiding, waiting, salivatingfor his next victim

Tick, tick, tickBY GRIFFIN KNAPP


Tick, tick, tick, can’t wait until class is over.Man, today I got so much homework.Tick, tick, tick,30 years later,I’m thinking in my head,I don’t want to die here in my bed.I’m going to do something with my life.I’m going on an adventure with my wife.

Blood flowing BY JULIA REMILLARD


I hang upside down, letting the blood rush to my headHanging by only a threadMy hair bleach blonde and thinAnd pointy as a pin Flows down to the floorDeep into my coreMy face as blank as paperIn a state of mindOne of my own kindIs fragile and paleIt looks very staleMy body is numbSome people call me dumb Because I let the blood rush to my headAnd now my face is bright redI can’t feel my legs, my feet or my toes My mind has dozedMy legs slip I do a flip And I land hard on my faceMy heart is beating at a fast paceBut then I get feeling through my bodyI’m still kind of groggy

Absurd photo BY MARIAH BATHALON


This photo is absurd. Ha ha. You don’t know if she is upside down, or if she just has a lot of hair gel or hair spray in her hair.

Then she kind of has a smirk on her face, but kind of not. I know if my hair were like that I would be smiling.

In this picture she looks like she is sitting on a porch because of the background.

When I looked at this picture for a long time, I stared at her face and for some reason I tried to picture her being bald, which isn’t a bad thing, but that’s all I could picture.

When I am upside down, my eyes go up and my mouth stays right open, big and wide. I get a headache the longer I sit there, seeing the world in a whole new perspective.

When I am upside down, I always laugh, and everything is a whole lot funnier than usual. I wonder if she is the same way?

Her hair looks blonde, and usually blondes have blue eyes. So that’s what my hypothesis is. In the picture she looks about 11 years old. She looks like she isn’t really the sporty type, maybe a book worm.

If my guess it right, she and I are nothing alike, which isn’t a bad thing either; maybe we could end up being friends, maybe not.

She looks like a girl who likes being out-side, and maybe she rides horses. That would be something to bring us closer.

When I am hanging upside down, every-thing flips. I wonder what her landscape is.

And when I am right side up, ants are really puny, but when I am upside down, the ant is as big as a chair would be when I am right side up. I wonder why there is such a diversity of size?



05401.


A.D. HENDERSON FOUNDATION



Each week, Young Writers Project receives hundreds of

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 21 other newspapers. This

week, we publish work in response to the prompts, Photo

5: Write a story or poem based on this photo; and General

writing. More at youngwritersproject.org.

NEXT PROMPTS

I like… Create a list of things you like. They can be random and unrelated 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

Three letters. Choose three letters. You can write a poem or a short story, but all words must either start or end with these letters. Alternate: Bottle. You’re walking along the beach and a bottle with a message inside washes up on the shore. What is the message? What do you do? Due Feb. 1



Students, teachers, writers!

Across VT and NH, people are setting aside just 7 minutes on Feb. 7 to write!


PHOTO OF THE WEEK

Photo 5 ©Anna Mechler/Essex High School

ButterflyBY KAYLAN HATHAWAY


Oh hi, oh hi, little butterfly,Your wings as blue as the morning sky.As you fly to and fro, I say, bye you, for I must go.Oh bye, oh bye, little butterfly.All I want is you to fly.



CHECK IT OUT!

THIS WEEK: General writing

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.


KEY BANK


YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authen-tic audiences. YWP runs youngwriter-sproject.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


324-9537.





publish work in response to the prompt for General writing.

To read more great writing, go to youngwritersproject.org, a

safe, civil online community of writers.

© Liu Brenna/Essex High School

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

First snowBY GRACE BATES


Snow falling from the skyThe first snow of the seasonOh, how nice it is

Knee-deep in snowBY AJ CADIEUX


When it snows, it makes me feel like I’m in another world.

I look outside and I see white stuff covering the ground, the trees, and the cars.

I run upstairs to get my snow pants, gloves, hat, jacket and boots. Then I get my shovel and my sled.

When I step off the porch and sink knee-deep in snow, I struggle to stay up.

I have a hard time walking through the snow with all my snow stuff on.

I find a good spot and start making a snow-man. I get a snowball and roll it until it gets really big, then I put it where I want it.

I make another snowball and roll it about half the size of the first.

Then I put the smaller snowball on top of the big snowball, and I have the bottom and the middle of the snowman.

I make another snowball and roll it – not that big – and put it on the middle snowball. I get two sticks, a carrot, a scarf and a hat, and I put them on the snowball and I have a snowman.

I also like riding my snowmobile all winter long. I like riding on the ice – then I can whip the back end around.

I also like ice fishing. When I ice fish, I fish in a fishing shanty.

I like checking the flag lines because you put live bait on the hook and then you wait.

When I wait, I usually ride my snowmobile around the lake.

These are some of the things that I love about winter.

Sleep tightBY JULIA REMILLARD


I press my face against the chilly glassTime goes by so fastI just want to freeze my brainMy face leaving a stain, an imprint on the doorStaring at it thinking, there’s so much moreMy slim body fit to perfection My hollow eyes filled with empty criesMy knotty hair, dull and bareJudging myself is making me tiredSo good night Sleep tight

Girls’ locker roomBY TAYLOR PELKEY


It’s smellyMakes me sick to my bellyAll the perfumeMore like fumesI open the door And want to drop to the floorI need fresh airI cover my mouth with my hairI’m almost done getting dressed And I do my bestTo crawl out the door

All is whiteBY NICOLINA CZEKAJ


All around is sparkling, dazzling white snow.As it drops down from the sky in great big snowflakes, all is white.The clouds above are big, grey shapes,shooting out the remains of last year’s snow-man.I sigh and sit near the fire.How cold this winter can be.

UnsaidBY AVERY MCLEAN

Grade 7, Lake Champlain Waldorf School

Intricate designs float to land Softly on my mittened hand.The snowflakes move to rest on theBarren earth, waiting toBlanket the brown in aQuiet mantle of Unbroken white.My breath drifts upwards,Creates mythical creaturesAgainst the dusky eveningSky.A rabbit’s tracks windUnmoved up the trailing Wisp of a path ahead of me.Another soul walks next to me.Though my eyes are unseeing,I can sense the presence of another.There is no need for speech –Everything is a clear poem in thisWinter realm of Beauty.

Lights of winterBY EMILY ESANCY


Lights are glowing brightthe moon shining through the cloudswhite sparkling snow

Wish they’d told me BY KELSEY SWANN


Something I wish someone had told me is to watch out for drama in middle school.

I wish someone would have told me this because all the drama right now is ridiculous.

There is no point to it. It just makes the world more complicated and more people become enemies.

I strongly dislike drama. It makes people feel bad and it worries people.

Drama includes rumors, and sometimes drama turns into bullying. Nobody likes to be bullied or pushed around.

I have gotten pulled into situations, but I have learned to stay away from it. It’s best to stay away from drama. You don’t want to get too close to people who have a lot of drama in their life because you’re probably going to get pulled into bad situations.

I just wish someone would have told me middle/high school drama is horrible.

NEXT PROMPTS Puns. Have fun with a play on words

(i.e. cereal number, sell phone, etc.). Try to fit in as many puns as you can. Be creative! Alternates: Essential. What’s one thing you absolutely could not live without? Why?; or I believe…Start a piece with the words, I believe. Due Jan. 11

Invisible. Imagine that you are invis-ible for a day and could be anywhere at any time in history, witness-ing without participating. What do you see? Alternates: General writing; or Photo 7. Write a poem based on the photo above. Due Jan. 18

Mary and the genieBY SIERRA LAW


Once, long ago, legend said that if you found a genie in the magical forest, you would get one wish granted.

As everyone knows, the magical forest is located in northern Canada and can be reached only by the toughest and strongest people. No one has tried it, but it is because only a few people know about it – like Mary, a 7-year-old who is mostly good and is very intelligent and knows just about anything.

Mary lived near the forest, and planned to go there to fulfill her wish of becoming a ge-nie herself and granting other people’s wishes.

Read the ending of this story at youngwritersproject.

org/node/75063.



THIS WEEK: Family & General

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.


VERMONT COUNTRY STORE


YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authen-tic audiences. YWP runs youngwriter-sproject.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.





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


PHOTO OF THE WEEK


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 couldn’t 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.”

YWP’S DECEMBER SLAM

YWP, 12 North Street, Burlington

Friday, Dec. 21, 7-8:30 p.m.

See you there!

Brother’s guidanceBY KRISTEN BELL


Dark and cold, that’s all I felt. I couldn’t sleep, so I went out the door and wrapped myself in my coat.

Walking slowly and quietly to the deck where our pool used to be, tucking part of the back ends of the sweatshirt behind me, I sat down.

The softly calm breeze rushed past my hair and left me behind. The moon was almost completely full.

I heard footsteps behind me. I looked over my shoulder.

“Can’t sleep?” he said. It was my older brother Preston.

“No,” I muttered softly. I didn’t feel like talking; I loved the silence.

“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice echoed in my head softly.

The truth was, I did, but I didn’t want to talk; I’d write.

“Do you have paper? I’d rather write it....” He walked away, and called over his shoul-

der, “When I come back I will.” The silence showed itself again. Its voice

whispered in my ear, quietly, softly, then whisked off into to the calming air.

The footsteps reappeared. He was back.“Got it.” He brought a whole stack. He

knows me so well and yet I only tell him things about once or twice a year.

He knows once I start writing I have to keep writing; I have to create that moment I’m telling him into a never-ending story.

Then after a while, meaning an hour or two, he’ll make me stop and tell me what I can do to end it in a positive way.

When he gives advice on how the story should end, he’s also giving me advice on my life and how I can change it, make it better.

“Okay,” I whispered again. I began to write about a girl, who happened

to be me, but I don’t use names in these sto-ries, I never did, never will.

“It all happened when a girl walked into a room....”

I wrote for about 55 minutes. Then he made me stop writing.

He read over it and then said this simple sentence.

“I’m sorry... I guess all you can do is not do what they did.”

And now I don’t.

No cryingBY CAMERON BUSHEY


Once my brother and I were sledding and I took a little tumble. I was a lot younger then and I began to cry.

My brother looked at me and said, “Stop crying. You should only cry when you are in extreme pain or you’re heartbroken. Not when you fall off a sled.”

Ever since then I try not to cry unless the situation meets those criteria.

The lesson was not just about crying; it was about being mentally strong. That is one of many lessons my brother has taught me.

NEXT PROMPTS

Kindness. You have performed an act of kindness. What is it? How does it make you feel? What happens? Al-ternates: 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 fit in as many puns as you can. Alternates: Essential. What’s one thing you absolutely could not live without? Why? or I believe...Start a piece with the words, I believe. Due Jan. 11.

Believe in magicBY JULIA REMILLARD


I wrap the presents one by oneChristmas brings so much funMaking cookies, oh so yummySinging carols that are funnyMaking a list, checking it twiceSending it off into the nightMeeting fun elvesWho create mischief all by themselvesBelieving in magicA Christmas classicWhat joyIt brings to get a new toyOn December 25th

City lifeBY GRIFFIN KNAPP


It’s so crowded down in the city,so crowded, people ask for pity.As I look to my left, I see a bank robber running from his theft.I take a gander to my right, all I see is cars jammed oh so tight.As I decide I’ve had enough of the city life,I head back home to see my kids and wife.

Meeting SantaBY TAYLOR PELKEY


One day, there was a little girl named Katy. Katy was 7 years old and her dream since

she heard about Santa was to meet him. On Christmas Eve, she woke up super early

just to find no presents under the tree. Katy was very upset. Katy’s parents came down-stairs and said that Santa probably couldn't find them, like last year.

Katy didn’t believe that, but she went back to bed, like she was asked.

She woke up to the sound of a big, “Ho Ho Ho!” She rapidly ran downstairs to see the man himself, Santa Claus.

She ran over and gave him a hug, and he said, “What’s your name, little girl?”

She responded by saying her name and explained to him that her parents said that he couldn’t find them. The big jolly old man just laughed and said, “Yes, that is true. Last year was Rudolph’s bad year. He was not able to find a few people. But this year, I will make it up to you and give you a special little gift.”

“What’s that?” she asked. “Here, I want to give you this,” he said,

handing her a small gift, wrapped perfectly in a pretty pink box.

Katy tore open the paper and opened the box to see a little Christmas light that would light up if you believed in Santa. It was from the North Pole.

After Santa put all of the presents under the tree, he jumped back up the chimney and said, “Have a Merry Christmas!”

And he flew away on his sleigh pulled by numerous reindeer.

It’s about family BY CAMERON BEATTIE


Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas: the vibe, family, friends, food and, of course, presents.

But really what is Christmas about? Cel-ebrating the birth of Jesus Christ.

These days I see this whole hype of buying presents, sales for Christmas, Black Friday, getting your Christmas tree, all these things that people stress about for one day that just blows by, oh so quickly.

Imagine a Christmas where it was just a day off to celebrate with your family and friends the true meaning of Christmas.

I mean there are people who don’t have anything, and they still might have a wonder-ful Christmas because they believe that family is all you need.

And yes, the presents are very nice, but that is not what Christmas is about...

THIS WEEK: Favorite place & Photo 4

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.


CHAMPLAIN INVESTMENT PARTNERS



sproject.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


324-9537.





publish responses to the prompts, Favorite place: What is

the special place where you really like to be?; and Photo 4.


NEXT PROMPTS

Kindness. You have performed an act of kindness. What is it? How does it make you feel? What happens? Al-

ternates: 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 fit in as many puns as you can. Alternates: Essential. What’s one thing you absolutely could not live without? Why? or I believe...Start a piece with these words, I believe. Due Jan. 11.

Something to sayBY JULIA REMILLARD


Three-thousand pounds on my shoulders,the weight of a huge boulder.I support the family and I’m only 6 years old.But these are my duties, I’ve been told.I work in the fields and sometimes in the mine.Working at this age should be a crime.I am quiet and shybut that’s because all I can do is cry.I wish my family was richso I wouldn’t have to workwhen I’m only 6.But fairy tales don’t exist, so I just sit here in silence and wait for a better fate.

The woodsBY EMMA HILL


A special place for me is safe and all alone.The woods, I might say, is a place to call my home.The fallen orange leaves crunch beneath my toes.A secret place I go, no one ever knows.Cool, fresh air I breathe.Wind whips through my hair.The darkness is now coming.It’s dinner time, I swear.I turn to walk back home,Covering my trail.If someone finds my special place,My face just might turn pale.

The place whereI’m most comfortableBY TYLER LAROCHE


I’m an ice hockey goalie. One of the posi-tions we have to be in is the butterfly. We have to go on the ground and have our stick in front and put our knees together.

I feel comfortable because we have to do it so much in games and practices.

It helps me in the game with low to me-dium shots where I can block them away.

I’m getting better at directing rebounds.I need to test the position every game to

stop shots. An improvement I could make to it is closing my knees all the time.

You have to stand really tall to stop the shots and that’s where I feel most comfort-able.

AlaskaBY KOLBY CHURCH


I would love to be in Alaska. I love Alaska because it has a lot of big

game. I love hunting deer. I love how there are a lot of mountains and

huge animals there. I would like watching animals eat and go

to their den. I would like going in a tree stand and watching deer.

I would see lots of other animals like elk or wolves. I would be very cold there because I live in Vermont.

I have only been hunting for three years and I haven’t shot anything yet.

There are not very many places to hunt in Vermont, so that’s why I want to go to Alaska to hunt and see deer.

The long and dusty road home

BY AUDREY DAWSON

Grade 8, Westford School

I remember the day when my usually jolly, worry-free parents changed slightly. The first signs of the change were with my father when he came home, dusty and tired, from his work in the Oklaho-man fields.

The gritty breeze created when he flung the door open abruptly made our fire flicker. When my mother approached him with her customary smile, he kissed her quickly and then whispered fiercely into her ear.

Her smile disappeared as she took his dusty basket, storing the vegetables and money away. When I ran to my father with my arms outstretched, he returned my af-fection with a clumsy, half-hearted hug.

Mom cooked dinner as usual, but for the first time since I could remember, the smell of burnt veg-etables hung in the cabin instead of the usual sweet buttery aromas. Dinner was quiet, and afterwards, my parents again spoke in fierce whispers.

I waited for them to come and pray with me, but they didn’t come; I fell asleep before they finished their discussion.

The next night, my father flopped into bed before we had prayed. Mother whispered into his ear something that I couldn’t hear, caus-ing him to get up, begrudgingly, urging us to hurry up the process.

That day the wind had stirred up the dirt outside, and, with every gust, dust clouds would sneak their way through the cracks in the walls. My mother worked frantically to stop it. She stopped me from checking on the chickens, too.

My dad came home with a dejected look on his dark face. He took his cap off and a pile of dust floated to the floor. My mother glanced up from her work of stuffing the cracks and they shared a sad look.

My father held up a basket of vegetables, “This is it. I couldn’t sell anything today, and I barely made the quota for the month.”

Mother continued her work, never stopping to kiss him. I, however, ran to him, and he gave me a strong hug. It was enough to make me feel safe again, even though they were very distraught and worried.

That night, my father didn’t join us in prayer; he instead went straight to bed.

My mother stayed with me, and we whis-pered our hopes and needs to the Lord, whom my mother assured me was listening.

The last thing my mother prayed for was my father: “Please don’t let my husband aban-don his faith.” She had her eyes tightly closed, and her lips were pursed. “We need him to be here.”

Then she ruffled my hair and sent me off to bed. I repeated her prayer in my bed: “Please don’t let my daddy abandon his faith. I need him to be here!”

I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I did know that the absence of my father at the prayer time was more shocking to me than it would have been if he had yelled at me.

Throughout the whole night, the dust continued to seep through the cracks; even my mother’s cleverly crafted wet-rag plugs didn’t stop everything.

The next day the wind was mild when I woke up.

My parents started to get ready to head into town. I gathered the eggs, but my mother, who usually trusted me with the basket of eggs, took them from me before we left.

“I don’t want them to break! One less egg

sold equals less candy later!” she whispered softly into my ear. I was quick to hand them over. Then I was ushered out of the door, and we were on our way.

A brisk wind was stirring the trees, but there wasn’t much dust. I felt safe, although my dad seemed especially distressed. When we reached the town, we set up our little sta-tion and waited for customers. We spent many long hours in the dusty streets, and only made half of our usual weekend sales. We still had lots of vegetables. My parents were desper-ately trying to make some last-minute sales, but the people that passed were irritable and hurried, and continued to answer negatively, or not at all.

So, we put away our wares. My parents split up the money between them and we all headed into the general store before going our separate ways.

The first thing that always greeted me when I trotted into the store was the candy counter. It held jars of brightly colored sticks and pops. My mother glanced at it when we entered, but hurried to other shelves to stock up on basics, such as cornmeal, flour, sugar, and dried beans.

I was surprised that she didn’t ask me for help carrying the food when we headed over to the register, but I was quickly distracted by the surrounding piles mouth-watering candy. I placed my small hands on the glass and stared.

My mother smiled at me, and asked me what I wanted. I told her that I wanted a chocolate bar. She paid the grocer quickly and, in return, he handed us a small bag of butterscotch penny candy.

“I know how much you enjoy this!” He winked at me. “And thanks for paying,” he whispered to my mother. “There are lots of people in debt; they say they’ll pay and I don’t want to be the mean guy, but times are tough for me, too.” She smiled grimly and pushed me out of the store, the cheery bell ringing as we exited.

When we got out, I ripped into the bag of candy and popped one into my mouth. It melted on my tongue and made me forget any worries. “Thank you, Mommy!” I said to her. She nodded, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

When my dad came out of the store, he had a small cut of meat packaged in his arms and we headed down the long, dusty road home, keeping our noses and mouths hidden.

It was our only option if we didn’t want to become sickened by the dusty breeze, al-though I believe that even if it had been a nice day, my parents would have walked in silence.

Photo Prompt 4 © Jack Delano, Dummerston, VT, 1941 (Library of Congress)



CHECK IT OUT!

A winter’s dayBY ABHI DODGSON


A gray skyplainneither dark nor lightSnow piling in driftsseemingly soft puffsweighing downbranches of treesFlurries pirouettingin whirlwindsI trudge down a desertedicy roaddodgingparties of snowflakesand walk intoan abandoned gardenLifelike statuescovered in white gownswelcome meFiery red cardinalsstartled by my presencefly into nearby treesGlittery, sparklingflakes of snowdecorate plantslong gone byI shiveras darkness approachesand think ofhomeand the taste ofhot chocolate

THIS WEEK: Winter Tales

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.


Birdseye Foundation





324-9537.





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.

© Erin Bundock/Champlain Valley Union High School

VERMONT STAGE COMPANY

PRESENTS

WINTER TALES

Dec. 5-9

FlynnSpace, Burlington

Don’t miss this holiday tradition,

which includes a selection of writing

from YWP’s Winter Tales prompt!

Congratulations to Erin Bundock, a freshman at Champlain Valley Union High School, whose

photo was chosen as YWP’s Photo of the Week. Photographers and artists, send YWP your

photos and scanned artwork for publication. Find out more at youngwritersproject.org.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

I’ll call it swoshBY EMMA TETREAULT


Something is happening. I’m not sure what. It looks like heaven is falling, but I don’t think that’s possible. Is it?

You’re right, it isn’t heaven falling, and maybe it’s my imagination, but it seems so real. I touch it. It’s so cold I pull away, but then it’s gone, melted on my hand.

I don’t know what it is, but I know I’m going to find out. I decide to go out into the mesmerizing wonderland outside.

My bare feet touch wet, cold ground and I stop because it’s so cold. I move quickly to a new spot that surely will be warmer than my other spot. But it’s even colder, and behind me my feet leave exact replicas of my feet in this weird white stuff.

I think I’ll call it swosh...

Read the ending of this story at youngwrit-ersproject.org/node/73562.

Snow angelsBY LIAM CALLAHAN


The snow is falling all aroundIt chills the air and cushions the groundI put on my coat and my snow pantsI go outside and the cold chills my handsI fall on the ground and make a snow angelThis kind of fun lasts throughout the agesI see the hill and begin my ascentI sit on my sled and start my downhill descentIt covers the treetops, this white, soft stuffThis blanket of powdery white fluffI hang up my wet clothesAnd put on newI heat up some cocoaI sip it slowThere’s lots of wonderful things in this worldAnd my favorite is snow, snow, snow

Soldier without a warBY AARON CLARK


Muscles strained,Spine aching,still marchingdutifully onward,a soldier without a war.Shovel in hand,he chargesforward,forward towardthe icy wallsof snowthat confine him.A triumphant battle cry eruptsfrom his mouth assteam bellowswith every hard-fought breath.He will escapethis prison of snow and icetoday and every dayhence.Until his jailorretreats into spring,he will charge,shovel in hand,onward,a soldier without a war.

The brothersBY DESIREE LYNN TARDY


It was the kind of day when the weather was not cold, the weather was brutal. School was canceled, the car was buried up to the very top of the tires.

The kids were restless and wild, wanting to explore the white wonderland outside. The wind cracked against the side of the house and the ice froze against the glass, creating patterns.

They traced the window with their fingers.Mommy was sleeping.“If we snuck out, I’m sure we wouldn’t get

caught. Mommy sleeps like she’s dead.”The two little brothers cocooned themselves

in various coats and scarves, and two sets of mittens. Mommy would be mad if they didn’t take proper care of themselves.

With the icy snow nipping at their noses and fingertips, they played, the snow whirling around them with a mind of its own.

The littlest balled snow in his hand and sent it towards the oldest right in the chest, and he barely felt it.

“Ha ha,” he scoffed. He sent one toward the youngest.

The youngest took the hit on the nose, and his little gloved hand covered the small bruise. A numb nose and the snow from their mittens added to that nipping numbness they each felt.

The snow was stained under the youngest with red little drops, and hot tears melted onto his cheeks. The oldest went to get Mommy. He was full of panic.

Once Mommy fixed up the youngest, she scolded the two brothers for their behavior.

My tales of winterBY SABRINA BRAULT


Window panes frosted over, cold noses turned redGet up and pull yourself right out of bedWarm bundled feet hit the cold hard floorNot wanting to move at all anymoreWalk down stairs, meet a cold empty houseEverything here is quiet as a mouseIt seems to me like no one is home

I know that I am most certainly aloneOpen the door to greet a wall of coldThe chills go down to the bone like I’m oldStanding outside scraping the carOut there for hours not getting too farBruised bottom from slipping on iceThese ones don’t feel very niceI feel like I do that quite oftenMaybe my landings I need to softenThe cold winter weather isn’t my thingI wish it was something about which I could singAt the moment I don’t want winter to comeI wish it would just stay deep in its home



CHECK IT OUT!

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

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 newspapers. 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 youngwriter-

sproject.org.

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.


VERMONT COMMUNITY

FOUNDATION


YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authen-tic audiences. YWP runs youngwriter-sproject.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


324-9537.

NEXT PROMPTS

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 didn’t do something, why you were so late, why you can’t go. It must stretch the imagination yet still remain credible. Due Dec. 7

© Jamie Ferguson/Milton High School

Congratulations to Jamie Ferguson, a junior at Milton High School, whose photo of a salamander

was chosen as YWP’s Photo of the Week. Photographers and artists, send YWP your photos and

scanned artwork for publication. Find out more at youngwritersproject.org.

Another worldBY ABHI DODGSON


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 lis-tened 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 still-ness of the night. I fixed 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.

Me, aloneBY VICTORIA BLAIS


I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear.

From the quietness of the attic you could hear the dirt crunch under the car as it pulled away.

I turned away from the window only when the trees that framed our long driveway hid the car when it turned the corner.

The attic was void of colors. The dolls I played with had black hair and

white or gray dresses. The wallpaper, which should’ve been re-

placed years before we moved in, had various odd unexplainable stains on its floral print.

I placed my hand on the bronze doorknob, not having the will to open it just yet.

For I knew when I opened it, the only thing that awaited was me, alone.

Is it raining there?BY SABRINA BRAULT


I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear. Even though it was six months ago, the memory is still vivid. The images lay hardened like cement inside my brain.

My brother stood there, clad in camo, as the rain fell down around him. He was tall and lean, towering over me, although I’m not so tall myself.

He wasn’t only tall in height. I also looked up to him, which made him feel larger than life itself. He was always my protector and friend.

His deep blue eyes always had some hid-den joke. Even though his shaggy brown hair normally covered his eyes, once you saw them, it was impossible to forget them. I miss my mop-headed brother... He returned from the barber with a haircut high and tight just like the lifestyle he chose. The scar on his forehead from falling out of a tree when he was six was clearly visible now. It used to be hidden by his curly hair.

I stood in the doorway, tears flowing down, meshing into the gently falling rain. My eyes stung like I was cutting onions.

My brother was like the doorway, the sturdy foundation of my life. He had always held me together when I wanted to fall and crumble. He was my glue. He stood there for one last time and smiled at me. My heart cried out in anguish.

It’s too late. He’s already gone. The tail lights faded into the fog until I couldn’t see them anymore. They disappeared right along with my brother. I can still hear his laugh; the look in his eye assured me that there was al-ways a joke or prank brewing. There will not be any more bad rap music pulsing down the hallway. I will miss that steady down beat that is my brother. There will be no more sweaty gym clothes taking over the laundry room, their smell dispersing down the hall.

All that is left is an empty room down the way, occupied with an immaculately neat bed and curtains on the windows.

His room is now sacred. No one goes in. The door stays closed as if to keep him safe.

The dull bitter silence brings all the emo-tions back at once while a single tear slides down my cheek, escaping the wall I try to put up.

I continue to stare out the window, longing for my brother to come home. I sit and watch the rain hitting it, the drops running together and flowing off like time.

All I can think of is him during these dark stormy days. I wonder if it’s raining there.

If you were here BY JULIA REMILLARD


I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappearNow it’s all so clearYou’re really goneIt feels all wrongI wish you were here Your leaving was my biggest fearI know I’m strongLife will go onBut if you were hereI wouldn’t need to shed a single tear

The final curtain

BY NICHOLE M. REED


I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear. The glowing eyes eventually blinked out into the darkness, leaving me feel-ing more blind than ever.

I rested my forehead against the glass, con-vincing myself that I enjoyed the cool surface on my skin. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Once. Twice. Unexpectedly, a lump of emotion made its way into my throat and I swallowed convulsively, forcing it back down.

I opened my eyes again, afraid that they’d sting with unshed tears. They didn’t.

Looking back out the window, all I could see was the darkness and a reflection of myself, made deformed and elongated in the foggy glass. I wondered if it was the real me trying to get back inside the house. Is this what my family sees? A monster, hiding alone in the mountains, so that she never has to see an outsider again?

I tilted my head to one side, even as my forehead stayed pressed against the window.

I heard the strains of Sinatra make their way down the hall to my room.

And now, the end is near, and so I face the final curtain...

I scanned the snowy driveway, searching out the small indentations left behind my parents’ red Chevy truck.

I panicked when I couldn’t find evidence of their visit and wondered if it was all made up in my mind.

I felt the pounding of my blood in my ears, and my chest ached from my heart’s exertion. I couldn’t breathe. I saw a single tire tread amongst the white...

Read the ending of this story at youngwritersproj-

ect.org/node/73023.

LostBY ELLEN C. JOHNSON


I stood at the window, watching the red tail lights disappear. When the car first started up, it reminded me of all the road trips taken with him, and how they’ll never happen again.

The tattered bits of my heart chased after it like a flood of ants racing toward a sugar cube but they could only run so far. Left in the cold dirt, they fell down and cried.

I lost him; it’s unfathomable to think he’s gone.

The raw emotion gripped my throat in a surprise choke-hold, leaving me struggling for air. In between gasps, my eyes began empty-ing their watery souls down my face...

Read the ending of this story at youngwritersproj-

ect.org/node/73033.



CHECK IT OUT!

The raceBY JULIA REMILLARD


I jog in place, Warming up for this race.I take my position on the starting line.I hear the whistle blow and I know it’s time.I run as fast as I can.In my head there’s a game plan:Push myself no matter how muchI want to slow down.If I win, I’ll be so proud.Out of the corner of my eyeI see another runner.I speed up, then I hear cheers.I’ve done it, I’m here. You won the race,My brother in the stands cheers.

GoneBY MACKENZIE LAMOTHE


Gone. Far away from home.Never turning back.Lost. Missing.Not leaving a single track.Not going to be seen again.Putting up a single fist,being proud.But he is surely going to be missed.


YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authen-tic audiences. YWP runs youngwriter-sproject.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.

PHOTO PROMPT 3








mail your donation to YWP, 12 North

St., Suite 8, Burlington, VT 05401.


MAIN STREET LANDING




publication here and in 20 other newspapers. This week,

we publish work in response to the prompts, Photo 3;

and General writing in any genre. To read more, go to

youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil online community of

writers.

© Karlo Fresl/Essex High School, 2011


NEXT PROMPTS

Ideal being. What do you think makes someone the “ide-al” person? What is the most important characteristic that a person must have? Alternates: Change. Write to the president of a company about a product that you think must be changed. It can be real or fictional; or Photo 5. Go to youngwriter-sproject.org to see Photo 5. Due Nov. 23.

If only... Write about a situ-ation 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

Object. An inanimate object comes alive and tells you how it really feels. Alternate: Ex-cuse. Create the wildest excuse you can think of for why you didn’t do something, why you were so late, why you can’t go. It must stretch the imagination yet still remain credible. Due Dec. 7

Remembering pain

BY LIAM BIJOLLE


“Cover your eyes,” she said as she guided

me through the doors. As soon as I uncovered them, I was in my

room.“Why don’t you lay down for a while?”

whispered my Mom. I was very dizzy and it was blurry. Every-

thing was flashing. She slowly led me to my bed and helped me up onto it.

She left and said she was going to grab me a glass of water and an ice pack, but I’m not sure, I can’t quite remember.

I didn’t know what the ice pack was for until suddenly I let out a scream of pain, “Aaahhhgggh!”

My eye was swollen up big and it was throbbing.

I had a very sharp pain in it, then I covered my eye with my hand and when I pulled it away it was covered with bright red blood running down it.

I felt like I was going to pass out. I tried to stay awake, just fighting it, but it was too hard.

I just gave up, stopped, just lay there and gazed at the ceiling, then the color slowly started fading and my eyes closed little by little. I was asleep.

Later, I woke up with a melted, drippy ice pack on my eye and a wet bloody towel next to me.

My Mom must have cleaned up my eye while I was asleep, but it still hurt just as badly as it did a couple of hours earlier, before I fell asleep.

I got up and walked over to the mirror in the bathroom down the hall.

I saw my eye in the mirror. It looked hor-rible.

Inside my headBY KATHERINE MILLS


Inside my head I close my eyes,inside my head I change my mind,living a secret I must hide.

Inside my head clear teardrops I cry,maybe a smile will arrive,or at least some time to try.

Inside my head I close my eyes,laughter and smiles may surprise,no worries, no cares, just good times.

Inside my head I try to scream,sick of seeming strong but being weak,trying to escape from this bad dream.

Inside my head I close my eyes,lost in music, calming me down,“the past is gone, so take your time…”

Inside my head I want to be me,but is that me okay to be?Will that me be accepted?

Inside my head I close my eyes,inside my head I try to hide,inside my head I want to cry.

InspirationBY OLIVIA NEWELL

Grade 10, North Country Union High School

Inspiration is Justin Bieber, Demi Lovato, One Direction, and Playback.

There are many others, but those are the top four people/groups (bands) I automatically think of.

Justin Bieber is an inspiration to me be-cause he was once just a small town kid, but now he’s a huge superstar.

That just proves that you can go from hav-ing nothing to being one of the most famous and rich people out there.

Demi Lovato is an inspiration because she’s been through so much and she’s contin-ued to stay strong through all of it.

One Direction is an inspiration because they’re confident and they know how to make people feel good about themselves and they’re just wonderful, down-to-earth guys.

Playback is an inspiration because they were thrown together as a band out of the blue and they managed to get over 1,000 fans in less than an hour. That just proves that noth-ing’s impossible.

EndedBY AVERY MCLEAN

Grade 7, Lake Champlain Waldorf School

My beauty clashed With the craziness of the world,A brush stroke of senseAcross a vividly wild sky.In the reflective flames,I could see my fear.My fear was my weakness.I was afraid that You would stop seeing my beauty.Because sometimes when I am scared, My beauty is hard to see.

The flames swallowed my fear, Devouring it hungrily.They needed that fuelIn order to burn.My fear was my ending.It took over my beauty.





CHECK IT OUT!

THIS WEEK: Flying & General


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.


VERMONT BUSINESS ROUNDTABLE





324-9537.

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred sub-

missions 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 flying blissfully over

the countryside. What do you see and feel? and General writing

in any genre. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.

NEXT PROMPTS

Light/Darkness. Use the idea of extreme contrast in any way you’d 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

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 a company, real

or fictional, about a product that you think

must be changed; or Photo 5. Write about

the photo below in poetry or prose.

Due Nov. 23

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Danielle Kracum, Rutland High School

© Anna Mechler/Essex High School

Congratulations to Danielle Kracum, a senior at Rutland High School, whose

photo was chosen as YWP’s Photo of the Week. Photographers and artists, send

YWP your photos and scanned artwork for publication. Find out more at young-

writersproject.org!

Part of the sky BY ABHI DODGSON

Grade 5, Home School, South Hero

I feel leaping, heart-beating joyAs I fly through the brilliant blue skyDancing and twisting up and glidingDownThe beating in my chest is a feeling of pure ecstasy and happinessI spiral up and down and hug the cloudsAs my heart does another flipI float over

The grassy plainsAnd watch birds soaring, singing melodic radiant songsA bluebird drifts past me, the sky carried on its backI am part of the sky I see an open field and swoop down, landing softlyI let out a long, deep breath and inhale the wonderful smell of summerI look back at the setting sunAnd feel the stillness as the shimmering ball of light slips away behindThe mountains

Lessons from the skyBY LIAM CALLAHAN


On the ground you feel small and weak. But when you’re flying, it’s something differ-ent.

You feel like a god overpowering all others. It makes you feel special, like there’s no one else like you.

You feel invincible, like no one can take you down, like Superman has nothing on you.

On the ground people try to make you feel like you’re nothing, like you’re powerless, but up here you’re full of power and you’re something, something great.

The wind through your hair is soft and gentle.

The birds are your friends. You see the Statue of Liberty and you re-

ally do feel free. On the ground you feel like somebody’s

always in control of you, but in the sky you’re free, a cheetah in a field, an out-of-control plane, a crashing bird.

In the sky there are no limits. No limits to your strengths, no limits to your power, no limits for anything.

Everybody looks at you and wishes they were you, but they shouldn’t.

Everybody’s unique. I can fly; you can run fast; you can stand up

for yourself, and you are you, and that’s what makes you great.

The sky can teach you things. You’re be-yond something; you’re you.

Peaceful againBY SOPHIA BLOUIN


When you fly, you fly high above the sky and you look down upon the tiny little people walking and running.

You hear nothing, nothing at all. Flying is a peaceful time, a time where you

can think that it’s the only place that’s quiet anymore; every place else has car horns, the rumbling of trucks driving by the toxic waste in the dump.

Sometimes you just wish you could turn back the clock before the world had cars and anything noisy, just to have it peaceful again.

Feeling free

BY BROOK GENTRY

Grade 7, Troy School I feel the breeze go through my hair like a wave of freshness.I look down from the deafening height.I am scared,But the adrenaline is at the same time exhila-rating.I am free.The ground rushes past, the pastoral farms, the old houses, the little townsTurn into a blur of colors.The open smell of the countrysideMakes me feel free.The rushing of the windMakes me feel free.

Up highBY JULIA REMILLARD


I flyI fly up so very highI fly over huge hillsI see a huge farm millI smell the morning dewI fly like a flower petalOver deep green meadowsHere is the calm countrysideI fly like an eagle in the sky

It was all a dreamBY MACKENNA SHEA-SMITH


The wind blowing through my hair;Everybody stops and stares,Not having a care in the world.Screaming, Yelling is all you hear.You wake up filled with joy,But some sadness that it was all a dream.



CHECK IT OUT!

Haunted houseBY JULIA SCOTT


We stood in front of the old house at the end of the block.

“Come on, let’s go in!” I said, taking a step forward.

“No!” Morgan said firmly.“Why not?” I asked.“Because it’s not safe! There are ghosts!”

she shouted.“Ghosts aren’t real!” I said.“Then why do people say it’s haunted?” she

asked.“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug.“Then it could have ghosts!” she replied.“I’ll get you an ice cream cone if you go,”

I coaxed.“I’m not five!” she said, insulted.“Ben & Jerry’s ice cream?” I asked, know-

ing no one can resist the power of Ben & Jerry’s.

“What kind?” she asked tentatively.“Whatever kind you want,” I replied, hop-

ing that was the right answer.“Fine, but if anything weird happens, I’m

leaving!” she relented.“Okay, then let’s check the backpack. We

have three full water bottles, a flashlight, a ball of yarn, walkie-talkies. Uh... I think that’s all,” I said.

We walked into the house and looked around. It was stunningly clean and looked like something out of the 19th century. We continued up to the grand staircase. As we stood at the top, I thought a shimmering figure passed by.

“Hello? Is someone here?” I called.Morgan looked at me like she had seen it

too. It seemed strange that all her fears had been forgotten. I wonder...

We walked down the hall until we came to a closed door. I closed my eyes and opened it. Nothing, no burst of cold air, no disembodied voice telling me to turn back, no ghost that I accidentally unleashed after 200 years in solitude.

“That was...not what I had expected at all,” Morgan said, voicing my doubts.

“Yeah, I know. Let’s go in,” I said.So we did. It was like the rest of the house,

well-kept, luxurious and decorated in an 1800s style. But, once again I saw a shim-mering figure. This time it was sitting at the vanity and took no notice of us. Morgan said something under her breath that I couldn’t really hear. I stood there watching the figure until it turned to look at us, then I shut the door and ran down the hall.

Morgan’s voice startled me, “She doesn’t know she’s dead, does she?” Morgan sounded as if she might cry.

“She’s been living her life, stuck, thinking she still has a life to live!”

I sighed. Now that I had seen the young woman, I saw figures everywhere.

Most were too busy to notice us, but some stared and whispered, a man dusting the mantle, some women sitting at a table talking, a young girl looking at me with wide, un-blinking eyes. We walked into the dining hall; two maids setting the table, a dog leaping and trying to bite at the trays of hot food...Then the kitchen; a cook, her hair pulled up into a tight bun, a man cutting vegetables into a pot of boiling water.

Stop! I thought, Why are you here? You don’t belong here, intruding in this house!

So, I left without looking back. It occurred to me suddenly that Morgan didn’t follow me out. And that she was looking out of a second story window! That’s when it all fell into place. In all the years I’d known her I’d never been to her house, never met her parents, never seen her or siblings at school. I walked home and wrote it down. That’s what you’re reading right now.

THIS WEEK: Haunted & Candidate

Young Writers Project is supported by the generosity of foundations, busi-nesses 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.


PHYSICIAN’S COMPUTER COMPANY



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 and on vpr.net. This week, we pub-lish 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 youngwriter-sproject.org.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK


Congratulations to Kevin Huang, a freshman at Burlington

High School, whose photo was chosen as YWP’s 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 Submis-

sion” as the genre, click “Yes” for the Newspaper Series,

and include a high resolution version of your work as a file

attachment.

NEXT PROMPTS


Ideal being. What do you think makes someone the “ideal” person? What is the most important characteristic that a person must have? When you meet someone, what makes you like being around him or her? Alternates: Change. Write to the president of a company about a product that you think must be changed. The company and the product can be real or fictional. Or Photo 5. Write a story or poem based on this photo. Due Nov. 23

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.

© Anna Mechler/Essex High School 2011

Too creepyBY MACKENNA SHEA-SMITH


“Come on, guys, it will be fun!” Maxi screamed. “Okay, okay!” they all yelled back. I just stood there, thinking of all the things that could

go wrong.“What if we get in trouble?” I asked.“Just come on!” they all screamed. I slowly walked up to the front door of the creepy,

abandoned house. For some weird reason we knocked; no one answered (of course).

Maxi started to turn the doorknob.“Creeaakkkk,” sounded the door. We walked into the house.“Guys, let’s leave!” we all said. “I thought you wanted to go inside,” Maxi said. “We were wrong, sorry,” we shrugged, and we all went

home and laughed it off.



Vote for me

BY JULIA REMILLARD


Hello citizens of America. I’m not here to make you vote for me, but I’m here to make you want to vote for me.

America is a place where everyone should feel safe. America is the definition of growth.

I’m here because all through my childhood I’ve watched the presidential elections and I’ve listened to the people. I want to be the first woman president.

I’m here because America needs change and I believe I’m that change.

So don’t vote for me because your friend is or because you’re pressured into it.

Vote for me because you think I’m the change. Trust me. If you vote for me, I’ll change America...for the better.

Exercise your vote and I’ll keep America afloat!

Meeting a ghostBY MACKENZIE LAMOTHE

Grade 7, St. Albans Town Educa-tional Center

It was the night before Hal-loween and everyone was getting together to celebrate, so my friends and I started to play “Truth or Dare.” When it was my turn, Julia asked me, “Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” I replied. So Julia thought. She thought and she thought. “I’ve got it!” she yelled. “I dare you to go to that haunted house down the street.”

“No, not unless someone comes with me,” I said.

“Fine, then we’ll all come with you,” said John.

“OK, let’s go,” I replied and we all went to the haunted house.

When we got there we heard an owl. We crept up the stairs and knocked on the door just in case, but when we knocked the door creaked open by itself.

“Uu-uu-mmm guys,” I shivered. “Are you sure about this?”

“ I-I think so,” replied Stewart. So we all stepped into the house quietly. Then we saw a stairway and Julia asked, “Should we go up?”

“Mhmm,” we all stuttered. So we climbed up the stairs and when we reached the top, I heard small footsteps. I looked back; nothing there. I heard it again and turned around. Nothing. “Do you guys hear that?” I asked.

“Boooo!”“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!” we all

screamed.“ Ha-ha-ha. I scared ya’ll. Just

letting you know you don’t have to be afraid of me. I just joke because I’m a ghost.”

“Well we all kinda know you’re a ghost,” Julia said angrily.

“You know we’re talking with a ghost and it’s not all that scary,” John said.

“You’re right!” I yelled. “ I guess ghosts aren’t so bad after all.”





CHECK IT OUT!

THIS WEEK: Observer, Photo 2

& General writing











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




publication here and in 20 other newspapers. This week

we publish work in response to the prompts, Observer: You

witness something frightening or wrong. What is your response? Photo

2; and General writing in any genre. To read more, go to


NEXT PROMPTS

© Becca LeBlanc/Essex High School, 2011

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 experi-ence with a family member that changed you. Alternate: Photo 4. This boy has something to say. What is it? Due Nov. 9

© Jack Delano, Dummerston, VT, 1941

(Library of Congress)

PHOTO PROMPT 2


GymnasticsBY JULIA REMILLARD


I mount the beam.It’s like I’m in a dream.My legs are shaking. It feels like my thoughts are scraping against my skull.I feel the judges’ eyes on the back of my neck.I hope they can’t tell I’m a nervous wreck. I prepare for my dismount. I take a deep breath.I run across the beam.I begin my double back flip dismount.All I can hear is my heart beat,Then I feel the ground.The crowd roars.I salute the judges with a big smile on my face.

What is happening? BY ABHI DODGSON


“Wait! Stop!” she shouts.I am scared. What had he done?I stand in the cold wind watching my

breath form small, wispy clouds.I hear a distant scream and run quickly,

trying not to slip on the icy sidewalk.“Oh! Ahhh! Help!”I shiver and feel heaviness in the pit of my

stomach. What is happening?“No!” Silence. Then yells. I lean on the building trying to think this

over. Chasing...screaming...was it a fight? I feel terrified. Do I really want to find out

what this is? No, my brain shouts! Yes, my heart says, beating so loudly it feels like it’s trying to leap out of my chest!

I am horrified...worried...guilty. I should never have left home without telling someone.

I run back the way I had come. I knock on a door loudly. A young man opens it.

“Exxxcuuuse m-m-me,” I stammer. “I saw...I heard...” How do I explain this, I won-der desperately.

“I’m sorry...good-bye,” snaps the man as he slams the door.

I stand there, then run to the next house, hoping someone will help.

Nature’s changesBY ESPEN PETERSON

Grade 8, Homeschool, 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 holesTo escape the thick green smogThat hangs over us in a suffocating fog?

Will skyscrapers have replaced the trees?And the fields 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 nature’s rise and fall?

Perfect fall day

BY LILY MERRIAM

Grade 8, Peoples Academy

There is not a cloud in the sky.Well, that’s a lie,But almost the truth.Almost isn’t enough.I can see a blue mountain across the valley.The trees are salted different fall colors:Yellow, green, red and orange.The old, rusty, speed limit sign supports my weight.I can smell.Fall, that’s what I smell.Mud, the crisp fresh air,A perfect fall day.

CELEBRATION OF WRITING

Every year, YWP publishes an anthol-ogy of the year’s best student writing and photos. On Oct. 27, we will toast the publication of Anthology 4 with a day of celebration and writing work-shops in partnership with the Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpelier.

All young writers are welcome to join us for this free event. It will be a day of writing workshops, stories by entertainer Rusty DeWees and time with author Katherine Paterson. To sign up for workshops, go to youngwritersproj-ect.org/celebration2012.

PHOTOGRAPHERS

SEND YWP YOUR PHOTOS AND ART!

Young Writers Project is looking for the state’s best young photographers and artists. Send your photos and scanned artwork to YWP. Go to youngwritersproj-ect.org, create a blog, upload your work, choose “Photo Submission” as the genre, click “Yes” for the Newspaper Series, fill out the information boxes and “Save!” The best work will be published in the Messenger and other newspapers.

A little bit of hope

BY MARGARET SLATE

Grade 11, Peoples Academy

Hope is a frail thing,Weakly supportedBy only wisps of emotions.Praying, grasping,Desperate to findA ledge to cling toTo keep from falling. Hope is a poor thingBanished by fear,Unwanted by happiness,Untrusted by griefAnd forgotten by anger.But hope is a strong thing. Because in the depthsOf worry and strife,No matter how often we rejectHope will be there to guide us home,To clear the clouds,To warm out hearts, Because sometimesA little hope

Is all it takesTo save a life.

YWP IS ON

VPR.NET

EVERY WEEK

Elevator musicBY SHANNON CALLAHAN


Elevator music surrounds me,Even though I’m just going down, I see everybody from my town, Elevator music surrounds me,These people really like to talk,About the rain, the change and even about socks,Even the talk can’t even stop,The pop,Of the elevator still moving down,And the sound, Of the elevator music surrounding me.

George and meBY WESLEY BROWN


There I was, in the elevator, whizzing along quite nicely with George, the guy who lives down the hall in my apartment building.

I had managed to avoid optical and verbal contact with him quite successfully when something happened. The elevator stopped. The distinct elevator noise stopped, the lights went dark, and the annoying elevator music muted itself. Oh god, why?

“What happened?” George said.“The elevator stopped.” I said.“But why?” George inquired.“I don’t know! Maybe the power went out

or something!” I replied.“But, but, why did it stop?” said George.“I just told you, I don’t know!” I said an-

noyed.“Well, why don’t you know?” George

asked.“Because I don’t know how an elevator

works.”“But I thought you knew how everything

works!” he said“No, I just know how airplanes work. And

cars, sorta,” I said“Well, you told me you knew how every-

thing works,” he said with a sneer.I had had enough. I whipped out my cell

phone to call the doorman of our apartment building.

“Hello?” Andy said.“Yo! Andy! The elevator stopped, and

now I’m stuck between floors 9 and 10 with George from 11c! What gives?”

“Oooohhhhh, yeah. That’s a problem, isn’t it,” said the lazy doorman.

“Uh, yeah it is.”“Hi Andy!” yelled George into my phone.

“How are you today?” My ears were ringing.“Don’t mind him, just get me outta here!” I

told Andy.“I’ll call the fire department or something. I

don’t know how an elevator works, to be hon-est with you.” I could hear Andy’s chewing gum in the background.

“Of course you don’t,” I said quietly to myself.

“I’ll call you back, once the fire department is on its way.” The phone clicked and he hung up.

“What were you and Andy talking about?” George inquired, obliviously

“Ehm, maybe that we’re stuck! What else would we be talking about?” I said loudly.

“Oh, you never know. You could have been talking about the game last night, or that new Mexican restaurant on Pine Street, or how annoying the Jenson kids are; the possibilities are endless!”

“Not really...” I told him. At that exact mo-ment, my phone rang, dlingdling! dlingdling!..

To read the ending of this story, go to http://

youngwritersproject.org/node/71041.

Just chillBY JULIA REMILLARD


Once there was a woman named Megan who lived in New York in a beautiful pent-house overlooking Central Park.

She was very busy; she worked in a pub-lishing firm and was always working. One day she had just gotten out of work; she was having the worst day. First she spilled her cof-fee, then she printed out the wrong magazine for her big press conference, and then she got mud splattered all over her when she was waiting for her taxi.

She was super busy, but she had to go change her filthy clothes for a fashion show she had to be at in one hour. And her apart-ment was all the way across town.

Megan ran to the edge of the sidewalk and whistled really loudly. Then she heard a beep and up came a taxi; she quickly stepped in.

“How’s it goin’?” asked the taxi driver.“Not good,” said Megan, “now step on it.” “Alright, alright, calm down.” “I don’t need to calm down; now drive.”

The driver started blabbing about where he was from and a bunch of other stuff that Me-gan didn’t care about... Megan was e-mailing like crazy on her phone so she didn’t realize ...there was a traffic jam a mile long. “Ugh, why does everything happen to me?” growled Megan.

“Well at least you don’t have it as bad as my uncle,” said the taxi driver. “He lost all five fingers on one hand in a wood chopping accident.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” questioned Megan, irritated.

“I don’t know,” said the taxi driver. A half an hour went by before they were out of the traffic and at the apartment building...Megan threw some money at the driver and ran into the building ... She almost ran into the eleva-tor door, she was going so fast. She was so in-volved in her work that she didn’t notice when someone stepped in the elevator right before the door closed. Megan was still typing and didn’t look up until the lights flickered and the elevator started to shake. Startled, Megan screamed. It was pitch black.

“Chill,” came a voice from the corner of the elevator.

“Oh my gosh,” said Megan. “I’m so scared that I’m hearing things.”

“No you’re not, you old kook, I’m real.” “Oh good. I thought I was going crazy, and

for your information, I’m only 24; I’m not old.”

“That’s what you think.”“ Ugh, well whatever...we have to get out

of here. I have to be at an important fashion show in less than a half an hour.”

“Just chill.” “Just chill. Are you kidding? How can I

just chill when I have so much to do. I still have to get showered before the show and do my makeup...”

“Whoa, let yourself go,” the man said.“Zip it, hippie.”“ Hey, we like to call ourselves people with

relaxed souls.” ...Megan blasted out in a wild rampage.

“I will not chill. I have a fashion show that I have to be at, and instead I’m stuck on an elevator with a hippie.”

The man went silent. Megan sat on the floor of the elevator and pouted.

“You know if you’re always involved in work, you’ll never be happy; you need a break; all humans do. Trust me. I know. I used to be like you...”

Read the ending of this story at http://youngwriter-

sproject.org/node/71103.

THIS WEEK: Elevator

YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences.

YWP runs youngwritersproject.org and The Schools Project, a compre-hensive 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.

ABOUT THE PROJECT



JANE B. COOK CHARITABLE TRUSTS

THANKS FROM YWP

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hun-

dred 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 prompt, Elevator:

You’re stuck in an elevator with a stranger. What happens?

Read more at youngwritersproject.org.

CELEBRATION

OF WRITING

Every year, Young

Writers Project publishes

an anthology of the year’s

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 entertainer Rusty

DeWees, author Katherine

Paterson and the student

writers and photographers

who are featured in the

anthology! To register for

workshops and to find out

more, go to youngwriter-

sproject.org.© Levi Beavin/Main Street Middle School

Congratulations to Levi Beavin, an eighth grade student

at Main Street Middle School in Montpelier, whose photo

was chosen as YWP’s 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 file attachment.



PHOTO OF THE WEEK

Stuck with myselfBY MATTHEW SANDVIL


One day I found myself stuck in an elevator with myself! If you don’t know me keep wish-ing that you don’t meet me because...well, just keep wishing because this kid is hyper. Very, very hyper. You don’t want to be near me in there.

The first thing I did was check if I was hal-lucinating, but I wasn’t. This was real! I was scared!

You know how in cartoons they move one way, then the other person does the same thing? Well, I think we kind of did that, al-though it wasn’t as good as the cartoons. I was really surprised that he knew what to do. But

I’m off topic. The first thing we said was, “OMG, I have

a Doppelganger! What’s your name?” The funny thing was we said it together.

Then we both started to lol (for you old people, that means laugh out loud) which got us to start talking about stuff that I, I mean we, knew.

Have you ever been in an elevator? Well, I grabbed the bar on the side and got my new friend to help me yank it off the elevator. We used the bar to break the ceiling and then he gave me a boost.

I got out of the elevator; the nearest door was 7 feet up, so I had to climb the rope that goes to the top of the chamber. When I got to the door, I used the bar like a crowbar to open it. We got out and went home. Then we saw each other another time. You can guess what happened.

THIS WEEK: Remember









AMY E. TARRANT FOUNDATION




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, Remember: Write about your earliest memory.




NEXT PROMPTS

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

Winter Tales. Tell a narrative about win-ter in short, descriptive poetry or prose. The best will be selected for presentation by the Vermont Stage Company at its an-nual 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

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

© Lydia Smith/Grade 9, Homeschool, Charlotte

Congratulations, Lydia Smith, for your Photo of the Week! Photographers and artists,

send us 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 send a high resolution version of your work as a file attachment.

YWP NEWS

FRIDAY NIGHT SLAM

Join your fellow poets on Friday, Oct. 19, 7-8:30 p.m., and slam your best work at Young Writers Project headquar-ters, 12 North St., Burlington. Arrive by 6:45 p.m. if you want to slam. Free. All ages welcome. YWP hosts slams the third Friday of the month through the school year.

CELEBRATION OF WRITING

Every year, YWP publishes an anthol-ogy of the year’s 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.

Castle of cansBY MAYA VIENS


My sister and I had woken up fairly early that morning. It wasn’t unusual for us to wake up before our parents did, which is why we were left to entertain ourselves. What we did next leads me to believe that when children are forced to entertain themselves, they are bound to get into trouble.

I don’t remember whose idea it was to start pulling cans from the tall, wooden cup-board in the kitchen. I also don’t remember which one of us began stacking the small, silver cylinders, heavy to our young arms, on the yellow tiled floor.

However, I do remember my feeling of amazement when I looked up at the tower of various canned vegetables and soups. I remember a hill of mostly green cans, with a few showing pictures of the yellow corn hid-den inside or the orange of baby carrots. To my eyes, it seemed enormous.

I felt very proud of myself at having built this brilliant castle. Of course I gave all credit of its magnificence to myself. I was the elder sibling, after all.

There was an almost unlimited amount of cans in the cupboard, like a deep, never-ending horde. My sister and I used every can except for the ones on the top shelf that we were too short to reach.

After the can mansion was complete, we admired our artwork for some time. In this time we did not argue over the petty little differences children often fight about; and my sister did not attempt to bite me. Both were usual occurrences between us. I was particu-larly thankful for not ending up with teeth marks on my arm that morning. Our team-work had us temporarily united.

When we heard our mother’s voice in the hallway we were both excited to show her what we had accomplished while she was asleep. With pride in our voices we called our mother – at that time we called her mommy – into the kitchen.

However, when she looked at our creation, we did not receive the praise we felt we deserved. In a high-pitched voice that sounded like glass breaking and birds screeching, she yelled at us. My mother was absolutely furi-ous, and I could not figure out what we had done wrong.

Apparently the crime was deserving of a spanking. I volunteered to go first because I prefer to get unpleasant situations over as soon as possible. I was pulled into the toy room, where spanking sessions were held. Then my mother lightly smacked my bottom a few times before letting me go. She didn’t hit me hard, but I cried anyway because of the sheer humiliation. Pain I can handle, embar-rassment I cannot.

My sister was next to go, but she struggled to free herself from the punishment. She cried, and begged, and pulled, but in the end, she went through with the spanking just as I had.

Afterward, our mother cleaned up our mess and made us breakfast. My sister and I forgot our suffering, and spent the rest of the day playing and fighting.

Eventually the memory of that morning faded into the recesses of our minds. The memory still lies at the back of my mind, like an old, broken toy found at the bottom of a toy box that is no longer of use.

CrashBY MCKENNA BESSETTE


I yawn loudly. It’s Friday, 11 p.m., and I want to finish my book so badly but I’m so tired. My book will just have to wait until morning, I sigh.

I lay down and reach behind me to turn off the light. Then my room is pitch black but it’s the opposite of quiet. The wind whistles outside my window and I hear my father come up the stairs.

Then I hear a crash and faintly hear my mom say, “Call 911, I see smoke.” That catches my attention enough to get out of bed. I walk outside my room. I see my mother and hear my dad on the phone downstairs.

“What’s going on?” I ask.“A car crashed outside the house into the

tree,” she says, pulling on her coat and her shoes.

“Oh,” I say, then I go into my mother’s room and sit on the couch that overlooks the front yard.

After about 20 minutes my mom comes up and we watch the ambulance and the fire trucks and the wrecker come and take the car away. My mom tells me it was a young couple and the rain had blinded their vision. The guy apparently had an injured leg and the girl was in shock.

I sigh and walk back to my room and won-der how my brother was able to sleep through all that.

BY SABRINA BRAULT


There was darkness darker than the dark. Shadows floated around. The air felt thick and warm from the dryer; it smelled like fresh cot-ton from the dryer sheets. I’ve never liked that scent very much.

There was still some eerie coldness to this room. The rest of the house was well lit, but not here. There was no lights, no windows, nothing. Nothing except for a pipe, a chair, and some dust. The floor was covered in about an eighth of an inch of dust.

There were cobwebs and a bunch of multi-colored electrical wiring on the ceiling. All that was there was an old fold-up chair with the vinyl covering ripped off the cushioned seat and a big thick white plumbing pipe.

The room was never used for anything. It was just a room behind the washer and dryer.

It was just so dark. You could shine a flash-light in there and it seemed to have no effect. The darkness just kept going.

It was so dark, it swallowed the light whole.

It used to gobble up toys. A ball would roll in there while I was playing and I would never

venture in to get it. You had to either crawl over or under the

big pipe on top of the chair that blocked the doorway. And as you can imagine, my short child legs were too short to go over, so I went under. Either way, you ended up very dusty.

I liked to draw pictures in the dust with my fingers on days when I worked up enough courage to make my way in there, the dust sticking to my small, sweaty hands.

Maybe my imagination was just overac-tive, but I think some pretty weird things went on in there when I wasn’t looking. Nothing ventured in there unless it never wanted to come back out.

To this day, I don’t know why that room was there or what it was ever used for – the room covered in dust that swallowed daylight whole and gobbled up toys.

Haunting my childhood





THIS WEEK: Photo prompt 1

& General writing


hundred submissions from students in Vermont and

New Hampshire in response to writing prompts and

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, Photo 1 and General writing.



IS ON VPR.NET EVERY WEEK

Because of HoldenBY CARL LAVIGNE


There is great strength inside stories. They taught me to think, to ask questions, and to take chances.

Superman taught me that I could, and would, win every battle. That’s a liberating idea to put in a child’s mind.

Without reference or knowledge of death and abject failure, I grew up self-assured, invincible, and infallible.

My opinions were facts, fairy tales were truths, I knew everything and nothing would ever change.

So what happened when, brick by broken brick, this false foundation fell? I got scared. Superman never bled, or lost. My knee bled, my shoulder broke, my parents cried. How could any of this happen? Lies? I didn’t know what lies were.

I was suddenly sure I wasn’t a man of steel. What else could I be? A bystander? An extra? I had nothing else to be.

Holden Caulfield told me that I was fallible. He lined it out in black and white, slapped me across the face and told me to watch my nose bleed.

Holden Caulfield was a lazy, whiny quitter. He was, and is, my hero. Why? Because he bleeds, flails, spins and falls, like me, like a real human being.

He was not an enabler: I never smoked just because he did; I never gave up just because he did; I never broke windows just because he did.

He messed up. That meant everyone, any-one, could, would, mess up.

I would mess up. But I shouldn’t curl up and die.

I should accept the fact that we all fall, we don’t all save the day; that’s what makes us human, that’s what puts us together.

Holden taught me about failure, and I’ve used that knowledge to keep my head above the waters of self-defeating doubt.

I don’t have to be a man of steel. Because of Holden, I can be a human.

Young Writers Project is looking for the state’s best young photographers and artists. Send your photos and scanned artwork to YWP. Go to youngwriter-sproject.org, create a blog, upload your work, choose “Photo Submission” as the genre, click “Yes” for the Newspaper Series, fill out the information boxes and “Save!” The best work will be published in this and other newspapers.

NEXT PROMPTS

Warming up

BY ALIZA SILVERSTEIN

Grade 11, Homeschool, Hyde Park

I feel the echoes of performers past,who have sat and bent their headsto better hear the music.I feel the pause each person takes —that extra silenceof an indrawn breath —as he, too, waitsfor the music to come.Teardrop notesshivering on the cusp of realization,long fingers drawing patternson the ivory stepping-stones,pathways of sound.Morning light and contemplative music warms the air.Are you afraid to speak,afraid to break the spell?Can you feel the spirits of a thousand audi-enceswatching from these seats,conjured by the music?

Staring at my shadowBY JULIA REMILLARD

Grade 7, St. Albans TownEducational Center

I stared myself in the faceIt was like I was looking at any empty vaseI traced My faceThe dark shadow showedMy flowing hair and delicate clothesOn this blank piece of cementMy shadow made a deep dentShowing every detailTo my lightly painted fingernailsI just sat and watchedOnce in a while I’d check my watchUntil the sun setAnd with it my shadow went



UNITED WAY OF CHITTENDEN COUNTY

PHOTO PROMPT 1

© Caitria Sands/Essex High School

YWP NEWS

BRATTLEBORO LITERARY FESTIVAL

YWP presents Millennials on Stage (the Brattleboro edition). Don’t miss the next generation of great writers on Saturday, Oct. 13 starting at 1:15 p.m. in the Hooker-Dunham Theater, 139 Main Street, Brattleboro.

YWP SLAM

Join your fellow poets on Friday, Oct. 19, 7-8:30 p.m., and slam your best work at Young Writers Project headquar-ters, 12 North St., Burlington! Arrive by 6:45 p.m. to get on the list!

A CELEBRATION

OF WRITING

Every year, Young Writers Project publishes an anthology of the year’s 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.


YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authen-tic audiences. YWP runs youngwriter-sproject.org and the Schools Project, a comprehensive online classroom and training program that works with teach-ers to help students develop their writ-ing and digital literacy skills. To learn more, go to ywpschools.net or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.

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

Winter Tales. Tell a narrative about win-ter in short, descriptive poetry or prose. The best will be selected for presentation by the Vermont Stage Company at its an-nual 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 ex-perience with a family member that changed you. Alternate: Photo 4. This boy has something to say. What is it? Due Nov. 9

© Jack Delano, Library of Congress, 1941


SEND YWP YOUR PHOTOS AND ART FOR PUBLICATION

© Kevin Huang, Edmunds Middle School, 2011-12






in response to writing prompts and 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 prompt,

General writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a

safe, civil online community of young writers.


IS ON VPR.NET

EVERY WEEK!

Dad’s glassesBY CARL LAVIGNE


Dad wore glasses. Box-framed, thin lenses, if not perched on his nose, “missing” in some obvious place, the kitchen table, usu-ally. I loved Dad’s glasses.

When I was little, they would often go “missing” on my own face. I would do it on occasion in my teens just to see his reaction.

“Jeremy, have you seen my glasses?” he would say from the other room. I’d remain seated.

“Nope!” He’d come in eventually.“Hey! There they are.” I would act real surprised. “Whoa! Didn’t see them there.”It was a ritual of sorts.Dad used to pack my lunches. He always

packed carrots because they “helped me see better” so I wouldn’t end up like “old man cataracts here.”

I would always throw them away. Truth was: I wanted glasses, just like Dad.

His intentions were noble; he only wanted my vision to remain clear as I aged, but noble intentions are for knights and superheroes when you’re six.

© Margaret Slate, Peoples Academy

Photographers and artists!Send your pho-tos and scanned artwork to YWP. Go to youngwriter-sproject.org, create a blog, upload your work, choose “Im-ages” as the genre, click “Yes” for the Newspaper Series, fill out the infor-mation boxes and “Save!” The best work will be pub-lished in this and 20 other newspapers in Vermont and New Hampshire.

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 to youngwritersproject.org/support, or mail a donation to YWP, 12 North St., Suite 8, Burlington, VT 05401.


Bay and Paul Foundations

THANKS FOR SUPPORT

NEXT PROMPTS

YWP publishes an anthology of the year’s best student writing and photos every

year. 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 St. Albans writer Rebecca Valley and

photographer Coyote Farrell, below. More details at youngwritersproject.org.

Two coyotes in the yardBY REBECCA VALLEY

Grade 12, Bellows Free Academy (2012)

I’ve got a loneliness that I pray tothat has your green eyes and my soul.

Ian, there are coyotes in the yard nowand when I called youyou spoke to themtold them that I am very frightenedof their blackness, their eyes in the night.

She is, you said, blind right now.She cannot see you. If you come into the moonlightshe will know your souland she will not be so afraid.

And we stood at the back windowand watched them stand still, hundreds of feet,merely, of separation, a greyness in the night,and lift their heads, the pair, and howl one after the other.

It is about speaking the same tongue, you said.And I told you that fleeting lovehas too many words, and not enoughand that it outlines itself along the spine, see, and you can hear it in her howlin the nightin the way that she calls back to him from across the broad lawn

afraid of an echo back that says, “I am

farther away than you thought, darling”

or worse, her own voice, empty,

only one pair of tracks.

YWP ANTHOLOGY CELEBRATION OCT. 27

© Coyote Farrell/Richmond Middle School, 2011

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

Lexie Shaw, a ninth grade student from West-

ford, was one of three winners of the 2035 Writing

Challenge sponsored by Young Writers Project

and the ECOS Project of the Chittenden County

Regional Planning Commission this summer.

Students were asked to write about Vermont in the

year 2035.

2035BY LEXIE SHAW

In the year 2035If any of us are still aliveMayan calendar so contrivedThat no one would surviveOur current year of 2012Later it will be on history shelvesSo into our future I’m going to delveIn and of itselfOver the next 23 yearsWe overcome many of our fearsWith a lot of hard work and repairsA place so much better for all of our heirsOur county has made many changesSome were unavoidable alterationsLike solar-powered stove rangesAnd better wireless communicationsFrom the traffic problem at the Five Cor-nersAnd more energy-efficient living quartersTo educating an influx of more foreignersWho came in from every borderBecause of true equal opportunityWe’ve built even stronger communitiesAll our efforts to recycle weren’t a wasteNew items are made and old replacedCars no longer use gasolineAnd our air quality is purer and cleanWe have set a standard to be highly profi-cientInstead of doing nothing and being insuf-ficientWe ended hunger and starvationAnd even water fluoridationSo much more socially connectedIt’s amazing who got electedHow did that happen, who was confused?But overall, things have greatly improved

Look deeperBY JULIA REMILLARD

Grade 7, St. Albans Educational Center

When you fall and someone picks you up, it shows they are kind.When you see someone being bullied and you stand up for them, it shows you are brave.But when a bully hurts someone, it shows they are insecure and need a friend. Stand up to bullies and look deeper.

Haunted. You and your friends are exploring an old, abandoned house when things suddenly turn scary. What happens? Alternates: Candi-date. Write a short, catchy politi-cal ad for yourself. Whether you’re running for President of the United States or local office, convince voters to vote for you!; or General writing in any genre. Due Oct. 12

Flying. You are flying 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; or Photo 3. What happened here? Or what is about to happen? Due Oct. 19

ABOUT THE PROJECT

YWP is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences through the Newspaper Series (and young-writersproject.org) and the Schools Project (ywpschools.net), a com-prehensive online classroom and training program that works with teachers to help students develop their writing and digital literacy skills.

Photo 3 © Karlo Fresl/Essex High School 2011

© Kevin Huang, Burlington High School




in response to writing prompts and 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 prompt,

General writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a

safe, civil online community of young writers.

NEXT PROMPTS

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

Elevator. You’re 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 terrified. Alternate: Habit. What’s the worst habit you’re 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. Don’t describe the scene; focus on your own response; or Photo 2. Write about this photo. Due Oct. 5

Photo 2 © Becca LeBlanc/Essex High School 2011

It makes you strongerBY JULIA REMILLARD

Grade 7, St. Albans Educational Center

Life isn’t always easyThat’s just the way it goesThere are tests and trialsBut every hurdle you go overYou get a little strongerAnd after a while it gets easierBut just remember that all the tests, trials and hurdlesMake you stronger

Summer memoriesBY JENNA BOURDEAU

Grade 8, Missisquoi Valley High School, 2012

This summer, I did lots of summery things,Like going swimming, being outside, tanning and enjoying the sun.However, I did do some more extraordinary things:I went to Camp Hochelaga in South Hero and learned how to shoot a bow and arrow;I caught a bunch of fish, including, oddly enough, an already dead one.I went to Holland, Vermont and dove for golf balls at the bottom of a huge pond with my friend just so we could hit them back in later.I went to Queensbury, New York and went to Great Escape four times!I got hit by acorns that squirrels threw at me up above in a tree,I went camping in New York with my friend,I played a ton of ping-pong with my friends and family,I went to a hockey camp at Leddy Park Arena in Burlington,I caught fireflies and watched them flicker,And last of all, I made some amazing summer memories.

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.


A.D. Henderson Foundation

THANKS FOR SUPPORT

ABOUT THE PROJECT

Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences through the Newspaper Series (and youngwritersproj-ect.org) and the Schools Project (ywp-schools.net).

Every year, YWP publishes an anthology

of the year’s 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


MARK YOUR CALENDARS

OCT. 27: YWP ANTHOLOGY

CELEBRATION

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, fill out the in-formation boxes and “Save!” The best work will be published in this and 20 other newspapers in Vermont and New Hampshire!

YWP AT BURLINGTON

BOOK FESTIVAL!


Come hear the next generation of great

writers present their work

Saturday, Sept. 22 at 2 p.m.

Film House, Main Street Landing

Burlington

Dear 8th graders

of 2013BY MOLLY MASHTARE

Grade 8, St. Albans Educational Center, 2012

Dear 8th graders of 2013,

I have to say 8th grade is a tough year.You’re turning into teenagers; you’re in rela-tionships; and it’s all about fitting in.

Well, my advice to you is be yourself. If you don’t fit in with some people, don’t

worry about it. It just means you’re different from them

and it’s always good to be different and unique.

Make sure you have friends who respect you for who you are.

At times you will need close friends there for you.

I know I have. Like if a family member dies or you get bullied or if your boyfriend/girlfriend breaks up with you.

Have fun and make memories! It’s the last year until you become high-schoolers and you’re at the bottom again.

Join in on all the activities that sound fun to you!

I think the most important thing to remem-ber is to be yourself.

Don’t try to be popular and don’t act like someone you’re not just to get into a popular group, because they don’t know the real you!

From

An 8th grader of 2012

Saying goodbyeBY HEAVEN COLLINS

Grade 8, St. Albans Educational Center, 2012

As I arrive at the airport, I know a bitter goodbye is going to greet me.

The car ride was shorter than I wanted it to be, and I still don’t know how to say goodbye to her.

She’s my best friend, and I don’t know what I’ll do without her.

New York is big, and I’ll be alone there, with no people to talk to, no friends to turn to.

I’ll only have my notebook, and the small, dingy apartment I’m not looking forward to.

Her eyes are shining with unshed tears as we reach the security check, and I know it’s time to say goodbye.

But... how am I supposed to go on without her? The person who’s been with me forever?

She’s going off to Boston to become a fa-mous lawyer, while I’m leaving for New York to try and make it on my own as a struggling writer, going on without a college degree.

It was risky, but I’d find odd jobs to help me pay rent.

I drop my bags and let my bags fall to the ground as I go in to hug her, not being able to form a sentence.

My family already said their goodbyes as I left, and she drove me here.

I don’t pull away until well over a minute later, and I can tell that she is sad, too, but not as sad as me.

“I’ll see you at Christmas time..?” I trail off, not being able to look in her eyes.

“Maybe. If I can get back, y’know, get the money to come back..” Her voice doesn’t sound upset, but I can tell when she is. Her eyes show what she’s really feeling.

“Hopefully.” I lift my bag.“We’ll have Skype, right?” “Yeah.” I can see how badly she wants to go, and I

don’t blame her. The last time we were truly close was in

middle school. “Bye.” And for that moment, I hope she’ll

break. She never has in front of me. I just need to see her break.

“Bye.” She turns around and walks, walks out the door. Walks out of my life.

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GENERATION OF GREAT WRITERS

St. Albans Messenger Index 2012-13

Documents

Transcript of St. Albans Messenger Index 2012-13