Saint Albans Messenger 2014-2015

City of Legend
CHAPTER TWO
BY KAYLA MCARTOR
Grade 9, Bellows Free Academy St. Albans
Lazuka sensed the presence of the silent
magicians sprinting through the shadows at
her heels. Her white, tapered ears homed in on
the sound of silent footsteps 20 yards behind
her, with many turns and walls between them.
Her golden eyes stood out in sharp relief
against the shadows, her thick, ebony mane of
hair drawn back from them by the wind.
The demons pale face glowed in the blackness of the citys moon-cast shadows, flesh
turning gray at her shoulders and darkening
to black at her lower back and legs. There,
the air seemed darker, her body reflecting
darkness itself. This trait was the only way
one could distinguish her thin, whip-like tail
streaming out behind her, adjusting itself automatically so the fan-shaped spade on the tip
caught the wind and allowed Lazuka to make
hairpin turns.
Obsidian claws grew sharply from her
hands, and now she clenched them in spite of
pumping her arms in perfect rhythm with her
nearly feral stride. She was in her humanoid
form; every demon had both a human and
monstrous form, though most could pull off a
perfect human. Lazuka had too much demonic
power to conceal such traits as a tail, fangs,
claws, and wings.
She cursed for the three-million-one-hundred-and-sixth time the birth of such ghastly
and wretched beings as magicians; the childkillers and enslavers of demons as they were.
Especially the combat-trained and government
controlled Nem. The ones hunting her wished
to incapacitate her and force Lazuka to make
a binding contract with, in her case, several
of them, giving the magic-users full use of
her powers and enhancing their own spiritual
strength. Or, if they were weak, exorcise her
and be done with it.
At all times, Lazuka had her demonic aura
extended in a thin veil over almost the entire
city on alert for Nem; now she focused in on
the disturbances ahead of her.
Another smaller group of Nem was pursuing two human beings that were exceptionally good at masking their presence, on both
a physical and spiritual level. In any case,
her goal was to force the group behind her to
join the chase of the other non-demons, who
were undoubtedly criminals that the government wanted dead, versus an innocent demon
sought after for personal gain.
Someones about to get hurt.
Lazuka glanced overhead at the angelic figure gliding on her soft, feathered gray wings
above her.
Who, Dusk? Speak louder, I cant hear
you as well when Im running, Lazuka managed to say between shallow breaths.
Her clawed feet gripped the filthy cobbles
under them, working with her large, strong
heart and lungs to keep her flying along at
speeds of over 60 miles an hour. She could go
faster, had she unfurled her bat-like wings and
took to the air. However, she needed to keep
to the maze of buildings if she were to lose the
Nem after her and Dusk.
A Nem, came the soft, melodious call
from Dusk.
Lazuka snorted. Good. Fatal? During the
pause that ensued, a whole zagged block of
triangular buildings zipped by. Not for the first
time, Lazuka felt envious of Dusks smaller
wingspan and greater flexibility that allowed
her to fly nearly sideways through alleys when
the buildings grew too high to skim over.
I ... dont think so.
Lazuka winced. Not because the magician
still lived, but because the pain in Dusks
whisper was blatant. She was not a demon
like Lazuka, she had simply woken up from a
deep sleep five years ago with no memory of
THIS WEEK: General writing

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred
submissions from students across Vermont and New Hampshire. A team of staff, mentors and students selects the best
writing and images for publication. This week, we present
the second chapter of Kayla McArtors series, City of Legend. Read the complete series at youngwritersproject.org/
node/103987.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP
Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to

write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences
in newspapers, before live audiences
and on web sites, youngwritersproject.
org, vpr.net, vtdigger.org, and cowbird.
com. YWP also publishes The Voice, a
monthly digital magazine with YWPs
best writing, images and features. To
learn more, go to youngwritersproject.
org or contact YWP at (802) 324-9537.
YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses and

individuals who recognize the power
and value of writing. If you would like
to contribute, please go to youngwritersproject.org/support, or mail your
donation to YWP, 47 Maple St., Suite
106, Burlington, VT 05401.
Special thanks this week to
JANES TRUST
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
of us? she asked Lazuka from the air.

Of course they are. Wait, magician and
ninja? Lazuka lifted her nose to the wind and
inhaled the night air tainted with gear oil, gun
smoke, the stench of death, and magician filth.
She shook her head to clear it and instead
focused on the refreshing moonlight.
Why the heck would a magician be
wanted by Nem? And how did you figure
there was a ninja? Ive never truly understood
the humans clans and customs, but those
seem the strangest. As far as I knew, they were
killed by the Nem two years ago.
Lazuka charged the wall in front of her and
pushed off into the turn with her hands.
No. The ninjas werent all killed. Not all
magicians are bad, either. Wind whistled
through her feathers, too quiet for anything
but a demons ears. The ground between them
and the unlikely pair was closing, and soon ...
Aah! Dusk screamed and beat her wings
rapidly, rising above the walls and shooting
ahead of Lazuka.
Dusk! Cursing in a language older than
the city itself, Lazuka took one long leap into
the intersection of two alleyways, simultaneously unfurling her two seven-foot wings.
Straining the muscles in her back and shoulders in one mighty downstroke, she lifted
herself to the level of the rooftop. She ignored
the flicker of movement to her left; she was
accelerating fast, and all she wanted at that
moment was to protect Dusk.
The angels gray wings seemed to absorb
the moonlight and glow with it; with her
wings and silvery hair she was easy to spot
from any distance, never mind the 13 yards
shed put between them. The Nem were catching up; Lazukas senses were practically going
haywire, sending waves of tremors up and
down her spine and limbs.
Dusk! she screamed again.
Fwoosh! A rush of air rolled over her body,
possibly saving her from crashing straight
into the back of the hovering Dusk. She had
opened up her wings like parachutes and
stopped dead in the air, a move that wouldve
had Lazuka plummeting to earth.
Breathing hard, Lazuka banked left and spiraled up and around Dusk. With an expert tilt
of her wingtip, she steadied herself and beat
her great wings slowly, sounding like a great
beast exhaling on the downstroke, inhaling on
the rise, causing Lazukas body to bob slightly
and her to not at first recognize the picture in
front of her.
In the middle of a wide road, spotlighted by
a great shaft of moonlight, stood two figures
facing each other in a stand-off. ...
(Read the complete series! Go to youngwritersproject.org/node/103987)
Nate Ertle, Essex High School
who or where she was. Fortunately for her, it

had been Lazuka who had first found her. Unlike other demons, Lazuka had a vivid (albeit
twisted) conscience that was more human than
anything else. Her rage was contained, intelligence honed, and compassion extended to
those with pure hearts. And of all beings in the
universe, Dusks was perhaps the purest.
Although she was not a demon, she had
some magic in her soul that allowed her to
sense when a person near her was about to be

hurt physically. She could feel it, tell what was
going to happen and, if she was close enough,
attempt to act on or prevent the injury.
Along with her birds wings that were
possibly grown on her as a child through
powerful magic, she had a charm that hynotized anyone who laid eyes on her. The name
closest to describing her was angel.
Are the magician and the ninja still ahead
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City of Legend
CHAPTER ONE
BY KAYLA MCARTOR
Seven black-clad men stood silently in
the moonlight, their bodies creating a circle
around an intricate pentacle engraved in the
copper road upon which they stood. They
were magicians, every one battered and desperate.
Gunshots rang out, the sounds reverberating through the iron walls of the city around
them. They were the few who remained, unmoving, while war was waged around them,
demons roaring, magicians shouting, countless innocents dying, caught in the crossfire.
Peace needed to be restored, else the city of
clockwork would tear itself apart.
The gathered magicians spread their arms
out, each barely brushing the palm of the adjacent men; a completed circuit, their energy
would combine and flow together as one.
Their one soul would reach into the ether
and summon an entity to end the violence an
angel whose overwhelming power of light
would quench the demons spirits and heal the
humans hate.
Once bound to the city itself, its energy
would flow into all things alive inside its
walls.
Three of the seven men, however, had
black, evil taints in their souls. They felt an
angel would not suffice, no matter the entitys
power.
They would summon a demon, one that
would, once bound inside the city walls,
systematically destroy every living being and
thus prevent the war from spreading.
They would feed upon the power of the
others gathered, and divert the summoning
when their minds were too caught up in the
single entity of their power to notice such a
change.
Only one individual was wise enough to
perceive these flawed intentions when the
chanting began, the thread that would weave
the spell for good or ill.
The words of the man beside him, with
whom his own energy was shared, differed
from his own, uttering something with precious little difference that would end up with
disastrously opposite results.
Intent on stopping whatever they had
planned, the fourth began weaving a spell that
would counteract the demons summoning.
But it was not to be completed.
Before he could completely abolish the evil
summoning, the other six, three misguided
and three oblivious and powerless against
them, entered the final stage of summoning.
With a blinding flash, white and black energy swirled in a column condensed within the
pentacle. Wretched wails and shrieks sounded
from the two entities within; the fourth had
hastened with his spell, and, unable to prevent
the demons summoning, made it so both were
summoned simultaneously.
Panicked and unable to restrain the opposing energies, the seven were forced to
complete the spell and seal both ancient spirits
within the city.
With a final cry from the men, the swirling
spirit energy within the pentacle dissipated
barely overpowered and all was silenced,
including the sounds of violence within the
city. For a moment, those who had sought to
summon the angel rejoiced at their victory.
Because they had the fourth on their side, they
believed their angel would soon overpower
them with four summoners as a catalyst for its
power versus the three of the demon and assume control of the city. Alas, it was not so.
The fourth had simply impeded the demons summoning so it did not cancel the
angels; he was not lending his power to either
of the individual spells.
(continued next column)
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responses to the prompt for General writing. Read more at
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Dear parents
BY JULIA REMILLARD
Kristina Pretty, Essex High School
RISING OUT OF THE GROUND

WITH THE SUN WAS THE BEAUTIFULLY
SHINING CITY OF THE ANGEL.
The powers were perfectly divided; three

and three. And so, both entities of extreme
power now had the same strength in the physical realm.
This realization came with the awful grating of metal all around. Buildings rotated,
rose, and fell as the angel and demon warred,
bound within the metal structures.
Great heaves of the ground sent every man
stumbling, colliding into spears of wire and
metal shards.
Many lost their lives that night as the city
tore itself in half.
By the time the sun rose, the city was reshaped; a crater had been hollowed out under
the foundation, and within it lay half of the
city, stained black with demonic aura.
On top, rising out of the ground with the
sun was the beautifully shining city of the
angel.
Here, the violent convulsions now stilled,
and non-magical people were coming out of
hiding, having been protected by their peaceful guardian entity.
But in the under-city, the demons and magi-
cians were trapped by the ancient demons

wrath, never to see the sun again.
From that day on, the city was named Aut
Mori, a place where you live or die. In the city
of Aut, where the angel resided in the walls of
clockwork and steel, normal humans led passive lives, blessed by the angel in their homes.
As the sun set, however, the city morphed.
A giant gyroscope balanced by the entities,
Aut sunk into the ground, replaced with the
rising of Mori, its dark shadows cast by moonlight alone.
Or rather, brightened by moonlight alone,
as without it, the shadows would be in their
true form, swallowing the beings that lived
if you could call it living in its cold embrace.
It was a place where magicians wallowed,
demons thrived, and all beings were forced to
kill to live, fight to live in peace, become evil
to be saved.
It was the city of death, trapped in darkness, even as the sun rose over it again and
again ...
(Read the complete series! Go to youngwritersproject.org/node/103987)
You will never understand 21st century

teenagers, so you might as well stop trying.
Parents ideas of being a teenager and
how they think that they know what its like
are wrong.
You can yell and punish your children for
making mistakes and for being reckless,
but the truth is, you arent making a difference.
Perfect grades, perfect attitudes that is not
what it means to be a teenager.
We like phones and being involved socially.
Were lazy; were tired. And, gosh, were just
as stressed as you. My outfit isnt right. My
hair is all wrong. Will my guy friends think
Im cool?
We deal with gossip, bullying, relationships
and emotional triumphs. ... Going home is our
break.
So, please parents, get your heads out of
the clouds and realize that if you make home
horrible for your kids, it will send them off the
edge. Unless you want that, be more sympathetic.
After all, we are just kids.
READ MORE GREAT WRITING AT

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THE VOICE
Encountering Cupid
BY SAMUEL BOUDREAU
I saw him once.
Sitting up on the skyscraper,
preying on people with his
heart-tipped arrows.
The small wings on his back
were covered with slick, musty, yellow feathers,
and he was only wearing
a cloth diaper from the 1960s.
I could never forget his face:
young, bright, childish.
The blonde curls
camouflaged his eyes.
Every arrow that was shot
had been accompanied by
a giggle and three knee slaps.
Sometimes he would miss.
Sometimes he would hit
the man or woman straight
through the left ventricle.

responses to the prompt for General writing in any genre.
Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil, online
community of writers, and The Voice.
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PHOTO OF THE WEEK
(continued)
Joe: Really?
Bob: Really.
Joe: Then I accept your challenge.
Three hours later ...
Bob and Joe return to Joes house.
Joe: Ready?
Bob: Ready.
Joe: Go!
Bob runs and Joe drives. Predictably, Joe
wins by a lot.
Joe: I win! Now you owe me a hundred
bucks!
Bob: Oh, no, I dont. See, I said I could run
faster than your car. And your car didnt run,
it drove.
BOB AND JOE AND THE BIG BOX BET

Bob arrives at Joes house to see that theres
a large box in the front yard. Joe is trying to
move it, but its clear that its too heavy for
him.
Bob: Hey there, Joe. What are you doing?
Joe: Trying to get this box into the car so that
I can bring it to my brother Dan. It has my
old drumset in it, but I never use it anymore,
which is partially due to the fact that its so
heavy, I have a hard time getting it out.
Bob: I bet I could get that box into your car in
less than 10 seconds!
After the eighth snap of

the bow, he looked
right at me.
My gaze was intense,
and I attempted to
fend off his stare.
Joe thinks for a moment, knowing that this is

normally when Bob does something that takes
what he said literally and he somehow cheats.
But he cant think of how.
He reached for
another arrow, as if hunting
a wild boar.
Joe: Alright, fine then. Go ahead. What do I

get if you fail?
Bob: As always, the loser of the bet owes the
other a hundred bucks.
Joe: Okay, go ahead and try. Ill time you.
Ten...
He placed it on his bow,

and with a villainous smile,
said, Youre next.
I smirked
and mouthed, Bring it on.
Bob quickly runs over to the box, dumps everything out of it, and easily carries the empty
box into the car before Joe gets to five.
If only love
BY JULIA REMILLARD
His sweaty palms.
Her messy hair.
Neither even dared
to sneak a smile
It was love,
but they didnt know
as they both stood cold as snow.
It was dark
in that park
where the two stood apart
and the sun didnt exist
under the thick mist.
They were human, separately,
but perfect together.
And there they stood through the weather.
Maybe in the end it wasnt love.
Maybe it wasnt even real.
But they knew what I know.
We all know how they feel,
trapped in forbidden thoughts,
watching their every move,
hoping he or she will come closer.
With his glowing eyes
and her misshaped freckles,
there was something like magic.
If only they had noticed;
if only they had found it.
MORE GREAT STUDENT WRITING AT

Kevin Huang, Burlington High School
YWP NEWS & EVENTS
The adventures of Bob and Joe

BY THOMAS CUDDY
Grade 7, St. Albans Town Educational Center
THE CAR RACE, PART 2

Bob meets Joe at Joes house again.
BOB AND JOE AND THE CAR RACE

Bob and Joe meet at Joes house.
Bob: Hey, Joe!
Joe: Hey, Bob! Whats up?
Bob: I just came to ask you how much money
you would give me if I won a race between
you and me, with me on foot and you in a car.
Joe: Id give you a hundred bucks.
Bob: Alright, then lets get started.
Three hours later ...
Joe: Okay, so the first one to pass that line
wins. Ready?
Bob: Yeah.
Joe turns on the engine
Bob: Wait a minute. This isnt how its supposed to work.
Joe: Whats wrong? Did I miss a rule or
something?
Bob: Well, yeah. I said you had to be in a car,
but I never said you could drive.
Bob: Hello again, Joe. I have another challenge for you.

Joe: Hi, Bob. You mean, like the car thing you
did yesterday?
Bob: Yeah, sort of. But this time, you can
drive. And Ill still be running on foot.
Joe: So whats your challenge this time?
Bob: I challenge you to prove me wrong when
I say ...
Joe: So what do you say?
Bob: I say that I can run faster than your car.
Joe is a bit suspicious about this, based on
what happened last time and tries to make
sure Bob isnt pulling his leg again.
Joe: Thats it?
Bob: Yep. Thats all. Theres nothing else to
say, other than that the loser owes the other a
hundred bucks.
(continued right column>)
READ THE MAY ISSUE

THE VOICE
To myself
BY SOPHIA CANNIZZARO
Grade 9, Homeschool, West Glover
Because I love you,
this is me telling you:
I am listening.
When nobody seems to be paying attention,
I am listening.
Finish that long, hilarious story about your
band teacher.
I wont sigh, or ignore you.
Wonder out loud about what his stomach
looks like.
I wont call you shallow.
Tell me all about how frustrating it can be to
analyze Bach chorales.
I wont act like its pointless.
Complain about how much you hate your
chin.
I wont tell you that you cant hate your chin
just because I like it.
I will listen to you rant about how annoying
your boobs are.
I wont tell you that youre lucky to have
them, that Im jealous.
YWP NEWS & EVENTS

community of writers.
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THANKS FROM YWP

YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses
and individuals who recognize the
power and value of writing. If you
would like to contribute, please go
to youngwritersproject.org/support,
or mail your donation to YWP, 47
Maple St., Suite 106, Burlington,
VT 05401.
THE BAY AND PAUL

FOUNDATIONS
READ THE MAY ISSUE

THE VOICE
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
I would be glad to hear all about how excited

you are about that new search engine you
found.
I wont tell you that its been around for six
years already.
Im listening.
Little green fish
FINAL SLAM OF THE YEAR!
BY JULIA REMILLARD
YWP HEADQUARTERS
47 MAPLE ST.
BURLINGTON
I dug my faith into the ground,

washed my sins, stole the town.
I cried out for the broken children
and got mad at those lucky enough to be hidden.
THURSDAY, MAY 14, 6 P.M.

FREE PIZZA | FREE POETRY
DONT MISS IT!
The world is not mine to take.

Those green fish in the lake
are not who I can blame.
They didnt stain
my sidewalk with DNA.
They didnt murder my good day.
The land behind me

BY JARRIT HATHAWAY
I turn my mouth up to the sky,

screaming out my bloody cries.
Sneaky, deceiving and low,
I become forgotten, alone in a place
that nobody knows.
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Derek Pham, Essex High School
When you look in the mirror

BY ADSEL SPARROW
When you look in the mirror,
you see something.
You dont see you.
You see the pimple on your chin,
that blemish on your cheek,
the scar on your hand,
your boxy figure.
You see all of your imperfections.
What you dont realize
is that the pimple is just a mark,
that blemish is too much blush,
that scar is a line on your hand.
Your boxy figure is an hourglass one.
We chide ourselves on our imperfections.

We build ourselves up to a standard
that doesnt exist.
You are beautiful.
You are unique.
You are you.
You must realize these as facts
or the world will stay the way it is,
a world of standards that dont exist.
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The land in front of me was barren as the

sands blew over with the slightest wind. That
was where my fate would rest, my destiny in
a hole.
It was dark, even though it was noon, dark
with all the dreams I had had. Crushed.
The expanse spread over the earth, not
another in sight, and I was forced to go into
solitude.
But the land behind me, where I must never
go back to, that is where I wanted to live, but
could not.
Not turning my head, I closed my eyes that
held so much regret, remembering the hills of
green, the skies of blue, the trees of silver.
But I couldnt afford to go back. For the
sake of my loved ones, I had to move from my
old life and take the pains of others with me.
So I stepped into the sand, my feet leaving
the cushion of grass for the first time in my
life.
I walked on, the horizon my only goal.
How comics changed

my entire life
BY THOMAS CUDDY
Life is unpredictable. I know that better
than anybody. In fact, I knew it ever since
the moment comics completely changed the
course of my life.
Back when I lived in New York (somewhere around Albany, to be specic), I lived
in a large circle of apartments. They were all
connected to each other, and there was a road
in the middle. I loved that apartment.
Then we moved.
I thought things couldnt get any worse. I
had left everything I had ever known behind.
And that wasnt the end of it.
Everyone in my grade thought that I was
weird. (Now I know that they were right, but
I didnt agree back then.) This contributed to
my lack of friends. In fact, nobody really liked
me.
I tried to convince them that I was cool. I
told them jokes, I acted like I thought I was
cool (which I did).
I even wore a different jacket one day and
pretended that I wasnt me. I was just my
awesome twin cousin. But nothing worked,
and eventually, I gave up.
Then one day, one of the cool kids was
telling his friends that he was starting a newspaper for the class.
I got jealous and wanted to start one of my
own. But everyone in that school got really
mad when somebody copied someone else.
So I had a solution: Make a newspaper
anyway, except not for school, for my friend,
who lived across the street.
But one day, I noticed that the comic section was getting much bigger than the other
sections. Then I noticed what this meant: I
was particularly skilled at writing comics.
Back then, I used to talk to myself more
often. (Of course, I didnt call it talking to
myself. I called it, talking to anyone whos
listening, who, at the moment, is nobody.)
So I was talking to myself about it at
school, and the cool kid group (whose leader
turned out to be my future best friend Tyler)
heard me.
They seemed to be interested, and later
Tyler asked to see one of my comics.
After that point, it was basically the basic,
normal, predictable, and-they-all-livedhappily-ever-after ending you always see in
stories.
Tyler liked my comics and somehow we
ended up being best friends.
Of course, life doesnt always end with that
and-they-all-lived-happily-ever-after ending
as it does in stories.
About a year later, just as I was starting to
get used to everything that had changed so
quickly, we moved again, this time to a completely different state.
I couldnt believe the terrible turn of
events!
Finally, Id succeeded in getting friends in
my new school more than I could count in a
lifetime, in fact and then it all went to waste
when I moved to Vermont.
But now, as an author, getting myself published in digital magazines and newspapers
and stuff, I realize this life might have seemed
like a big setback at rst, but if youre reading
this story in a newspaper, know that Ive ofcially accomplished more here than there.
Yes, this is denitely where I belong.

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READ THE MAY ISSUE

Stained ten cents

BY JULIA REMILLARD
My dirty living room window stares blankly

at me,
and through it I cannot see.
My mother bought that stained glass window
for only ten cents.
I love that window.
Theres an angel in white draped across the
red pane.
It bleeds into the purple frame.
My father never did like this window too
much.
He thought it made us look pathetically poor.
No matter what, he would never see its beauty.
Every morning I sit beneath the window,
looking at its grimy detail.
The day my mother found it, we were walking.
There was a man around 50 selling junk.
With one look, my mother said, Ill take it.
The man gave it to us for only 10 cents.
When we got home, my father scolded us.
He said, What an ugly thing.
But he always gets upset like that.
Weve never been very wealthy.
And have never felt the luxury of life,
but my father always talked of it.
I guess thats why he hates the window.
It reminds him that we are poor.
Ive heard my mother crying in front of the
window
a few times before.
I dont know what it was that made me cry
with her.
I was only 8 when we got the window,
and to this day it remains one of the best days.
My mother always told me that new things
would not bring me anything but greed.
Hah, that always made my father laugh.
There was something about that stained
window
that made me remember things were okay.
Every night I stare out the window and whisper,
Best ten cents ever spent.
I make sure my father does not hear me.
If he did, Id get in trouble.
I love my father even though he is full of
shame.
And my mother is my bleeding angel lined in
glass.
That dirty window is one of the only things I
have.
And arent I lucky?
THURSDAY, MAY 14 AT 6 P.M.


A parking issue
BY JULIA REMILLARD
An injustice I have witnessed is one at
school among students.
It has come to my attention that there is no
student parking lot whatsoever.
Yet there is not just one but three designated areas for teachers to park.
Hmm ... I nd this odd because although
the school promotes safety, it puts its own
students at risk every day.
Hundreds of kids park along the sides of
streets, and in little nooks along the roads
because there is no student parking lot.
THE SCHOOL PUTS STUDENTS

AT RISK
BY NOT LETTING THEM
PARK ON CAMPUS.
I drive to school with my brother and we
have to park a block away from school.
I dont mind a little exercise. What I do
mind is how unfair the school is.
If the teachers get to school early, they can
have a spot on campus but it should be rst
come rst served.
The school puts students at risk by not letting them park on campus.
What if I were to be hit by a driver while
crossing the many roads?
Teachers should not get special privileges
over students.
There should be one student and one staff
parking lot. The school needs to divide the
land.
There are many other injustices at school,
but there are too many to count.
THIS WEEK: Unjust & General

writing and images for publication. This week, we present responses to the prompts, Unjust: Write about an injustice you
have witnessed; and General writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil, online community of writers.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP


NATIONAL LIFE GROUP

SEE LOCAL WRITERS FEATURED
EVERY MONTH IN
YWPS DIGITAL MAGAZINE!
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
to get your FREE subscription
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YWPS FINAL POETRY SLAM
OF THE YEAR!
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47 MAPLE ST.
BURLINGTON
THURSDAY, MAY 14 AT 6 P.M.
BY ADSEL SPARROW
I back away,
the exhilaration gone.
No, not me.
Not now.
I have a life.
Im not ready.
Theyre not ready.
I turn away,
my back now facing the ball of light.
The warmth recedes,
bringing back the cold.
But this time,
it feels warm.
Because standing is warm.
Laughing is warm.
Love is warm.
Life is warm.
And I want to live.
READ THE VOICE
Between
I feel the cold,
the shivering cold.
Then,
then comes the warmth
and the light,
slowly moving toward me.
I feel joyful,
gleeful even,
and a longing
a longing to leap into this light,
this warmth,
with my arms stretched out in welcome.
I laugh,
then remember.
YWP NEWS & EVENTS
Bri Lancaster, Essex High School
Happening. Write a poem or story

with a rst line of, I didnt know what
was happening at the time
Nonsense conversation
BY THOMAS CUDDY
Characters: Guy # 1 (G1) & Guy # 2 (G2)
G1: Hello, Ralph! Its great to see you again!
G2: Only if my house were to fall down again.
G1: I cant, I left my doughnut at home.
G2: Probably not.
G1: Yes, I agree. Its not fair.
G2: Q! Q! Q!
G1: Yes, but you see, dragons didnt build my
car.
G2: Sometimes, but unfortunately, R is the
18th letter of the alphabet.
G1: Well, yes, until I nd a new cardboard
box.
G2: But radioactive marshmallows arent evil,
are they?
G1: 57.
G2: That sounds wonderful!
G1: Then why did you put pickles in the
washing machine?
G2: Because Groptvinorxable isnt a word.
G1: But I dont have a green stick in my
pocket!
G2: Thats because its triangular.
G1: Oh, yes, youre rightit must be the trash
cans fault.
G2: No I didnt!
NEXT PROMPTS
G1: Actually its made of toothpaste.

G2: Woah! Now thats a big chicken!
G1: Why didnt you tell me this before?!
G2: Yellow.
G1: Hey! Thats very insulting, what you just
said!
G2: Its on the table!
G1: I forgotwas it a pencil sharpener, a
smoke detector, or a leaf blower?
G2: If a worm made a pizza, it would look
like a basketball!
G1: No, I live in Seattle.
G2: The British are coming!
G1: Wheres the calculator? I need to look at
a zero!
G2: Give me back my teeth!
G1: Do not hang up the phone!
G2: Oh, no! I dropped the paper airplane!
G1: You can run, but you cant hide!
G2: Watch out for the bus!
G1: I want my mustache!
G2: I am a slipper from the Land of Mysterious Totem Poles!
G1: Youre under arrest for eating potatoes!
G2: The buffy gave us milk! Thank you,
buffy!
G1: Gelatin!
G2: Youve just crossed the line!
Alternates: Stranger. You know that

person you always see on the bus, on
the way to school, or just around town.
Youre curious -- who is this person?
Write his or her story as if you have
followed the person home, to school
or work, on errands, wherever. What
do you discover? and Photo 9 (below).
Due May 1
Photo 9. Library of Congress

The violins melody

BY SAMUEL BOUDREAU
I hear the violins rubbing call
and it resonates within the
thick roots of my heart.
The wholesome low notes
are glazed with sadness.
With every stroke,
the burnt-colored instrument
gets heavier and heavier,
while its sound touches
the darkest part of my mind.
The violin sits upon every thought,
and it makes me cry
tears of heartache and loss,
tears of desire and failure.
Tears meant for the violin
because it knows what the songs mean.
For me, the deep notes are my life.
Each pitch is a correlation of my mood.
Each melody embodies my thoughts.

ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP



PHYSICIANS COMPUTER CO.
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
BY ADSEL SPARROW
We know that theres always an answer.

Whenever theres a problem,
we immediately know that it has to have
a solution.
Unfortunately, thats not how life
works.
There are going to be times
when we cant gure it out.
Not every lock has a key.
Not every scratch has a Band-Aid.
This is what we,
as humans,
must live with for the rest of our days.
As much as we may want to solve
the issues of the world,
some of them must
remain.
My angel
I saw her standing there
with her ashy hair.
I saw her with those huge brown eyes,
with her baby face unable to cry.
I saw her break, bruise,
and become faded, defused.
I saw an angel made of status
come tumbling down, crashing.
I saw her broken heart and tempted mind,
how she accused herself of innocent crime.
Have you ever seen a human be so lost but so
known;
praised but abused on a torturous throne?
I saw one, her, my transparent angel.
Her screams tangled
in mishapened hate.
I saw a girl who just didnt know
who to be, how to act.
A 15-year-old who is painted black,
glazed with lies and disgust.
...I saw her standing there,
all alone, desperately needing repairs.
I saw my angel.
And how beautiful she was.
Inspirations
BY ROSIE BIBONA
BY JULIA REMILLARD
Let the violin play on.
Every day, there are people who inspire

us, people who we look up to because we
want to be like them. We want to be a bestselling author or a pro football star. We know
that we cant, but we dream we can because
of them. They make us want to be the best
we can be and better. They make us rise to
the challenge to be like them. To be just as
good.
And they can be anybody. A mother, a celebrity, your best friend, or even a baby. They
open your eyes to a world you never saw.
And now you can see all possibilities that lie
before you.
But when that person is taken from your
life, it feels like a piece of your soul is gone,
hanging in between you and that person and
none of you can reach it. A sadness hangs
around you like a cloud that you cant get
rid of. Even when the sun shines through the
cloud, something makes you think of that
person, and then cloud covers the sun once
again. That world you once saw slowly fades
away into a black abyss.
But you have to keep going. You have to
push forward and live without them. And
thats hard. Really, really hard. But its the
only way to see through the sadness. That
agony will always be there, but after a while,
it softens and becomes a memory you look
fondly upon. Youll start to appreciate the
moments you did have. Youll start to see
that amazing world again.
But this time, you cant let it slip away.
You have to cherish it. You have to cherish
them.
You cant let them go. You cant let them
fade away again. Even if you want to, you
cant. You have to keep them with you in
your heart forever.
Lock and key
THE VOICE
READ THE APRIL ISSUE!
of YWPs monthly digital magazine!
A.J. Combs, Essex High School
NEXT PROMPTS
Scar. Write about a scar you have, literal or gurative. Tell the story; Alternates: Zombies. Scary? Misunderstood? Give us your best story about the undead; or Between. You
meet a man who says he is between life and the afterlife, suspended in a holding place until
he gets sorted out. Who is he and what does he tell you?; or Espionage. Write about the
CIAs newest spy, whos incredibly bad at his job. Due April 24
Happening. Write a poem or story with a rst line of, I didnt know what was happening at the time Alternates: Stranger. You know that person you always see on the bus,
on the way to school, or just around town. Youre curious -- who is this person? Write his
or her story as if you have followed the person home, to school or work, on errands, wherever. What do you discover? and Photo 9 (see youngwritersproject.org/prompts14-15).
Due May 1
Who you see

BY JARAD CLARK
A bruised knuckle.
A faded scar,
healed. Somewhat.
Is it from hard labor
and days in the dirt?
Of hard people doing hard work,
the unsung heroes of a contemporary world?
Or is it the mark of a bruiser, a punk, a vagabond;
that hooded kid on the street corner,
going nowhere,
taking his time to get there?
Disreputable folk best kept in the gutter,
not out in the open
for people to notice, to talk about,
to see.
A stupid kid with a point to prove,
a black eye and a chest full of pride to show
for it.
A badge of honor,
for a tall man in a military uniform with tears
on his face,
and ghosts in his eyes, reminding him of a
time hed best like to forget.
Maybe that punks cut is, too, a badge of
honor,
ghting for his own loves and a different
freedom;
that makes him a freedom ghter no less.
THIS WEEK: Scar & General writing

responses to the prompts, Scar: Write about a scar you have,
literal or gurative; and General writing. Read more at
youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP


donation to YWP, 12 North St., Suite
THE BAY AND PAUL

FOUNDATIONS
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
A girl and a Frisbee
Positive thinking
BY COLE GRATTON
Life is about trial and error.
You learn from your mistakes and never
give up.
Sometimes things get hard in life, but its
always important to keep your head up.
Stay on the bright side of things because no
matter what happens, everything will be OK
in the end.
A good goal in life is to help others when
you see they are in need of help. Try to put a
smile on their faces and let them know youre
always there to help.
Never be scared to ask for help. It will only
make things better. Look at it as a learning
experience.
The castle was tall and grand.

She was on the top oor.
He was outside the castle door.
He dreamed of time with her.
They would spin around in elds.
They would run through elds barefoot.
The breeze would blow her hair.
They would sit under large trees.
And talk about everything they imagined.
Once upon a time, he said.
I had a dream about you.
You had run away, far away.
Never to be seen, ever again.
I wished you would come back.
But I never saw you again.
You were too happy out there.
How could I stop your happiness?
I knew that I could not.
Id never want to stop it.
Because you make me so happy.
If youre sad, Im sad, too.
But he knew it was dreaming.
Never, ever in a million years.
He could only dream of it.
Dreaming was all he ever had.
His dreams were better than reality.
He knew they always would be.
Her dreams were exactly the same.
He would never know about it.
BY HOPE UNDERWOOD
Once again, I was long forgotten.
Stressed, depressed and a lonely mess.
She was alone; he was lonely.
Teach me how to love myself.
Make her smile when nobody can.
Loving herself was the rst step.
They had something in common: fear.
Who owes me?

Bri Lancaster, Essex High School
Adventures at 3
BY TANNER CIOFFI
As a child I was very active, always on the
move. It was my third year in this world, and I
was becoming independent.
One afternoon, sometime in the summer, I
was running around the house tormenting everyone as usual. I set up a chair by one of the
big bay windows that look into our backyard.
I wanted to locate my father who was outside
doing yard work. I wanted to lend him my
tiny hands with whatever help I could.
I set the tall back of the dining room chair

against the window sill. This gave me the ability to propel myself upwards to the top of the
chair. I took a few steps back and with quick
strides I tried to leap on top of the chair.
I came down just as fast as I attempted to
get up. My little body felt the drop last for
hundreds of feet, when in reality it was only
three.
The nearby heater attacked me between my
eyebrow and eye socket splitting it in two.
The rounded corner of the heater did its damage, causing me to sob in pain for my mother
who rushed over urgently with worry exploding from her eyes.
CLIMATE CHANGE WRITING CHALLENGE

WRITE AND WIN CASH! DEADLINE EXTENDED!
1st place: $100 | 2nd: $75 | 3rd: $50
PROMPTS AND MORE DETAILS:
youngwritersproject.org/climate15
DEADLINE EXTENDED! APRIL 17
BY GABBI WARD
More six-word stories
BY OLIVIA CHRISTIE
A little, chubby girl
clutches a neon pink Frisbee.
Shes alone,
in light-up sneakers and overalls.
She throws the Frisbee.
It soars.
She squints into the sun
and chases her prize.
Frisbee is normally a two-person game,
but not for her.
She stretches, reaches,
pines for the disc between her grubby paws.
She tumbles into the sharp gravel.
The Frisbee skitters to the ground, feet away,
lost.
This is the birth of the scar,
pink and jagged along the top of her knee,
an homage
to a solitary childhood.
Six-word stories
Presented by Vermontivate!,
Vermont Energy Education Program
& Young Writers Project
BY JULIA REMILLARD
Isnt it strange that people think the world
owes them something
like the earth and sky should be bowing at our
tiny feet?
The truth is the world does not owe us anything at all.
Its our job to make good choices and stand
tall.
Asking a huge void to answer our complaints
is pointless.
And Im sorry if youve never been told this,
but you dont deserve anything; you can
hope to be blessed
and not have overwhelming stress.
But your life, and your idea of repayment is
completely wrong.
The world and everything in it owes nothing
to our polluted bodies.
We owe it our gratitude and hopeless smiles.
The fact that we see the world as our worshipper is weird,
especially when we are inhabiting its surface,
not the other way around.
I simply point out that we owe it our breath,
even if it means receiving nothing in return ...
Spring fever
BY JULIA REMILLARD
I sit solemnly dipping my tiny toes into the
stream.
The just-thawed water swirls with steam
as my hot esh enters its kingdom.
My thick hair knotted up in a pink ribbon
whistles
as the sky clears and sizzles
with feathers and heat.
Its just cold enough to see my breath
and to not feel the death
of Father Winter.
My eyes become thin splinters
as a buttery not yet given color ies by.
It stares at me and my now purple feet and
goose bumped arms.
I think about taking my water colors to its
white wings,
to see what design I can bring
to this baby butterys world.
I lose comfort in myself, and decide to lie
back in the muddy leaves.
But thats when I sneeze.
I knew it was coming,
the season of hope that shines sunny,
when hibernation ends
and all the furry friends
come running.
The scenery becomes stunning
and the world has peace.
Spring is near.
I smell and can hear
its coming.
I close my eyes and smile because the time
has come
when I can dip my feet in the stream without
them becoming numb.
Spring is setting in.
And Im ready, so, so ready!
General & Vermont Writes Day

responses to the prompt for General writing and more great
writing from Vermont Writes Day. Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil, online community of writers.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP



PHOTO OF THE WEEK
YWP NEWS & EVENTS

CLIMATE
CHANGE
WRITING
CHALLENGE
WRITE AND WIN CASH!
1st place: $100
2nd place: $75 | 3rd place: $50
DEADLINE APPROACHES! APRIL 10
Presented by Vermontivate!, Vermont Energy
Education Program & Young Writers Project
THE VOICE
READ THE APRIL ISSUE!
A day as a lion
We need to go outside
BY JORDAN BOURDEAU
Grade 6, Swanton Central School
BY HAILEY SAVAGE
Grade 7, St. Albans City School
If I was an animal, I would be a lion

because then I could just go out on the streets
and scare the living daylights out of people.
Say its in the afternoon and there are some
tourists walking near the woods. Little do
they know what is about to happen. As they
are walking, a lion jumps out of the woods
and roars a huge bellowing roar and they are
so terried that they cant even move. After
they nally regain their senses they turn heel
and run as fast as they can in the other direction.
As the lion continues to chase them, more
and more people see the lion and it keeps
going on like this until the zoo starts getting
calls about a wild lion and they realize that
the lion is loose and somehow in Vermont ...
Six-word stories
BY ADIANNA ADAMS
Was the wait worth the trouble?
Stop holding back; let it go.
Travel, eat, sleep; do it again.
My mother is my whole world.
Mud season is here; lets celebrate.
BY BAILEY BROWN
He took off, sprinting through crowds.
Crying, they fell into the darkness.
Happiness ows. Snow thaws. Its spring.
Mya Burghardt, Essex High School
If I was an animal...
From students at Bellows Free Academy St.
Albans
I have decided to become a toucan. My
friends tell me they hate birds, but I dont. I
think they are magical creatures that have the
ability to y around and observe. They are the
watch-tower guards of the animal kingdom.
LAURA DEMARSE
I would be an elephant because they display purity and peace and they have amazing,
beautiful trunks.
SIERRA ROSE
Id want to be a lowland gorilla. Gorillas
are a non-aggressive herbivore that rarely
attack other animals, unless threatened. Id
change that. Gorillas are said to be over
32 times stronger than the average human
male. If I were a gorilla for a day, Id use my
extreme strength to battle the alpha predators
of the local jungle and create a small kingdom
for myself and my band of gorillas. Id try to
teach them to be a strong existing species.
GARRETT LAMOTHE
I would be a cow. Why? Because I love

cows. I deal with them every day. It must be
nice to lie around all day and stuff your face
whenever you want and just relax and chew
your cud. Their days dont change and they do
the same thing every day. They dont have to
worry about what we humans have to worry
about. I want their life. Its easy. They have no
worries.
VICTORIA BADGER
Snowsports at school
BY JACOB DESO
I wish my school promoted skiing and
snowboarding more. The teams of these
sports dont receive as much recognition as
other teams. The two sports are important
to Vermont culture and tourism. The resorts
designed around the sports provide thousands
of jobs in Vermont.
I love skiing, being outside, constantly feeling so good. The views at the mountain are
amazing. The relaxation when youre at the
mountain is a great feeling. The sports should
be promoted for the good of Vermont and my
school.
My school has many things other students

would dream of, laptops for every student,
pleasant staff, free breakfast, and many other
great features. But, like almost every 13-yearold, I have things that I want to change. I
would like 7th and 8th graders to get a time
every day where they can go outside and get
fresh air. Being stuck in a stuffy classroom for
six to seven hours isnt wonderful.
I would like our school to be warmer in the
winter. Our school has many doors, and whenever those doors are opened, a cool breeze
drifts in.
Career help
BY MATT FOSS
I think the school should help more with
careers. I thought I knew what I wanted to do,
but I dont. I also think there should be teams
for kids who dont play as well but want to
play. That way, its a chance for kids that
maybe want to try a sport, but cant because
they didnt make the team.
Need SAT practice

BY DEVAN BLODGETT
It has recently come to my attention that the
way we are assessed on the SATs is different
from the way we are assessed in any other test
that we take in high school. I want our school
to offer us opportunities to practice the SATs...
Skittles
BY KARA FIARKOSKI
Have you ever felt like a Skittle
hidden in a bowl of M&Ms,
and never quite tting in?
On the outside you do,
but the second people open you up,
they realize youre not so smooth and sweet;
they realize youre not what theyre looking
for.
Have you ever wished you were a snake
so you could slither out of your skin
thats so constricting,
to be able to breathe as yourself,
to feel free and alive?
Have you ever wanted to breathe
and chase the air that leaves your mouth
as far as you can run
because the body youre in doesnt get enough
oxygen,
and you just want to oat away?
Have you ever had the desire
to stand on top of a mountain
and scream out words
that have ignited themselves on re in you,
and youre trying desperately to douse the
ame?
Whether someone is listening or not,
you need to remember
that, maybe,
somebody likes Skittles best.
THIS WEEK: Vermont Writes Day

In its sixth year, Vermont Writes Day sparked the imagination
of thousands of writers across the state on March 12. With
Young Writers Projects seven prompts to guide them, students, teachers and principals stopped what they were doing
for just seven minutes and wrote! This week, we present a
sample of the writing YWP received. Read more in the April
issue of The Voice!
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP



JANES TRUST
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
BY CALEB WILLS
In todays world, we no longer quietly shift

out of sleep by the feeling of the sun rising
over the horizon. We no longer get up, light a
re, and start cooking our breakfast.
Instead, we are blasted out of dreamland by
the sound of alarms blaring, and we quickly
heat up food and leave our homes while eating. There is doubt that we are even eating
what we think we are eating.
We no longer learn simple addition in
school. Instead, we are forced to learn the history, workings and science of our world. There
is no freedom from this. We are required to do
it, as it is our only purpose.
People are no longer individuals. We are
interconnected, via a vast array of networks.
Our every thought is broadcast to those that
we call friends, even though many of them we
hardly speak to, or even see. There is no more
privacy. People might think that it is a great
thing to be one with all. It is not. Humans
might need companionship, but this is just
too much: Every thought, open to all; every
person, locked together.
Where are the skateboards? Where are the
board games? Where is the fun? Being a kid
here is tough. You are not alone. Ever.
Spiral staircase
BY ADSEL SPARROW
Six-word life
BY GRACE ADAMCZAK
They said I couldnt; you didnt.
Youre the light to my dark.
Youre the night to my light.
Without stars, I wouldnt have you.
Twelve years old, still feel 6.
Listening to silence
BY THOMAS CUDDY
I slowly walk up the stairs to my bedroom,
away from the distracting sounds of humans.
This is the day, I tell myself. The day you
nally hear it. The sound of silence.
I enter my room and close the door. I cant
let the sounds from downstairs sneak in.
Because thats not silence. And silence is what
I want to hear.
I dont know why I care to hear what this
sounds like. I dont know why it matters. But
suddenly, its the most important thing in the
world that I know what silence sounds like.
I take a breath and wait for my heart to stop
pounding. I wish that I hadnt had to go up the
stairs; it gets my heart rate up. And as long
as I can hear my heart beating, I cannot hear
the silence at least, not the pure, complete
silence I want.
Then, nally, the pounding quiets down,
and the excitement grows. Nows the time, I
tell myself eagerly. Nows the time I nally
get to hear it silence.
But as soon as the silence is almost complete, my ears are lled with a ringing sound,
and the silence fades away.
Wait a minute, I say. Whats going on?
Why are my ears doing this now?!
But then I notice that, as soon as I spoke,
the ringing sound vanished, and suddenly
I understand: Nobody is meant to hear the
sound of silence.
Never alone in 2065
Sophia Cannizzaro, Homeschool, West Glover
The tumble
Best invention
BY CADY LYKENS
BY JOSEPH WILLS
I awoke last night,

I tossed and I turned.
I had a strange feeling,
for the door I yearned.
I got out of bed
and I walked to the door
to nd a huge staircase
straight down to the oor.
I paused for a second,
trying to think.
My head got so dizzy,
I needed a drink.
So I walked near the stairs
and wondered what to do
when my nger got cut
and blood started to spew.
I ran down the stairs
but started to fall.
My life cant be over!
Im not old at all!
I tumbled downstairs
as I let out a cry,
I will miss this world!
Good night and good bye!
Its the year 2065

a long time, but Im still alive.
The best invention of the day
is a machine that tells me what to say.
I dont need to think.
I dont need to speak.
But it doing it for me
has made me weak.
It tells me what to do
dont know how.
But you wouldnt believe the time
I have on my hands now!
It can even tell
who I should be
so I dont waste time being me!
Everyone uses it
and it makes my day
to see my machine
telling people what to say.
Took years to invent
hope you can see
this new perfect world
is all because of me!
Ive been awake for hours. I cant shake the

feeling that something is strange. That something is going to happen tonight. Something
that will change my life.
I sit up in my bed and rub my eyes. I am
so tired... so tired... Then, faintly, I hear the
church bells chime one by one... 10, 11, 12.
Twelve oclock. How mysterious.
I slump out of bed and grab my water cup
as I head toward the door. Maybe walking
around will help me relax. The door creaks
as I open it and I step out onto the soft green
carpet of our hallway. I look around to make
sure no one else is awake. And then, it catches
my eye. A spiral staircase.
I blink to make sure I saw it right, and its
still there. An old, wooden, spiral staircase.
I set down the water glass and slowly walk
toward it. The oor creaks and I stop suddenly. No one must know that this is here. They
would all think Im crazy! I reach the staircase
and I realize that it is also carpeted in the
same green carpet as in the hallway. I reach
out to tap the railing. Its smooth and polished,
brand new. Never used before.
But someone has gone up. I can see the
imprints on the carpet. Someone was here on
this mysterious staircase that just happened to
appear ...
CLIMATE CHANGE
WRITING CHALLENGE
WRITE AND WIN!

1st place: $100 | 2nd: $75 | 3rd: $50
DEADLINE: APRIL 10
Walking on my old,
Vermont dirt road
BY KAYLA MCARTOR
Grade 9, Bellows Free Academy
I love to walk along my old, Vermont dirt road
in winter.
When it snows, I sometimes shield my eyes.
For either way, I can be blinded. But at least
on my own terms, I feel safe.
Each snowake has its own little impact:
some compress under my feet, leaving prints
to keep track of where Ive been.
Some sparkle and catch my eye, make me
smile with the purest, simplest form of joy.
However, often the snow sugarcoats the roads
condition, like the sweet grains it reminds me
of.
Of course, it also reminds me of salt, which it
is often mixed with anyway.
It can ll the space between the ruts, make a
pothole appear shallow, or render a sheet of
glare ice invisible.
So of course I slip, usually not too much; a
stumble here, an unbalanced moment caused
by an unexpected hole there.
I try not to fall, but when I do I must get up.
My pants may be wet for the rest of my walk,
but its far better than sitting in the mud and
snow, not going anywhere.
I cannot predict these things; the road changes
every day.
It could be gouged with ruts a foot deep one
afternoon, and the next I nd the grader has
come and made it as smooth as the white bark
of an observing birch.
When walking my road, Im cautious about
the turns where I cannot see beyond the trees.
If a car comes, its common sense to stay
away from it, of course. But if it comes without warning, around a curve, I would at least
be startled by it.
I hope nothing worse than that ever happens
to me, but I know theres no guarantee; so still
I tread carefully.
I tend to watch my feet as I walk, mindlessly
taking step after step.
But I need to look up more often.
Because when I do, when I let myself drift for
a moment, the view is breathtaking.
Each snowake falls around me, so different,
so cherished.
The sun smiles; if not, even the clouds form
fantastic shapes to delight me.
My mother tells me that even when shes old
and relies on a cane, Ill still see her out walking these old, Vermont dirt roads.
And I believe her. Ill surely see you, walking
along your own road. Or perhaps well meet
along the same one.
Either way, well all keep walking, day after
day.
As for me? Ill look ahead, to where my old,
Vermont dirt road meets the interstate.
To the horizon, where the promise of a new
road awaits as the sun rises.
And to the snowakes I may or may not care
about, recognize, or even know exist.
So I may cherish those that fall on my road, or
on my tongue, where I can taste the sweetness
of winter.
Ill try to see through the snowakes that hide
obstacles along the way,
to avoid the areas where the snow looks too
deep for me.
One thing is certain:
I wont stop walking my old, Vermont dirt
road until the road ends.

YWP NEWS

responses to the prompt for General writing and Vermont
Writes Day writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org,
a safe, civil, online community of writers.
CLIMATE CHANGE
WRITING CHALLENGE
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP


First place: $100

Second place: $75 | Third place: $50
DEADLINE: APRIL 10
THE BAY AND PAUL

FOUNDATIONS
WRITE AND WIN!
PHOTO OF THE WEEK

NEXT PROMPTS
Unjust. Write about an injustice youve
witnessed or experienced. What should
be done about it? Alternates: Lists: Write
two lists your top 10 likes and top 10
dislikes; or General writing in any genre.
Due April 3
Im lucky
BY ELIZABETH MAGNAN
Dylan Sayamouangkhua, Burlington High School
VERMONT WRITES DAY 2015

In 2065
BY CALEB WILLS
In todays world, we no longer are quietly
shifted out of sleep by the feeling of the sun
rising over the horizon. We no longer get up,
light a re, and start cooking our breakfast.
We instead are blasted out of dreamland by
the sound of alarms blaring, and we awaken
to quickly heat up food, and leave our homes
whilst eating. There is doubt that we are even
eating what we think we are eating.
We no longer travel miles to school to learn
simple addition. Instead, we simply arrive,
and are forced to learn the history, workings,
and science of our world. There is no freedom
from this. We are required to, as it is our only
purpose.
People are no longer split individuals. We
are interconnected, via a vast array of networks.
Our every thought is broadcast to those that
we call friends, even though many of them we
hardly speak to, or even see. There is no more
privacy.
People may think that it is a great thing to
be one with all. It is not. Humans may need
the companionship, but this is just too much.
Every thought, open to all. Every person,

locked together.
Where are the skateboards, where are the
board games, where is the fun?
Being a kid here is tough. You are not
alone. Ever.
Cold embrace
BY JULIA REMILLARD
Protect me from your cold embrace.
Cover my heart, hide my face.
Hurt is something I must never feel,
so help me shield
out your vicious temptation.
As the wind dies from its creation
and the sea rises with fear,
let my innocent tears
wash you away.
Let me stay, let me stay.
I walk, I sprint, and bleed away from you.
And the clouds turn blue
as we try not to admit how cold you are
and how far
I must go to escape
your embrace.
I am the Lucky One.

I have both parents
and they live together.
I have never seen someone die.
No one I know has ever been shot
or shot at.
I have never been shot at.
I have a warm house to live in.
I never go to bed
or to school hungry.
I go to school.
I ski.
I get to spend the summer
at a house on Lake Champlain.
I go tubing, kayaking,
swimming and Jet Skiing.
I laugh.
I am the Lucky One
because so many kids never get to do
or to have
many of these things.
So many kids ...
live in a war zone,
have been raped/sexually abused,
have been physically abused,
dont go to school,
have seen someone they love die,
have had a near-death experience,
dont know when their next meal will be,
dont have a house to live in,
dont have shoes.
I have had a perfect life
compared to them.
Why cant they share my luck?
Why do they have to suffer?
Why am I the Lucky One?
Simply be
BY KAYLA MCARTOR
Eh-hem! Alright, folks, lets get on with
it. You want to be more human, yes? Yes, yes
of course you do, why else would you pay
to take my class? Anyway, I wont bore you
with all the complex details. That is for next
semester... Now, what do you think is the most
important part of being a human being? Yes?
You in the back.
Um ... having emotions?
Ha! Just having emotions? Elephants, cats,
dogs, almost all living things have emotions.
Sure, most are backed by instinct, but hey!
Im sure a lion can hold a grudge well enough.
No, the key to emotions is identifying
them. Ill give you the answer to my question
since I like the track you put the class on with
your own answer: to be a human being, you
need to be able to think about yourself. Did
you know that on this earth humans are the
only creatures that study themselves? We are
even now trying to unlock the secrets of our
own brain. Philosophy. You wont see a cat
stop and think, Oh, gee, I wonder why I just
coughed up a hair ball? But I digress. I want
you all to practice thinking about yourselves.
Look at your body and ask questions. You see
a freckle, ask, Why do I have a freckle? If
you see a hair, ask, Why is that there? Then
I want to have a few of you give examples of
what you came up with.
What purpose do my eyebrows serve?
What is happening in my mouth when I chew?
Why does my nose stick out of my face?
I want to know why Mitchell is so ugly.
Now class, how would a human respond
to such an insult?
That was an insult? I thought it was a
valid question.
No, my dear student, that was not directed
at yourself, now was it? That was directed at
your friend. Or is he even your friend? Are
you merely pretending to be friends with him,
or are you such good friends that it doesnt
matter what you say to each other, you know,
you love each other anyway?
Umm...
Or maybe you are in love with Mitchell,
as in have a chemical attraction to him that
makes your stomach utter and heart race
whenever you are near him?
Well, I heard humans are usually attracted
to pretty people, so...
Or perhaps you simply dont recognize
the symptoms of love. Wait, perhaps symptoms wasnt the word I was looking for. Signs
would be a better one. Alright class, lets go
over how you know when youre in love, as
experiencing love is a major part of being
human!
Teacher, Im still not solid on the whole,
thinking about self thing. Can we go over
that more?
Oh, teacher, I was actually wondering
about the signs of anger? I heard they were
similar in some ways to love, and I think I
experienced anger a while ago.
Good question, what does the rest of the
class think ...
Teacher, I want to move on to other emotions like love right away.
And what about the hierarchy of human
families? Oh, and high school social groups!
Social groups in general. They seem so complicated!
Class, please ...
And the whole bonding with animals thing
is weird.
And the fear of death! How are we even
supposed to approach that concept?
Raising children! ...
Enough! Being a human is complicated,
yes, but you cant learn how to be one this
way! One simply has to be. Be what you are!
That said, my job is impossible and obsolete.
I quit!
THIS WEEK: Manual & General

responses to the prompts, Manual: Write instructions on how
to be a human being; and General writing. Read more at
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP



VERMONT BUSINESS
ROUNDTABLE
YWP NEWS
THE VOICE
READ THE MARCH ISSUE!
CLIMATE CHANGE
WRITING CHALLENGE
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
WRITE AND WIN!

First place: $100
Second place: $75 | Third place: $50
DEADLINE: APRIL 10
Molly Noel, Essex High School
Whats going on?
Image
BY BRIANNA SALERNO
Grade 8, Faireld Center School
BY JULIA REMILLARD
Time to get up, Max! Youre going to be

late for your last day of school! Remember
you wanted to be there extra early!
Oh Mom, if you only knew Ive been up for
hours planning a few little tricks.
I grab my bag and head downstairs. Mom
has left me my usual breakfast of eggs (sunny
side up), two pieces of toast, buttered thoughtfully, and three pieces of sausage. I eat my
breakfast a little faster than normal and chug
my O.J. I say goodbye to my mom and run
out the door. I meet up with David to discuss
our devious little plan.
Hey dude! I greet him and we do our
special handshake.
Sup, my man? David says.
You got the props?
Heck yeah!
You got the plans?
Yeah. I pull out several pieces of paper.
Nice, alright, lets see what weve got
here: Girls bathroom: check. Principals ofce: check. Mrs. Bratlees room: nice, check.
Main ofce: check; and library, ha! check!
Okay you get the principals ofce with
the glue and feathers and Ill get the girls
bathroom with the ketchup and paint. Then
well meet up in Mrs. Bratlees room, continue to the main ofce and then the library
where well do our Grand Finale. Got it?
To be continued...
If people stopped loving society,

and started loving themselves,
then our world wouldnt we so worthless.
It would maybe, actually, be beautiful.
NEXT PROMPTS
Safe. Where do you feel safest and most
comfortable? Describe this place. Alternates: Slam. Rant and rave! Write your best
slam poem and make a podcast! or Photo 8
(below). Due March 20
Pain
BY KATIE LABELLE
You say youre ne, but I know that when
youre away from the prying ears and watchful eyes, youre really not.
Whenever we ask if youre okay, you say
yes, but you never quite nd any of our eyes.
Youre hurt. I step toward you. I want to
take away the pain, so maybe next time we
ask, youll look me in the eyes.
It kills me to see you fading away like this,
pretty soon youll be gone, consumed by the
pain.
But you push me away again. All youve
ever done is push me away.

Photo 8. Melissa Morris, Essex High School
Vermont. Vermont is maple syrup, Ben

& Jerrys, Green Mountains, skiing/snowboarding, farms, right? Now, describe your
Vermont. Alternates: Life. Write a crazy
story about what would happen to the rest
of your life if a certain major event had
gone differently the more earth-shattering,
the better; or Message. You send a message
in a bottle. What do you write? Who do you
want to nd it? Due March 27
THIS WEEK: Vermont & People

responses to a prompt to write about Vermont; and People:
Write about a hidden people that most of us never know.
Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
SAMUEL BOUDREAU, a senior at Bellows

Free Academy St. Albans, has been invited
to read the following poem at the Vermont
Statehouse on Thursday as a representative
of Young Writers Project when March 12 is
proclaimed Vermont Writes Day.
Vermonts hearth
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP



PHOTO OF THE WEEK
BY SAMUEL BOUDREAU
The winding trail to the peak
of French Hill overows
with intense and vibrant
red hues of the sugar-lled
maple trees.
I notice how their colors intensify
against the evergreens.
The maple tree harbors many leaves:
unique, optimistic, rustic;
while the evergreen
has millions of identical needles
stuck to its branches.
The maple trees innards
go best with a stack of pancakes.
The only quality evergreen sap exemplies
is its exceptional ability to stay
on your hands after the 37th wash.
I stare at the beauty of
the maples swaying hair.
Back and forth it
follows the gentle
brush of the wind.
After the few nal glances
are encapsulated in my
memory, I descend down
French Hills hidden trails.
Mother Nature has painted
her masterpiece
on Vermonts canvas,
and these orange mountains
are the hearth to my home.
Guardian aliens
BY KAYLA MCARTOR
Dont tap my shoulder to ask for directions
When Im all but staring and my back is
hunched.
My blank expression
Will be the rst sign
Youve already seen too much.
Ill have to take you somewhere secluded
Where you wont ever reveal my secret.
Youll go willingly
Because you wouldnt refuse
A vacation like none youd forget.
Ill take to my home, a place far away
Where youll get to know the ways of my
people;
How at rst we are scary.
Thats why we stay hidden.
But without us, your day would prove fatal.
Ill sense that truck driver falling asleep,
Reach out with my senses to wake him before
He crashes into
A young mother and babe.
Of course at the same time Ill prevent even
more.
When Im all but staring, my back hunched
over,
Im actually intensely focused.
Im reading the futures
Of the people around me,
Preparing to help, while remaining unnoticed.
So dont go asking why I look normal, but
rarely
Act like the human Im impersonating.
An outcast of society,
A true wallower.
Because just that is a big realization.
If humanity found out theyve been invaded,
Theyd skip to shooting without asking questions.
Id be dead.
Soon youd be nixed, too,
Your protectors gone, future no longer predestined.
Human nature is a predictable trait.
Its proven to be untrustworthy the last thousand years.
Its faulty, starts wars,
Relies on false strength.
So be thankful Im hidden, hidden right here.
Eric Wakim, Essex High School
VERMONT WRITES DAY

THURSDAY, MARCH 12: The day we stop everything to write!
This is Young Writers Projects sixth Vermont Writes Day, and rst proclamation. Its a
day when students, teachers & principals write for just seven minutes to one of the seven
prompts below. YWP will open a special web site, vermontwritesday.org, where writing
can be posted directly, only on that day. Writing can also be submitted on youngwritersproject.org or with pen and paper.
The best writing of the day will be published in this newspaper and in a special issue of
The Voice, YWPs digital magazine. Find out more at youngwritersproject.org/VTWrites15.
YWP NEWS & EVENTS

THE VOICE
READ THE MARCH ISSUE!
THE PROMPTS
1. 2065: Its the year 2065. Describe the coolest invention of the day. Tell a story
about how you use it.
2. School. What do you wish your school would do or provide that it doesnt do/provide now?
3. Animal: Youve been granted a wish to be transformed into an animal for 24 hours.
What animal would you be? Why? Tell a
story of what happens.
4. Staircase: Its midnight. You cant
sleep. You open the door to your bedroom
and there, in the hall, is a fantastic staircase
that youve never seen before. What do you
do? What happens?
5. Six: Write as many six-word stories
as you can.
6. Free Write: Write about anything!
Tell a story!
7. Photo: Write from the perspective of
anyone, or anything in the photo, right.
CLIMATE CHANGE
WRITING CHALLENGE
WRITE! WIN CASH!
DETAILS:
youngwritersproject.org/
climate15
DEADLINE: APRIL 10
THIS WEEK: Listen & Photo 6
Footsteps
BY JARAD CLARK
It rains on some
far-off mountain.
A pool develops
in the footprint
of a heavy animal that lumbers by,
exceeds its capacity and
ows downward as
compelled,
continues,
unabated; a
stream
forms, owing steadily
down;
others
add to its strength; It
turns into a river when
it reaches the base, arrives at a cliff, and
hurtles
without tepidity,
but tremendous
power and force,
and nally comes to a calm, pooling beneath
the cliff.
Ripples

writing and images for publication. This week, we present responses to the prompts, Listen: Write to this prompts audio
link on youngwritersproject.org, (Sea Oleenas Everyone
with Eyes Closed); and Photo 6.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP



JANES TRUST
PHOTO OF THE WEEK / PHOTO 6
BY OLIVIA CHRISTIE
The water rushes around my ears.
A strange silence pushes at my eardrums,
kick, whoosh.
I glide again,
reaching forward,
pulling the crystalline water with my cupped
hands.
My open eyes sting,
the chlorination an angry bee,
only the little circles
dot across the pool.
The grey day nally comes to fruition
as lazy gobs of rain dive into the water
mixed with the chemical bath.
Pure.
The rhythm of swimming is undeniable,
one, two, three, four,
pull, breathe, kick, glide.
The water envelops my body
like a blanket,
neither warm nor cool.
My feet push off the wall,
reminding me that I still exist.
The rain gets heavier,
pelts the surface,
the ripples like rings on a coffee table.
Thunder rumbles,
the thud of a heartbeat,
the noise of the world intercepting the
quiet ripples in the center
eventually reach the edge.
Nights full of rain

BY TANNER CIOFFI
Grandfathers camp.
Sitting in the forest of Stannard Mountain,
it was constructed by his own two calloused
hands.
He planted a tin roof above our heads to keep
the elements out.
Nights consumed by the rain are not to pass
by unnoticed;
each time they are consistently distinct.
The tin canopy creates an unfamiliar sound.
The roof is a tool, not only to keep us dry, but
acting as a lullaby.
I hear each and every crash of raindrops jumping atop the metal above my head as I lay
restlessly in one of the four beds upstairs.
With every drop my eyelids get
heavier and heavier.
I wait for the darkness of sleep to protrude
into my mind,
capturing my thoughts effortlessly.
My ears focus on nothing but the drops exploding into the slate of tin,
drowning out the noises of the wilderness.
Eventually I am swallowed by the bed
into the deepest sleep one has ever encountered.
Waking up the next morning, I am refreshed
and electried due to the deepness of last
nights sleep, introduced by only two items,
tin and rain.
YWP NEWS & EVENTS
VERMONT WRITES DAY

IS THURSDAY, MARCH 12!
Stop everything to write for just seven
minutes! Get your school involved!
Find out more at youngwritersproject.
org/VTWrites15.
Flying man
BY SEAN HENGEMUHLE
Flying through the clean brisk air,
the weight of prior doubts and worries are
shed from within.
The sun shines into a sea of radiant glory,
untouched,
ready to be basked in. The rate and manner at
which the air is pierced
is smooth, slow, silent,
solemn. The breeze washes, cleanses, puries.
The monotonous indulgence induces a trance.
Eyes are no longer needed
to see what lies ahead, only instinct proctors
the lofty lightness of ight.
Boundaries are none. Life is limitless.
Photo 6. Kevin Huang, Burlington High School
Frozen earth
BY JULIA REMILLARD
I sit and let the frost-bit air kill me,
envelop me with icy breeze,
the snow making my cheeks numb
as I think about the thoughts to come.
Why am I here on this frozen tundra?
I stop and breathe as icicles form in my lungs,
my untouchable hope silently hung
above my head
and my chilled eyes staring as the sun becomes dead.

I know I should force my limp legs to leave
soon
unless Id like to
freeze under the starry sky,
unless Id like to die.
So I stand with my sheltered heart
and turn away from the dark,
and walk across the silky snow,
whispering the secrets that nobody will ever
know.
for your FREE subscription!
NEXT PROMPTS
Decision. Think of a time you had to make
a difcult decision and create a ctional
character who makes the opposite choice from
the decision you made (or would make) in this
situation. What would turn out differently?
Alternates: Idea. Write about a seemingly bad
idea that turns out great; or Manual. Write
instructions on how to be a human being. Due
March 13
Beasty
BY SAMUEL BOUDREAU
I was at the top of
the mountain, standing
on its auburn and muted
grey granite plateau.
The birch trees bloated the valleys belly
and slid onto the cattles plains.
I closed my eyes and
stood like Christ the Redeemer:
xed, unyielding.
Until the rumble came.
It jiggled the belly of the valley
and screamed to the mountain.
The leaves on the trees quivered
as the being brushed past.
I heard its steps getting closer
to the edge of the mountain.
I had always heard it roam
in this forest, but I had never
heard it come at me with
such aggression.

ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP



AMY E. TARRANT
FOUNDATION
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Thump,
thwick,
tisp.
Forever
BY GRACE ADAMCZAK
I remember the time we spent together,
when you said youd love me forever.
Through any kind of weather,
wed always be together.
What happened to the day
when we spent our time away,
when I asked you to stay
and you said Okay.
You said youd love me till you die,
but I wasnt ready to say goodbye.
What if I could save you now,
and never say my wedding vow?
Id switch places if I could,
but I know thatll be no good.
Goodbye to you,
my little baby blue.
NEXT PROMPTS
Supersilly. Come up with a hilarious,
seemingly useless superpower and explain
how one might defeat a villain using it.
Alternates: Secret. Write about a secret (real
or ctional) that people must never know; or
People. Write about a secret people (a hidden
population) that most but not all people
never know. Due March 6
Decision. Think of a time you had to make
a difcult decision and then create a ctional
character who makes the opposite choice from
the decision you made (or would make) when
faced with the same situation. Alternates:
Idea. Write about a seemingly bad idea that
turns out great; or Manual. Write instructions
on how to be a human being. Due March 13
I saw love growing in hunger

to devour my heart.
Cleanse
BY ABIGAIL BUCKLEY
Cleanse your soul with the darkness that consumes others.
Let it be heard that we are not anonymous,
that we are not minstrels in the eye of arrogant
superiors,
and are heard in our farthest cries under deep
waters.
Our voices will never cleanse our whereabouts anywhere.
We will only be heard, but the world will not
change,
though we still talk, because we think ourselves speechless.
We sing to create joy that did not come to us
naturally.
We dance to make ourselves believe that we
are wholly free.
We read to escape to another world where we
feel not like shadows.
We write to understand that others insanities
are quite similar.
We look to our ancestors to not repeat their
mistakes, but still resume where they left off.
We look to our religion in need, but never
question whos actually there.
Who is listening to us when we are at our
worst?
Who is as true as there is no such thing as
perfect?
Who wants us around day to day just to walk
by us?
And who wants us here just to cherish our
indifference?
Tell me, because I can do this no more.

AND
THE VOICE,
YWPS DIGITAL MAGAZINE
Photo 8. Melissa Morris,

Essex High School
Haley Thon, Essex High School
Growing up
Safe. Where do you feel safest and most

comfortable? Describe this place. Alternates:
Slam. Rant and rave! Write your best slam
poem and make a podcast! or Photo 8 (Write
a story or poem based on the photo, above).
Due March 20
YWP NEWS
BY JULIA REMILLARD
Think for a moment. Put down all your distractions, yes, your phone is included.
Look around you and recap your life. Laugh and cry with all your might.
Im currently staring into a screen, writing about things that no 15-year-old girl would
know about: life.
I cant begin to describe struggles and pain because they dissolve into nothing. I dont
care if I have a huge audience above or below listening to me babble about what it means to
live; this is me, a human made of feelings and esh, just letting go.
Whether youre young or old, maybe you are or have experienced this fear Ive developed.
I have a fear of aging.
I love being a kid, and being a leader who really doesnt need to truly fend for herself but
has the choice to.
I have three years left until I am an adult and, wow, am I scared.
But as I go off to drive and apply for college, I cry and shiver because Im not ready to
leave my youth behind, my family and going home to watch TV and take naps.
I guess Im just not ready for the world to rip me up yet.
All my friends are beaming at the chance to grow up and be independent, but I am not.
My independence isnt dened by my age at all; its dened by my condence level, and
Im scared that out in the real world, Ill be deated.
Anyway, you can go back to twiddling your thumbs and whatever else you wish to do,
but I wish for you to all remember what this fear of growing up was like for you.
VERMONT WRITES DAY

THURSDAY, MARCH 12!
IS
Its the day we stop everything to write for

just seven minutes! Find out more at youngwritersproject.org/VTWrites15.
The weapon of choice
Change, Mythical & General writing

responses to the prompts, Change: Use the phrase, thats
when everything changed...; Mythical: Invent a mythical
creature; and General. More at youngwritersproject.org.
BY SAMUEL BOUDREAU
The Snow falls outside the window
with a certain slide, a pushing tilt.
It bombards the buildings and streets
with an innocent ascension.
Its funny how people love
these beautiful akes.
Its funny how people love
Winters weapon of choice:
deceitful geometric crystals.
They coat the roads with
accidents and paint themselves
with blood.
They land upon the dead mans
cheek and cover him until
Spring wipes them away.
They sleep on scales of a roof
until it becomes a sink hole.
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and foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value
of writing. If you would like to contribute, please go to youngwritersproject.
org/support, or mail your donation to
YWP, 12 North St., Suite 8, Burlington,
VT 05401.
What Snow lacks in ugliness

it compensates for in its intentions.
THE BAY AND PAUL

FOUNDATIONS
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
MARK YOUR CALENDARS!

Vermont Writes Day is Thursday,
March 12! Its the day we stop everything to write for just seven minutes!
Find out more at youngwritersproject.org/VTWrites15.
NEXT PROMPTS
Isnt it funny how

something so beautiful
can be so deadly like love.
Tunnel. You nd a tunnel in the

ground. How did you stumble upon
it and where does it lead? Experiment with character, point of view and
setting. Alternates: Law. Change one
fundamental law of physics (how our
world works) and describe what would
happen without that law in place, e.g.,
funky gravity, spontaneous reordering
of broken objects, solid objects becoming gaseous/gaseous objects become
solid, or make up a new law; or Photo
7 (see below). Due Feb. 27
Thats when it
all changed
BY JULIA REMILLARD
I walked lightly on the small stones,
admiring how alone
I was.
And thats when everything changed...
My eyes lifting widely from the ground,
my ombre face turning to a frown
thats when I nally got it
why I failed to make the cut,
make the list.
At rst I thought it was
because of my image,
but no,
there was something much bigger lling
in for my original assumption
and my brains thoughts resumption.
As I turned around and sprinted,
the once soft small stones imprinted
my big feet
and the path became steep.
Now I knew
it was never me;
it was temptations begging to be free.
I laughed
with no regard for nature
while running across the acres.
For years, I thought I was to blame,
but Id been a pawn
in a larger game.
Im not the broken one anymore,
just another number in the score
of how many hearts
they could break,
how many souls
they could shake.
I stopped to catch my breath
and quickly recap
what Id lost, and what was left.
They took so much from me,
but somehow, I am happy,
just because it was never me,
or my image.
It was them.
YWP NEWS
Addie Scanlon, Essex High School
Angus
BY OLIVIA BELROSE
In 2014, my summer was awesome because
my family and I got a new puppy. We had
really wanted a dog since our other dog died
of old age.
So we tried to nd a place where we could
get one, but we just couldnt seem to nd one.
Then one day my mother found some ads
in the newspaper. The rst one we found
had black labs but we couldnt get one from
there since they werent going to be ready to
go home until August and we wouldnt have
enough time to train the puppy before my
mom and I returned to school.
So we thought we werent going to get a
puppy until I found another ad in the paper; it
said they had yellow labs. So I told my mother
and she called the place and they said they
had two left and they were located in Cabot,
Vermont.
So the night before we went to get the
puppy, we went down to Tractor Supply and
got some things for the dog. We got a small
bag of dog food to start with and some puppysized chew toys, plus some doggy treats.
The next day we drove to Cabot and picked

out our dog. We chose the biggest one and decided to name him Angus. When we got back,
we played outside with him and then he fell
asleep. Angus was 9 weeks old that day. Angus is now 9 months, and he is big and crazy,
but super cuddly. He will be 1 on April 27.
Watch out
BY SAMANTHA DEVLIN-COMBS
Lock your doors,
shut your windows,
hide under your bed!
The Monster is coming.
It has green scale-like skin,
sharp dagger teeth
and claws as long as time.
Its teeth are yellow.
Its eyes are bright red.
So if you are ever home alone,
I suggest you hide under your bed
before ...
it gets in your home and searches for you.
The next thing you know
GULP!! youre dead.
Supersilly. Come up with a hilarious, seemingly useless superpower and

explain how one might defeat a villain
using it. For example, when in danger,
spaghetti (cooked) shoots out of your
ngertips. The villain is helpless
with laughter? Alternates: Secret. Write
about a secret (real or ctional) that
people must never know; or People.
Write about a secret people (a hidden
population) that most but not all
people never know. Due March 6
MORE GREAT WRITING IN

THE VOICE AT
Loving Alone
BY SAMUEL BOUDREAU
Dear Alone,
We have gotten to know
each other too well.
Almost to the point where
I can see you stalk your next victim.
I see you hide underneath
the beaten oorboards with
sickly eyes: waiting, wanting.
Waiting for the cat to die
or the spouse to leave the
person crying.
I see your hunger from
the imprints of your rib-cage,
and the spit drooling from
your mouth while you sit
in the rafters.
I see the want in you.
It pains me to see you
this way: deled, deated.
Which is why you and I
have always been different.
I have learned to love
our afternoons together.
Just you and me.
At rst it was uncomfortable,
but Ive grown used to you.
I know our relationship has
developed because when
Im surrounded by people
I can feel you gently holding my hand.
I can hear you whisper to me
over the entire chorus,
dont forget me.
And I always answer
back, never.

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Read more of Samuel Boudreaus poems on

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THE VOICE
READ THE FEBRUARY ISSUE!
SAMUEL BOUDREAU
OF BELLOWS FREE ACADEMY
IS WRITER OF THE MONTH!
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MARK YOUR CALENDARS!
Emma Parizo, Essex High School
NEXT PROMPTS
Listen. Click on the audio for this prompt on youngwritersproject.org. What do the
sounds evoke? If a setting comes to mind, write about that; if its a character, describe the
character. Alternates: You. Someone wants to tell you something because youre the only
one who will understand. What is the story? Who is telling you? How does it affect you?;
or General writing. Due Feb. 20
Tunnel. You nd a tunnel in the ground. How did you stumble upon it and where does it
lead? Experiment with character, point of view and setting. Alternates: Law. Change one
fundamental law of physics (how our world works) and describe what would happen without that law in place, e.g., funky gravity, spontaneous reordering of broken objects, solid
objects becoming gaseous/gaseous objects become solid, or make up a new law; or Photo 7
(See youngwritersproject.org). Due Feb. 27
Its the day we stop everything to write

for just seven minutes! Find out more at
youngwritersproject.org/VTWrites15.
Blonde girl
BY JULIA REMILLARD
Cheap red lipstick lines her lips
While a tight navy skirt hugs her hips
A tiny blonde, too fond of her own success
Stuck in an avalanche of stress
She walks with edge and discomfort
Not showing that shes been hurt
Her skin so pale you can see her veins
And she gently refrains from speaking
Afraid of accidently leaking
The truth of her own desperate state
Always a second too late
If only this cheap Barbie of a girl
Would realize her head doesnt need to always
swirl
That good enough is her title
That instead of being subtle
She can be herself
Regardless of the hurt and pain
Her rufed white shirt stained
By tears
And fear
Of being judged by those who dont even
matter
Constantly she tries to climb this ladder
Made out of jealous words, and insecure bodies
If only she realized that making herself into a
copy
Would only make things worse
That giving up wouldnt take all the hurt
Out of her heart
But thats not the part
That this blonde beauty will get trapped in
Its her need to win
Her desire to be accepted
Its like shes been infected
With an illness that makes her want to be
perfect
But in some weird way I guess shes actually
correct
Because half the other fools in our world are
infected too
All of us believe that image is the glue
Of our lives
But that, right there, isnt right
I only wish that this blonde baby girl would
soon notice
That while shes been so focused
On not screwing up
Shes forgotten about all of her accomplishments
And how beautifully imperfect she is
And I know wishes dont usually come true
But maybe this time the tiny girl with blue
Eyes, will nally not suck in her stomach, and
hide her curves
Maybe for once shell let her voice be heard
Because I know if she stopped judging herself
Others would stop judging her as well
If she just took the time to acknowledge how
amazing she is
She would realize that being perfect isnt what
she needs
What she needs is to be able to look in the
mirror and say
I love myself
My carbon copy
BY SAMUEL BOUDREAU
You look at me
with no emotion.
Your face is a
transparent black
because of the light,
and you are a wannabe me.
Trapped in my silhouette,
I can only imagine what
it must feel like. Always
following and never leading.
Yet, I am not deceived by
your pathetic attitude.
I know the lips youve kissed
on the bench next to the
blooming cherry blossom tree.
I know the horror youve felt
when you jumped off the
Empire State Building and
started to regret it.
I know the feeling of galloping
through a golden eld like
a mentally insane man
escaping his asylum.
Because once you come back
to me with your adventures,
they become my dreams.
You do this only to deceive,
to take revenge because
of your imprisonment,
to play your part in the game.
But,
Shadow,
Brother,
Carbon Copy,
in those dreams, I realized
you mimicked my day.
Every feeling was in its proper place,
and there were no exclusions.
I guess all you wanted to tell me
was, Im here to listen.

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NEXT PROMPTS
Break free
Stardust. Youre exploring intergalactic space and come across a voyager

selling stardust. Write your conversation. Alternate: Regret. Is there something you wish you had done, but now
its too late? What is it and how do you
deal with it? Due Feb. 13
BY ADSEL SPARROW
I can see you,
the real you,
the one who smiles when I get something
right,
the one who blushes when complimented.
But why do you hide
behind your shell,
the shell of what everyone wants to see?
Perfection.
Politeness.
You dont have to hide.
We wont hurt you.
We know the real you.
Weve all seen it
even though you try your hardest to hide it.
You can come out.
I know youre there.
All you have to do is break the shell,
smash it
so you can never crawl back into it again
because then everyone will see
what I see:
your caring smile,
your bright red blush.
They will see all of that
and just one more thing,
your beauty,
because you are beautiful
and thats what makes you shine.
YWP NEWS
Listen. Click on the audio link for

this prompt on youngwritersproject.
org. What do the sounds evoke? Alternates: You. Someone wants to tell you
something because youre the only
one who will understand. What is the
story? Who is telling you? How does it
affect you?; or General writing. Due
Feb. 20
Austin Victor Ayer, Essex High School
Tunnel. You nd a tunnel in the

ground. How did you stumble upon it
and where does it lead? Experiment
with character, point of view and
setting. Alternates: Law. Change one
fundamental law of physics (how our
world works) and describe what would
happen without that law in place, e.g.,
funky gravity, spontaneous reordering of broken objects, solid objects
becoming gaseous/gaseous objects
become solid, or make up a new law;
or Photo 7 (See youngwritersproject.
org for the photo.) Due Feb. 27
Fire in the sky

BY ELIZABETH MAGNAN
Flames of pink, orange, red, and gold
ash across the sky.
The shifting colors dance
on the clouds
as the last rays
of sunshine
make the snow sparkle
like a million diamonds
ground up into a ne powder
and thrown upon the ground.
The ames in the sky change
to darker pinks, purples, and shades of blue
while the sun dips beyond the horizon.
The sun can no longer be seen
and the re in the sky fades away to
a deep blue
and the diamonds are now
sprinkled throughout the sky
instead of on the ground.
THIS WEEK: General writing & Dream

writing and images for publication. This week, we present responses to the prompts, General writing and Dream: Write
about a recurring or strange dream. Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil, online community of writers.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP


donation to YWP, 12 North St., Suite 8,
Burlington, VT 05401.

VERMONT BUSINESS ROUNDTABLE
What does it mean?

BY ANGELA PATNODE
Why was I stranded in the forest and my
family was gone? What happened to them?
Where did they go?
There were tall maple trees and hundreds
of thousands of leaves surrounding me. It was
dark, rainy and foggy. I was alone. No sounds
of birds or scurrying of little animals. No
sound of crickets or slithering snakes. Silent.
It smelled as if someone was having a
campre, but the camp was nowhere to be
found.
Wherever I looked, there were trees. It was
an endless forest, no escape. Id hope someone would come out of the trees and tell me
what was happening, but my hope was too far
out of reach.
I just stood there.
What did this mean, though? Why was I
having this dream every night? Why would I
wake up at the same time in shock?
I dont remember what I thought about
before closing my eyes.
I dont remember what I ate or drank. All
I know is I dont want this dream again and I
hope it doesnt mean anything.
Watching me
BY KRYS BROWN
I woke up and saw no one. I was in the
middle of the street in New York City. Cars
abandoned, sidewalks empty, and the city
quiet.
It wasnt as if everyone had died, but it was
like everyone had gone and forgot to tell me.
I wandered. I went inside buildings to
nd them empty. I was alone. I didnt mind
the quiet, but I felt like there was somebody
watching me.
I looked around and saw a man in a white
hooded cloak standing on the opposite side
of the street. He then teleported a few fee
towards me. Still staring at me.
He then appeared right in front of me. He
pushed me to the ground without touching me.
He lowered his face right above mine and a
pale bloody hand reached out of his mouth,
and a womans face bloody face followed.
She screamed as she grabbed my face,
sticking her thumb through my eye, and
squeezing. I woke up with a loud ring in my
head.
Math problem
BY LAURENT GAGNE
Impending death, T-minus 5 minutes.
I wasnt scared.
The body doesnt feel fear when it dreams.
But I was feeling something,
a need of information or explanation.
Curiosity.
What was going to happen? What would I
feel?
The thought of death had always clashed with
my thoughts,
feeling helpless for not understanding the
outcome of our lives.
Death. What is death?
To me, death is an unsolvable math problem.
You can only get the answer after you hand it
in.
Here I was,
ready to hand it in, ready to move on.
I felt the end coming up behind my door.
The world went black,
then lit back up.
Not in reality, just yet,
the world was blurred and twisty.
A deeper dream within the dream.
I was so confused.
The world began to fade.
I took one last glimpse until
I woke up.
An imperfect quiz
BY JULIA REMILLARD
Olivia Fewell, Essex High School
Abandoned circus
BY HEAVEN COLLINS
I woke up drenched in a cold sweat, sitting
upright. I looked around, panicked that this
dream nally became a reality. But no, thank
God. It was probably my third time in the last
four months experiencing this stupid dream.
And somehow, it always ended up exactly
the same way: Kidnappers slithering into my
house, taking me with them in the night. They
wear all black, blending in with the darkest
corners of my room. They are the monsters
that lurk in the dark corners of little kids
bedrooms.
Circus, an abandoned circus, thats where
they bring me. Its in the middle of some eld,
a eld just like we have by our house. Was
there ever a circus over there? Maybe in the
1920s or 30s or even 50s, but not anything I
can think of recently.
Maybe there were a few circus tents left
over from a show or something, symbolic of
the show must go on.
Trapped, I was trapped and scared and an
overwhelming feeling of Im not ready to
die yet! always takes over me. I didnt even
get to say goodbye to my friends or anything.
Ill never get to watch my favorite movies or
television shows again. And one more thing,
Im not going to die without nding out what
happens in the 2016 Twin Peaks reboot.
God cant play me like this.
But the dream is always the same, the

kidnappers put on weird clown costumes and
get a chainsaw from somewhere, probably
their truck or car or whatever they drive. I
never really think to pay attention to that. And
Im strapped to a table in the big top and the
chainsaw is hovering over me and its the only
thing I can focus on.
I mean, its loud and sharp and Im about to
die. What else am I supposed to focus on? The
funky clown costumes these men are wearing?
But, right about the time the chainsaw should
cut my torso in half, I wake up, drenched in a
cold sweat, sitting upright in bed.
Every time it happens I just try and tell myself its my fear of clowns. And circuses. And
freak shows. Mix all of those things with my
fear of getting murdered and boom, you have
my worst nightmare.
Maybe its a sign, though, just maybe.
There are some sick people out there who
could have it out for me and decide one day,
Hey, lets kill Moira! And bring her to an
abandoned circus in the middle of the night to
do it! It seems like a possibility, if you really
think about it.
I will myself to go back to sleep eventually at about 4 a.m., and I have school in three
hours. Talk about a good nights sleep, right?
Every creak of the oorboards from the
dog running around downstairs, to the wind
whistling against the trees outside makes me
jump out of my skin. Maybe one day this
dream will go away, but until then Im begging my mom to let me see a psychiatrist to
gure out whats really wrong with me.
Thank you for proving Im not perfect.

I know Im not Miss America, although I wish
to be.
I can see
How short I am, my awkward freckles
How ticklish
Every inch of my body is.
Clearly youve aced the quiz
That youve made up about me
Because youve successfully pointed out what
everyone else in the world sees,
My imperfections, bumps, my un-accidental
screwups,
The things Ive learned to love about myself.
Hah! To hell
With your opinion; lets be honest youre just
as awed.
If only you saw
What you were doing,
Judging my looks without cluing
Into your own insecurities.
Youre older than me, but somehow have less
maturity.
Ive spent nights crying,
Buying
Into your self-reected comments.
I let myself soak in the torment
But youre not better than all my ugly features.
We are the same creature.
So thank you, for proving that humans arent
perfect.
NEXT PROMPTS
Change. Write a story or poem that
includes the sentence, Thats when everything changed. Alternates: Limerick.
Write a limerick: a poem of ve lines, the
1st, 2nd, and 5th lines rhyming, and the 3rd
and 4th lines rhyming and use humor; or
Child. Write a story from the perspective of
a small child who is left alone and could be
either frightened and confused by the situation or very resourceful and determined.
Due Feb. 6
The bridge
BY BRIANNA STEBER
Were traveling down the road;

it always starts in my hometown.
We drive near the river
and I know its coming.
The bridge.
We round the corner;
my anxiety builds,
knowing its so close.
We approach the bridge,
so tall and steep
we cant even see over the top
to the other side.
It seems to be 50 feet tall
goes up almost at a 90-degree angle.
It still stands,
so it must be safe.
We start to climb the dangerous incline;
everything is going well.
The closer we get to the top,
I feel the car getting lighter.
Were so close to the top,
we might actually make it.
Just as were about to conquer the bridge,
we fall backwards.
Were falling;
no one is screaming.
We all know it is coming.
We fall for what seems to be forever
but we never collide with the waves.
And then I wake up.
THIS WEEK: Dream

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred submissions from students across Vermont and New
Hampshire. A team of staff, mentors and students selects
the best writing and images for publication. This week, we
present responses to the prompt, Dream: Write about a recurring or strange dream. Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil, online community of writers.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP


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.,
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Silence
BY JUSTIN DAIGLE
Im running, fast and relentless,
but what am I running from?
Why am I running?
A large white ball
crashes down a never-ending white staircase;
everything is white, even my clothes.
I keep running; Im tired.
I cant hear myself panting.
I cant hear anything,
not my feet hitting the stairs,
not my fast heavy breathing.
Even the huge white ball chasing me
makes not even a squeak,
not even a crunch as it crashes down,
crushing the stairs into a thousand pieces.
The silence drives me mad.
I keep yelling and talking but nothing comes
out.
Its not the ball that will deliver the killing
blow,
its this damned silence.
It seems to be eating away at my brain,
picking out all the clever, cunning solutions,
solutions to this predicament.
But what does it mean?
NEXT PROMPTS
Detective. Write a detective story about a
librarian who nds a mysterious package at
her front door. Alternates: Penny. Tell the
life story of a penny since it was minted to
the time you received it as change; or Photo
6 (Write a story or poem based on the photo,
left). Due Jan. 30
Kevin Huang, Burlington High School
The promise of nightmares

BY LAUREN FORCIER
I never come here, but I just had to. I just
have this feeling that something isnt right. I
had no one else to talk to, and the ones that
I can talk to wont listen. You, I know, will
listen.
Somethings going to happen, and soon.
I dont exactly know what, but I know its
going to be big, and its going to be painful. I
dont believe in psychics, or clairvoyance, but
I know the dream I had last night, was more
than a dream. It felt real. I felt it, deeply, in my
soul. I still remember it, clear as day. I never
remember my dreams. I felt so much pain,
there was so much of it. It was the kind of
pain that sinks deeper than your body. So what
the hell is going on? Am I insane? I ask,
tears brimming in my eyes.
The three fortune tellers sit in shocked
silence, and murmur to each other in a language I have never heard before. The one in
the middle sighs; she puts her hands on top of
mine, like something a mother would do. She
looks me in the eye. Dear, youre not insane,
she sighs, explain to us what happened in
your dreams.
I sigh, and rub my hand over my scarred
eyebrow. I think back to last night and start,
White walls, white oor, LED lights that
blinked down on me. Four walls, no door. I
walked the perimeter of the small cell and felt
I knew that place, I felt like Id been there

before. I knew that on the far wall there was
a small button, press it and the oor comes
out from under you; on the other wall there
is a small crank that causes the walls to come
crumbling down, leaving a void of darkness.
The other two walls have nothing on them.
The button was the safer option, because when
the oor comes out from underneath, you
wake up. So I could have fallen and woken up,
or face the darkness.
I felt drawn to the crank somehow, even
though it was more dangerous. I walked over
to the crank, and cranked it hard. The walls
came tumbling down, just like I knew they
would. The darkness started closing in on me,
it whispered my name, beckoned me to join it.
I took a step into the void, then another, and
another, and it laughed, like it knew exactly
what I would do. Then the world started shaking, like in a blender, then I fell to my knees,
a piercing ringing sound, and I couldnt block
out the sound. I covered my ears; I hummed
the national anthem! Nothing worked! Then I
woke up.
I run a hand through my hair, and look at
the three ladies.
The one in the middle sighs, Gavriel, your
dreams, although scary, are a gift. Its time we
told we who we are. And who you are.
2:30 a.m.
BY HALEY NOEL
Here I am again at this old mansion up on
a hill surrounded by dead trees and crunchy
grass. The sun is setting, but it is not beautiful.
It is like blood dripping behind the horizon;
I just want to look away, but my face wont
turn.
The dry caw of a crow lls the air. Then
I am running. We are all running. The dead
grass is crushed beneath our feet.
We are desperately trying to escape the
monsters. The monsters look like huge cats
with glowing yellow eyes, lions and tigers
twice our size and chasing us with saliva dripping from their jowls.
I JUST WANT TO LOOK AWAY,

BUT MY FACE WONT TURN.
My family is screaming around me, but I
cant see them.
I know where we are heading. Its where
we go every time.
My mind says no, but my legs say yes.
They carry me over the threshold of the brick
house that crumbles like dry bread.
I try to nd my mother, but I can only hear
her yelling my name in the night. Haley!
Haley! Haley!
We run. Our footsteps are everywhere, but
they dont go fast enough.
Their claws are at our ankles. Their big,
sharp teeth are bared, and they are wishing
they were around our necks.
Someone screams. Its my uncle. Its
always my uncle. He tells us to hide. Its a
game, and we are losing.
I lock myself in an old closet full of fur
coats that smell like my grandparents house. I
hate that smell of old urine and still air.
My breath warms the air around me and
settles like fog. My heartbeat is the only thing
I can hear.
Im not alone.
Another heartbeat joins mine. It is not human. The yellow eyes glow. Im staring in the
face of the huge cat.
I scoot backwards as far as I can go into a
pile of bodies, not just any bodies: my family.
I dont like this game of hide and seek. The
seekers are the hunters.
I roll over; the clock reads 2:30 a.m. It is
just that nightmare. Again.
THE VOICE
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Out of the darkness

BY LAUREN FORCIER
Are you afraid of the dark? it whispers.
I take a shaky breath.
Of course not. It is not the dark that I am
afraid of, but what is in it, what waits for you
in the dark.
It laughs, You forget that darkness is a
creature itself.
I rake a trembling hand through my hair.
Darkness is more of an essence than a creature.
I try to keep my voice steady, but it betrays me and cracks.
I dont know what it talking to me in
the darkness is; I dont dare get any closer. It
could have claws or teeth, horns or scales. Or
worse, truths that I have avoided.
Your body is giving you away. Youre
scared. You may say that you are not, but do
not deny the truth, it cackles.
Im not denying it. Simply ignoring it. I
swallow.
The voice sounds more feminine than
masculine. But that tells me nothing.
Dont ignore me! it shouts.
I jump back, closer to the light behind me.
I stare at the wall of darkness, a small foot
comes out of it. A body follows suit.
A girl, maybe around the age of twelve.
But I know better; she is probably more like
twelve hundred.
Dont ignore the fear that overcomes
you, she says in a strange calm.
My eyes are glued to the small girl. Her
dark hair falls past her knees, her nightgown
is a sickening shade of pink. But worse are her
eyes. Totally white, and completely unnerving. My hand searches for the lantern behind
me.
Let me in, she muses.
No, I whisper.
No? she asks, and cocks her head to the
side. Fine. She growls and launches herself
at me.
I throw the lantern at her; the ames burst
to light as they make contact with her. She
screams in agony.
I will no longer be afraid of the dark, I
say as I turn and leave.
THIS WEEK: Dark & General

responses to the prompts, Dark: Are you afraid of the dark?
Why or why not? and General writing. Read more great
writing at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP


JANES TRUST
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
BY SAMUEL BOUDREAU
Today is the day we
skip work, the park and school.
Today we venture to look at ourselves
in the Oceans face.
My husband Mark
is a lawyer, and he has
trouble getting time off.
He, unfortunately, has to
miss today. Henry, the eldest,
and Lucy, the youngest, always
love it when their father comes
to North Shore with us. He likes
to hurl both of them into the
water. After hours of playing,
their faces are like
a salt block for a horse.
When mommy surprises us
with a beach day, its always
the sunniest day of the year!
Its like shes Mother Nature
and can change the weather.
We usually go to the park on
Oak Street, but I guess the
day is too beautiful for
the park. Henry never has a
smile on his face, but today he does!
School is a place where
children die and adults
are born. I hate school,
all of the rules, tests and
teachers. Beach day, however,
is like my action-herolled toy chest people to
play with, no rules and
the ocean is an endless
playground of shells, urchins
and seaweed.
Today is the day
we let the ocean
swallow us whole.
That porcelain girl

BY JULIA REMILLARD
Even in the midst of utter destruction, she
never let go.
When the snow
was falling heavy on her heart,
she somehow didnt fall apart.
Maybe she was tough, or just done overall.
Whatever it was, she somehow always stood
tall.
Names and terms were thrown around,
but even when she was on the ground,
she always got back up.
I wonder how someone who possessed such a
worried state
could take so much hate.
She never seemed to let them break her;
all the times they inferred what she was like,
she never once stopped the ght.
Where does she get all that strength,
the remarkable length
of her tolerance?
How is that porcelain girl not broken?
The faces of dark

BY KAYLA MCARTOR
Dark is the friend that I embrace warmly,
the parent that tucks me in.
Dark is the light of the night itself,
the hand that writes my dreams.
Dark is the blindfold that obscures the future,
the words, Im only protecting you, dear.
Dark is the line between our world and its,
the catalyst of fear.
Dark is the Benedict Arnold of Day,
the remuneration of Nightmares.
Dark is the beautiful blanket of sleep,
the re in the forge of scares.
Dark is good, and Dark is evil,
the ultimate gray and dissonance.
Dark is the hider of what could hurt us,
the knight wielding ignorance.
Dark is the provider of rest and of healing,
the father of Sleep... and Death.
Dark is something to be afraid of,
the monster hiding under your bed.
And am I afraid? Of course I am.
The reasons are here in my heart.
But am I respectful? More than anything.
Its best to embrace the Dark,
because Dark is something to be loved,
the guardian of innocence.
Dark is what we need to accept.
The truth. The lies. Our deliverance.
Today is the day
Deanna Davis-Kilpatrick, Essex High School
Moon
BY ABIGAIL MAE BUCKLEY
NEXT PROMPTS
Time. You have somehow been transported back in time and are inhabiting the mind
of someone else. Write about the internal conversation. Alternates: Queasy. Put your
character in a situation that makes her/him queasy. What is the situation and how can
the character get away from it?; or Button. Pressing buttons (in elevators, hotel rooms,
airplane seats) can be irresistible and usually harmless but this time, when you press a
button, something very strange happens. Tell the story. Due Jan. 23
Oh, why this moon shines so brightly is a

mystery,
why its radiant glow shines through us,
its gravity.
Shine on us, moon,
our nightly heaven,
our safeguard and protection.
Protect us from the darkness,
protect us from our doom.
Never falling short

BY SAMUEL BOUDREAU
July 5th, 8:30 p.m.,
Franklin County Rehab.
The exact time, date and
place that my grandmother
sealed her legacy.
She was the noblest of
all women, and I knew that
my world had just lost its
secret weapon
a cure for the zombie
apocalypse, the Batman
for a city threatened by Jokers,
and a rey when the sun
has died
which is why I always
feared the day that I
would let her down.
The day I would have to look
into her disappointed eyes and
say, Im sorry ... Im so sorry.
THIS WEEK: Door & General

responses to the prompts, Door: Whats behind the mysterious door? and General writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil online community of writers.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP



JANES TRUST
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
She was nothing short of

a perfect grandmother,
therefore I couldnt be anything
short of her perfect grandson.
Hearts and doors

I think Im dreaming
because when the nurse rst puts the camera
(more like a rod of cold metal)
onto my stomach
I see a tiny blue door on my aorta
which is odd
because theres never been a door on my heart
before.
It wiggles with every heartbeat
and it looks so out of place.
Nobody has ever had to have a key
to get into my heart.
I try to ask the nurse whats going on
why, instead of a normal heart
I have a heart
with a door.
But as I look at her,
I see her eyes begin to change from brown
to the green I recognize with every cell in my
body
from my split ends
to my toenails
and her face turns into your face
and you tell me
you tell me that you made the door
so that nobody else could ever get into my
heart
without your permission
because you, and only you
have the key.
So I smack you
and suddenly, you turn back into the nurse
and shes dropping the camera ever so slowly
onto the cold oor
and before I know what Im doing
I punch my hand through the screen that tells
me
that I can never love anyone
without your permission
and I wake up
to nd myself looking through the door
at her face
and I know that you lied to me
because youre not here beside me;
she is.
Mysterious blue door

BY JULIA REMILLARD
I was walking along, as I always do
when from the corner of my eye I noticed
something blue.
It was a door,
a door I had never seen before.
I debated whether or not to go in,
but I feared what was within.
My dry, pale hand found the cold, metal knob
and as the door creaked open, I felt an inner
sob.
This door did not lead to apartments or a
store; no, this door
led to my other life.
I cringed at the sight.
Blankness lled with unhealthy reections
revealed every insecurity in my detailed
complexion.
Everything I wanted to be
was set free
through this door.
I fell to the oor
in confusion.
Was my life an illusion?
I tried to run out of my disgraceful other life,
but the door shut, and I was stuck in myself
forever.
I never
thought this would happen,
but now I was trapped in
the ugliest parts of existence
and the room with its torturous reections was
persistent.
As I stared face to face with the human I
should have been,
my emotions descended
into tsunamis of miscommunicated misfortune,
my once accepted thoughts taken over by
distortion.
I wished I had never entered the mysterious
blue door,
but it was too late to restore
the damage that I had created,
so I sat inside this other life, becoming more
and more faded.
If dinosaurs existed
BY NOAH GILBERT
Sir, we found this note in a really dark tunnel.
Emma Parizo, Essex High School
HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM ALL OF US AT YOUNG WRITERS PROJECT!

WELL BE BACK IN THIS SPACE WITH MORE GREAT WRITING ON JAN. 8.
NEXT PROMPTS
Statue. Youre walking through an empty park and pass a statue. To your surprise,
the statue strikes up a conversation with you. Tell the story of the statue and what it
says. Alternates: Dark. Are you scared of the dark? Why?; or Houston. You are an
astronaut. Describe a moment oating in space. Due Jan. 9
Love. Write the sappiest, sweetest love story you can think of. Go overboard. Exaggerate and inate! Alternates: Philosopher. Take a eeting thought and wax philosophic about it (e.g., what if were really controlled by the tides?); Headlines. Read todays
headlines from your favorite news source. Which one catches your eye the most
uplifting one or the most disturbing? Read the story and write a short opinion piece or
letter to the editor about it. Due Jan. 16
Hello, if you are reading this, you found the

The Tunnel. This means you survived the
dinosaur apocalypse.
Dinosaurs and humans lived in peace but
the dinosaurs turned on the humans and attacked us.
We dug into an underground tunnel, which
we called The Tunnel. This tunnel was very
secure and there were nine of us living there.
This tunnel was very dark and we had a
system of one lantern every 10 feet and circular gates. We had one hatch to lead out of the
tunnel.
The walls of the tunnel were very thick cement and dirt, the oors were gravel, and the
beds were hay bales. We could and did have
good nights of sleep.
We dug around to nd a freshwater spring
and we grew carrots and potatoes. So thats
what The Tunnel was like. I dont know
what it is like when you read this.

THIS WEEK: Photo 6 & General

writing and images for publication. This week, we present responses to the prompts, Photo 6 (left); and General writing.
Visions of winter
BY ELIZABETH MAGNAN
Some say that
when winter comes
everything dies.
They only see
the brown grass
and the leaess trees.
They see only
the animals that
have migrated away
to warmer places.
All they see
is the gray clouds
and the seemingly
colorless landscape.
Their sight is blinded by the cold.
But I see
a whole different world.
I see the grass and trees
covered with a layer
of sparkling,
frozen frosting.
I see the new animals,
the uffed-up chickadees
and the snow geese.
I see the clouds
that bring
sparkling snow
that is splashed
with a million different colors.
I see the beauty
within the cold.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP



AMY E. TARRANT
FOUNDATION
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
BY ADSEL SPARROW
Every day, there are people who inspire us,
people who we look up to because we want
to be like them. We want to be a best-selling
author or a prima ballerina.
We know that we cant, but we dream we
can because of them. They make us want to be
the best we can be and better. They make us
rise up to the challenge to be like them. To be
just as good.
And they can be anybody. A mother, a
celebrity, your best friend, or even a baby.
They open your eyes to a world you never
saw. And now you can see all possibilities that
lie before you.
But when that person is taken from your
life, it feels like a piece of your soul is gone,
hanging in between you and that person, and
none of you can reach it.
A sadness hangs around you like a cloud
that you cant get rid of. Even when the sun
shines through the cloud, something makes
you think of that person, and then cloud covers the sun once again. That world you once
saw slowly fades away into a black abyss.
But you have to keep going. You have to
push forward and live without them.
And thats hard. Really, really hard.
But its the only way to see through the
sadness. That agony will always be there, but
after a while, it softens and lets go.
And youll start to appreciate the moments
you did have. Youll start to see that amazing
world again.
But this time, you cant let it slip away. You
have to cherish it. You have to cherish them.
And you cant let them go. You cant let them
fade away again. Even if you want to, you
cant. You have to keep them with you in your
heart forever.
NEXT PROMPTS
Ian Ballou, Essex High School
Sorry. Write a story or poem that

incorporates the sentence, Im sorry
Im so sorry. Alternate: Cyborg. Write
a story about a cyborg (part human,
part machine). How did it become that
way? How does it use its powers? Can
it integrate into the world of humans or
the world of machines or is it always an
outsider? Due Dec. 19
Statue. Youre walking through an
empty park and pass a statue. To your
surprise, the statue strikes up a conversation with you. Tell the story of
the statue and what it says. Alternates:
Dark. Are you scared of the dark?
Why?; or Houston. You are an astronaut. Describe a moment oating in
space. Due Jan. 9
Sunset in Vermont
BY JULIA REMILLARD
It was winter again. My face felt numb as I
stepped out into the frost-bitten air.
Why am I here? I often asked myself questions like this, questions based on my purpose, but always scolded myself for defying
science.
My mother was Martha-Ann the Mayor;
she was never a good listener but tried to understand. My father was the town logger; his
business was tricky but well suited.
I wasnt the only one; there was Lou and
Kiara. I assumed the middle child slot and
went by the name of Carly. As I walked along
my property on that fresh winter day I got to
thinking about the possibility of things, what
I could be, where I could go. My silence was
broken by my sister Kiara yelling after me to
wait. She caught up and we walked along until
we reached the pond.
Kiara giggled pathetically and ran to lace
up her skates. Kiara was my familys main
event she was an amazing gure skater and
Inspirations
Sully Martin, Essex High School
bound to go places. Sometimes I pictured

what it would be like to have a gift like hers.
My lips felt cold as I breathed in and out.
I walked around the pond to a little shed. I
grabbed a toolbox that was tucked inside and
swiftly moved toward the trees. I counted 16
large pine trees until I reached my destination.
The blank snow faced me with an almost grinlike appearance The glittering powder called
my name.
I set down the toolbox and took in my
open canvas. I went into the box and pulled
out blue, yellow, red and purple spray paint.
My friends called me an artist; my family just
said, Beautiful, and moved on. My wool
mittens grasped the blue can. I shook it rapidly, then began. I let myself get lost in the
motions, changing colors here and there,

painting a stunning landscape, taking something so innocently white and staining it to
make art.
Only I understood this, but to me, this was
real. I stepped back and looked at the messy
canvas Id created. I heard Kiaras skates slicing the ice and I smiled. I collected my paints
and jogged back to the pond.
What did you paint? asked Kiara as she
landed her triple Axel.
I paused for a moment and said, A sunset
in Vermont.
Love. Write the sappiest, sweetest

love story you can think of. Go overboard. Exaggerate and inate! Alternates: Philosopher. Take a eeting
thought and wax philosophic about it
(e.g., what if were really controlled by
the tides?); Headlines. Read todays
headlines from your favorite news
source. Which one catches your eye
the most uplifting one or the most
disturbing? Read the story and write a
short opinion piece or letter to the editor
about it. Due Jan. 16

Bunny hill
BY HALEY NOEL
Boots and bindings,
so unfamiliar,
they feel like brand new legs.
I cant get them to work.
I fall like a calf
trying to stand up
for the
rst time.
In my mind,
it seems easy.
My body
disagrees.
Knees are achy.
Hips twist in ways
I wish they wouldnt.
Board is sent in
every direction
like a blind bird
trying to y.
Im instructed to
breathe,
to look in the direction
I want to go,
to keep my shoulders and knees
aligned
with my toes and heels.
Again and again,
bruised, cold
from falling and
falling and
falling.
I want to give up, but
tell myself not to.
I want to go.
Then I go.
Down the hill.
Cold Vermont wind
hits my face,
makes my
10-year-old cheeks
a numbing
bright pink.
Im going and
going and
going.
I can barely feel
the smile stretching
on my frozen face
when I reach the bottom.
No mistakes
for the rst time!
For Christmas,
take me home
BY HOLLY RAY SHERRER

The gray dome above me peels into akes

of cracking paint, pale pieces
falling into mosaics on the oor.
My ngertips are ash,
and my lips, and the veins
on the outer corners of my closed eyelids.
Theyve stolen the hue that used to tint the
sky.
Two carcasses of cars,
one patch of ice,
one voice; Ill be back soon.
The sun forfeited hours ago.
I am the only voice in the night.
I want that crimson house,
that re heating the hearth,
those candles decorating the tree.
Shackled to memories of warmth,
my eyes beg for the encasing darkness of a
soft room.
I want the ice to melt off the roads,
my father bounding back,
lantern swinging in his hand.
Take me home.
THIS WEEK: Winter Tales

submissions from students across Vermont and New Hampshire. This week, we present local pieces that were selected
for Winter Tales to be performed by the Vermont Stage
Company at FlynnSpace in Burlington Dec.10-14. For more
information and tickets, go to vtstage.org/winter-tales; or
ABOUT THE PROJECT

write, helps them improve and connects
them with authentic audiences in newspapers, before live audiences and on web
sites, youngwritersproject.org, vpr.net,
vtdigger.org, and cowbird.com. YWP also
publishes The Voice, a monthly digital
magazine with YWPs best writing, images and features. To learn more, go to
youngwritersproject.org or contact YWP
at (802) 324-9537.
THANKS FROM YWP

and foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of
writing. If you would like to contribute,
please go to youngwritersproject.org/
support, or mail your donation to YWP,
12 North St., Suite 8, Burlington, VT
05401.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Lighting hope
BY SAMUEL BOUDREAU
In winter, trees, the heat,
grass and the birds song
all die and drift away into
winters pocketbook.
However, there is one
day, out of winters
entire spell that makes
it worthwhile.
On Christmas Eve,
people from all walks
of life gather at St. Pauls
United Methodist Church
and we light candles of hope.
The tiny ames icker as
they sway back and forth
while the congregation
sings Silent Night.
Singing in the crowd
makes me realize that
not everything in our
world has to die
because winter has
moved in.
Especially not our spirits.
Faults of winter
BY SOFIA SPANO
Jonathan Palmer, Essex High School
WINTER TALES
SCHEDULE OF YWP WRITERS
The chills of winter settle over her body.

The wires of her mind freeze.
Ice glosses over her eyes, cold and black,
losing all warmth as anything
and everything eventually does.
The frigid wind chills her body;
like an infestation it spreads
from the tips of her ngers to the ends of her
toes.
Her cracked lips stand paralyzed with the
absence of her words.
She wilts like the leaves of fall,
her body falling upon the cold ice of the
hospital bed.
Watching the snowakes fall from inside the
green tinted windows,
my winter is nothing but uorescent lights
and white sheets.
I watch her morph from my childhood hero
to a corpse, colder than any winter.
The words were the hardest Ive ever had to
say;
saying goodbye to her
still remains the hardest today.
And when I hear those words again,
the faults of winter ood my mind.
Wednesday, Dec. 10 @ 7:30 p.m.

Jadyn Jacobs
Emily Weatherill
Thursday, Dec. 11 @ 7:30 p.m.
Haley Noel
Sophia St. John-Lockridge
Friday, Dec. 12 @ 7:30 p.m.
Patrick Herrin
Milo Wilcox
Saturday, Dec. 13 @ 2 p.m.
Kaila Skeet Browning
Sally Matson
Saturday, Dec. 13 @ 7:30 p.m.
Samuel Boudreau
Soa Spano
Sunday, Dec. 14 @ 2 p.m.
Noah Sanderson
Holly Ray Sherrer
NEXT PROMPTS
Sunday Dec. 14 @ 6 p.m.
Frances Kaplan
Eleanor Braun
(These pieces were selected from more
than 200 submissions to Young Writers
Project. They will be presented by the
Vermont Stage Company at FlynnSpace
in Burlington as part of the 10th annual
Winter Tales. For more information and
to purchase tickets, go to vtstage.org/
winter-tales.)
100 Miles. You get lost and end up

walking 100 miles through thick,
bug-infested woods. When its nally
over, you cant believe whats waiting
for you in a clearing at the edge of the
forest Alternates: Online. Somehow youve fallen into the Web page
youve been browsing. Where are
you? Whats happening?; or General
writing in any genre. Due Dec. 12

Tubing in the evening
BY SAMUEL BOUDREAU
Its a roller coaster

on the water. A sea
serpent that never
rests. Taming the
wild beast is always
difcult in the evening.
Zach and I
struggle to stay
on the plastic monster
for fear of falling
to our doom.
It snaps us back
like a freshly cracked
whip. My brother
cant hold on to
the monsters back
any longer. He ies off.
And, its just me.
You are more

BY ELIZABETH MAGNAN
THIS WEEK: Letter, Dream & General

responses to the prompts, Letter: Write a letter to someone
to say thanks; Dream: Write about a recurring dream; and
General writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP


and foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value
of writing. If you would like to contribute, please go to youngwritersproject.
org/support, or mail your donation to
YWP, 12 North St., Suite 8, Burlington,
VT 05401.

THE BAY AND PAUL
FOUNDATIONS
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Smiling. Always so happy and full of life.

Unique. Always just being you.
Not afraid of what others think.
Friendly. The rst to go socialize.
The rst to make friends.
Creative. Always drawing or writing.
Inspiring. Doing, not just saying.
Yeah, you have your faults.
You arent perfect.
No one is.
Id hate you if you were (and I really mean it
this time).
You are all those things and more.
And to me, you are especially my best friend.
I havent dreamed often,

probably because I dont get adequate sleep,
but I like to think I reserve dreaming for the
daytime.
Ive never had a nightmare.
Im not at all sure why
because night is the time to think about the
day, and the only thing I think is that I never
want to die.
When I dream, everything is magic.
I see magnicent cities, people, feelings.
I see friends expressions
Ill never see again.
I feel accepted, not alone. But then I wake up.
BY SOPHIA CANNIZZZARO
I bruise the pavement

with every pounding step,
crimson sky
dripping down the horizon.
Its painter holds his brush
between gnashing gums.
Fire devours my lungs,
scorching ribs to black
everywhere
between clenched sts and
igniting roads where I pass.
He is waiting, barely past the horizon,
with black breath pooling around wax skin
and
leaking from the gaps of rotting teeth,
clutching knives in pointed nails.
I cling to my bag like a lifeboat;
keep me aoat.
Oh god, dont let me fall.
I hear his words bleeding like the sky,
dripping like syrup on the outsides
of mason jars,
like old wounds falling, falling,
falling.
I cant fall.
He calls to me, sickeningly soft,
I own you now.
The distance between us
rattles like chains.
I wonder if the ames
might consume me
before he does.
BY MINGO MAQUERA
Thanks

Daydream
Sprouted from You (youngwritersproject.org/

node/95753).
Thanks for
toppling over the dead and broken pine tree
that I was
and working the wood into a magic wand.
Thanks for
touching your ngertip to the bottom
of my card castle
and catching the cards as they fell.
Thanks for
snapping a picture of what I was before
and tearing it up
and throwing it in the ocean on that night
when
we rst kissed.
Thanks for
carefully picking apart the solid fabric of my
soul
leaving a long strand of yarn that can now
be worked into something
far more beautiful.
Thanks for
exploding into my carefully put together,
precisely measured world
like an atomic bomb
and splattering everything Ive painstakingly
made all over my
carefully cleaned clothing.
Thanks for
destroying my life
and xing my heart.
Tearing through
the night
What does it mean?

BY JULIA REMILLARD
Smugglers Notch, Vermont. Kevin Huang, Burlington High School
NEXT PROMPTS
Invention. Youve just invented the next big thing! Pitch it to the head of the most
inuential company you know. What is it and what does it do? Alternates: 15, 10,
5. Create a short dialogue of three characters. The rst can only speak 15 words,
the second 10, and the third just ve words; or Author. Write in the style of your
favorite author or poet. Include the writers name and a favorite quote, if you like.
Due Dec. 5
100 Miles. You get lost and end up walking 100 miles through thick, bug-infested
woods. When its nally over, you cant believe whats waiting for you in a clearing
at the edge of the forest Alternates: Online. Somehow youve fallen into the Web
page youve been browsing. Where are you? Whats happening?; or General writing in any genre. Due Dec. 12
This dream keeps coming.

Im running and running
but I dont have a destination.
Maybe theres a man, and Im being chased.
Could this be a race?
This dream keeps occurring, hiding its true
meaning.
Im staring and screaming.
My voice is silenced
under loud, deafening sirens.
I believe this is a dream
but with outlined rules, carved out of steam.
Im unsure.
This dream keeps recurring
and Im tired of inferring
what its supposed to mean.
With one last gleam
of something like a hint,
my dream for a second seems distinct.
But then with a breathless breath, I wake up
and I am stuck
again, because my dream is left unanswered.
My guardian angel
BY TATIANNA BANUS
Grade 7, Georgia Elementary and Middle
School
I met my guardian angel last year. He was

always in the classroom but he was not the
main teacher.
He would walk around and see if anyone
needed help. His voice was gentle and helpful.
He was kind and passionate about what he
did. He acted as a friend.
When I needed him, he was right there,
guiding me along.
Usually when I meet a teacher I just think,
oh, school, but when I met him, there was a
spark.
He made me want to learn. Over the course
of a year I got to know this teacher very well.
I became so close to him. He was always
there for me.
His wisdom could cover the world. He
taught me so much. He was well loved in the
school because of his gentle but fun ways.
I was one of the closest to him, though it
was my rst year at that school, and he knew
many other kids for longer.
When I was confused, he was able to put
what I was confused about into words that
made my brain understand.
One day I was in math. The math teacher
was teaching something I couldnt grasp.
My guardian angel sat down with me and
walked me through it. He did not get frustrated with me when I did not get it at rst.
He never lost patience. He guided me and
repeated his words until I understood.
No one ever touched my heart the way he
did.
But then something devastating happened;
he got in a car crash. He was driving and lost
control of his car. He passed away and I was
left heartbroken. I went into complete shock.
How could this happen? Why did this happen? All these questions ran through my head.
Even though he is gone, I know he is still
with me in my heart.
He guides me through tough decisions.
When I am faced with a challenge, I think,
what would he do? And I push through it.
The way I am today is because of him. I
will always remember him. He has touched
my heart forever.
Rest in peace, my guardian angel.
THIS WEEK: Angel & General

responses to the prompts, Angel: Write about the rst time
you meet your guardian angel; and General writing. Read
more at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP


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.,

CHAMPLAIN INVESTMENT PARTNERS
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Society kills
BY ROSIE BIBONA
Sit up straight.
Eyes forward.
Dont stare.
Keep that smile!
Always be happy.
Show kindness to everyone.
Always listen to your parents.
Be perfect.
School will help you in life.
Only a man and a woman!
This type of music puts bad thoughts in your
head.
Never talk back.
Be.
Just stay calm and everything will be alright.
Perfect.
Use your manners.
If you do this, youll get in trouble.
Art isnt a real career.
Be perfect.
Follow in your elders footsteps.
Women cant do mens jobs.
Be perfect.
Always be yourself.
Oh, wait.
Not like that.
Be perfect.
Be perfect.
Sorry to disappoint you, but perfect doesnt
exist.
YWP NEWS & EVENTS

YWP SPEAK OUT!
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& Workshop
NOVEMBER 20
FLETCHER FREE LIBRARY
BURLINGTON
DETAILS:
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6 pm Sign up for Slam
6:30 pm Slam begins!
THE VOICE
Finding light
CHECK OUT THE NOVEMBER ISSUE

OF YWPS DIGITAL MAGAZINE!
BY SAMUEL BOUDREAU
We creep towards the
pindrops of light. I see them
zipping and zapping through
the whole eld. These bugs
tease us.
Swat
Smack
Whack!
My friends and I try to jail
the reies in our palms.
Zzzzp
Zap
Zzzzt.
I peek through my clutch
and I see the creature
dancing against
my ngertips.
I open my hands and
let the rey wisp away.
How it must feel to
be a light in a time of
darkness.
ITS A SPECIAL ISSUE YOULL SEE WHY

Danilo Salgado, Essex High School
Complainers
BY ELIZABETH MAGNAN
I guess Im being hypocritical
because
Im complaining about complainers.
But
sometimes I just hate complainers.
Like the ones that complain about our president.
Id like to see them try to be president,
never going to have the full countrys support
because
theres always someone that complains about
something.
Or the ones that complain about how
America is going to the dogs.
Well,
Id like to see them living somewhere
with no
septic,
electricity
or running water,
and not enough food
or clean water.
And the kids that complain about school
Id like to see them make
their dreams happen
without an education.
I dont get
the people who complain about the little
things
when there are people
starving,
being raped,
being murdered,
being stoned to death,
being burned alive.
Those are the things we need to complain
about.
Go to thevoice.youngwritersproject.org!
NEXT PROMPTS
Invention. Youve just invented the next
big thing! Pitch it to the head of the most
inuential company you know. What is it
and what does it do? Alternates: 15, 10, 5.
Create a short dialogue of three characters.
The rst can only speak 15 words, the
second 10, and the third just ve words; or
Author. Write in the style of your favorite
author or poet. Include the writers name
and a favorite quote, if you like.
Due Dec. 5

I never understood
BY JULIA REMILLARD
I never understood the quiet ones,
or the loud.
And I never thought Id be either until now,
their skinny waists and big egos,
their undened hope and silent heroes.
I still fail at trying to understand them,
the devious and the bold.
My ideas have been sold
on the black market to thieves.
With this I breathe
because my thoughts are too confusing
to keep amusing.
The sad ones and the populars dont understand me.
They dont see what I see.
And this makes me wonder once more,
whos the girl in the revolving door?
The gure I compel is so messed up its almost unexplainable,
my fury eyes so unobtainable.
I never understood the broken ones
until now.
I get what they are, how they feel.
What they try to steal
from themselves
isnt their lives,
but their right to live.
I am broken, but not in the sense of death,
in the sense of, I am broken into pieces
and tied to leashes
from which I cant escape.
I will never understand them,
those fools,
but I dont have to
because not understanding is the fun of it.
Right?
THIS WEEK: Dream & General

Hampshire. This week, we present responses to the prompts,
Dream: Write about a dream that keeps recurring. What
does it mean? Or write about the strangest dream youve
ever had.; and General writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP


PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Relief
BY SAMUEL BOUDREAU
Dreams are
the Joan Rivers of human
psychology. They are
direct, and lters are
nonexistent.
In my dreams,
I sit at a table
in a modest house.
Theres an exalted golden retriever
at my hip with a
pretentious orange tabby cat
meandering over the top of the table.
I feel content, like a cow
chewing the hay in its mouth,
staring and chewing,
chewing and staring.
Everything is alright,
no worries oat in my
brain.
The knots in my back
untie themselves
and the feel of the table
is smooth and soft.
I understand what the
dream is telling me;
its tonic water
in a pint glass.
It simply means:
Everything will be okay.
Do not freak out,
do not worry,
and, most importantly,
do not be afraid.
Jill Macfarlane, Essex High School
NEXT PROMPTS
Reporter. You are a new reporter, excited to be assigned to your rst big story, but everything seems to conspire against you (e.g., trafc jams, torrential rain, wrong information, police
barricades, people who refuse to be interviewed.) Somehow
you manage to get the story, make the deadline and win the
editors approval. Whats the story and how do you pull it off?
Alternates: Seconds. Describe something that happened in mere
seconds, something big or small; or Famous. You nd out someone you know is famous. Describe the person, and why s/he is
famous. How does this affect you? Due Nov. 21
Snails. Did you know snails can swallow you whole? Or
that the Loch Ness Monster and Lake Champlains Champ are
cousins? Tell a ridiculous whopper but be persuasive enough that
someone just might believe you. Alternates: Proposal. Write
about a wedding proposal that goes terribly wrong; or Photo 5
(Library of Congress, right). Due Nov. 28
Photo 5. Library of Congress
By the shore
I get in bed
for an early slumber
to dream a dream
of malevolent wonder,
a dream so sweet.
There he stands
by the shore
upon the slippery sands.
I walk on up,
not a doubt in my mind.
He is the key to my life
that Id have to nd,
a stranger, unknown,
yet seen so much,
a hero to me,
my only crutch.
He whispers to me,
I love you.
And all I think is,
I love you, too.
But is that the case?
Have I fallen for a stranger?
A dream.
Can it become reality?
We sit on the powdery sands;
hand in hand,
we take a stand.
This dream is our land.
He grins at me
and kisses my cheek,
then blushes with joy,
yet I remain quiet and meek.
We listen to the waves abroad.
In silence we lie, side by side.
Is this still a dream?
Or is this day?
When I wake, its close to sunset
and Im no longer with the stranger I met.
Im looking and searching,
but Im now back in my bedroom, lled with
regret.
I go get my morning coffee
at the cafe down the street.
Maybe a pastry to eat?
I push past the door.
The sweet smell of lusciousness lls me,
fuels me
and excites me.
I buy my coffee,
a pastry too,
but when I walk out,
I see someone I once knew.
There he stands,
his dark locks falling around his face,
his small freckles like stars in the sky.
Id say Im shocked,
but thats simply not the case.
Im astounded, yet horried.
Happy, yet out of breath.
Why now?
Why today of all days?
Why here?
Why anywhere?
He gazes
while I stare.
Then hes gone, like a icker,
a ash or glimpse, but quicker.
He was never there,
thats why.
Id thought the dream to be him,
but now he is the dream.
MORE WRITING FROM

YOUNG WRITERS PROJECT AT
VPR.NET
VTDIGGER.ORG
COWBIRD.COM
Rise and fall

BY SOFIA SPANO
Everyone falls at some point,
swaying side to side
as the wind holds you into the air,
carefully placing you down upon the earths
hard, cold ground.
Some do not get the privilege of falling gently; you dont get the choice of how the wind
carries you.
Harsh winds: You fall hard to the ground
from the height of the tree.
Gentle breezes: You glide and sway calmly
through the air.
I havent fallen yet, my stem premature, not
ready to release me into the world,
not ready to let go.
Im not like every other leaf that oats and
falls from the tree.
No two leaves are ever the same, but I take
different, oddball, outcast to a new extreme.
I am the green in the red sea,
a glowing patch in the aming branches that
touch the sky,
ready to change, but not ready to fall.
Some leaves grow into trees,
those that hold seeds,
but for leaves like me, falling from a maple
tree, we suffocate.
Beneath the snow, our screams are silenced.
When the snow no longer covers the ground,
were pulled into a black abyss,
packed shoulder to shoulder in body bags.
For some, there is no life for us once we have
fallen.
We dont know how to get back up,
therefore we do not know how to live.
THIS WEEK: Leaf & General

responses to the prompts, Leaf: Write from the perspective of
one leaf on a large, colorful maple tree; and General writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP



LANGWATER FAMILY FOUNDATION
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Every year around this time,

the tree loses itself.
Ripened,
drifting from the branch,
I fall,
quick to embrace the ground,
sweetly,
crisply, sitting on a bed of bodies.
Dont tread on me.
YWP NEWS & EVENTS

CELEBRATION OF WRITING
AND RELEASE OF ANTHOLOGY 6
SATURDAY, NOV. 8
WRITING WORKSHOPS
MILLENNIAL WRITERS ON STAGE
RECEPTION TO HONOR PUBLISHED
WRITERS & PHOTOGRAPHERS
VERMONT COLLEGE OF FINE ARTS
36 COLLEGE STREET
MONTPELIER
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THE VOICE
CHECK OUT THE OCTOBER ISSUE OF

BY MINGO MAQUERA
9:30 A.M. 5 P.M.
From the sky

Ive spent too many sunsets
clinging to branches
and staring at the ground.
Everything I know of myself
turns to autumn ame.
As the air starts to chill through my veins
and the dark takes over too soon,
we try to become the hours of sunset
that are now only night.
There are too many fools here,
too many greedy ngers grasping cameras,
eyes bright and alive
as they watch us die and name it
Beauty.
If only they realized,
we have our place with green
against a redder sky.
Now we are weak imitations,
desperately forcing ourselves to become
what is lost
when winter arrives.
The sunset is pulled out of the sky
before anyone can nd their eyes,
and those who can, in time,
turn their backs
with their shutters clicking at our pretend
colors.
We wanted to preserve the sunset.
We shadowed it instead
but only the ignorant would mistake our death
for a stars sinking light
or maybe theyre just taught
to kiss the shouting ghosts
Fall
YWPS MONTHLY DIGITAL MAGAZINE

Go to thevoice.youngwritersproject.org
Enjoy! And get your free subscription!
NEXT PROMPTS
Pluto. NASA writes an apology
letter to Pluto for demoting it from
planet status. Who receives the letter
and whats the reaction?
Emily Cunningham-Firkey, Essex High School
Personality
BY SAMUEL BOUDREAU
Looking at me, and
getting to know me are
two polar opposites.
Just like vodka,
I might appear to
be a harmless glass
of H2O, but when your
nose wanders over to
that red Solo cup, then
I might push you back
a few steps.
I have quite a personality
that can be hard to
swallow, but if you
give it an hour, then

you wont be able
to get enough of me.
I am transparent,
theres no room for
lack of clarity.
If you cant take my
aftertaste punch, then
dont drink me.
You might forget what
happened last week when
youre with me. Im an
escape from your looming
fears and stressors.
I guess what Im trying
to say is: Only strong
people can handle the
person I am. And, honestly,
I am alright with that.
Alternates: Alone. What do you

love to do when you have time by
yourself? or Dream. Write about a
dream that keeps recurring. What does
it mean? Or write in detail about the
strangest dream youve ever had. Due
Nov. 14
Reporter. You are a new reporter,
excited to be assigned to your rst big
story, but everything seems to conspire against you (e.g., trafc jams,
torrential rain, wrong information, police barricades, people who refuse to
be interviewed.) Somehow you manage to get the story, make the deadline
and win the editors approval. Whats
the story and how do you pull it off?
Alternates: Seconds. Describe
something that happened in mere
seconds, something big or small; or
Famous. You nd out someone you
know is famous. Describe the person,
and why s/he is famous. How does
this affect you? Due Nov. 21
THIS WEEK: Complicated & Photos

Hampshire. This week, we present responses to the prompts,
Complicated: Your life is complicated and some days, theres
just one mess after another. Describe one of those days; and
Photo Prompts 2 & 3. Read more at youngwritersproject.
org, a safe, civil online community of writers.
Photo 2. Jeff Schultz, Essex High School
Faces
BY JULIA REMILLARD
Different sizes and shapes,
thousands upon thousands
of detailed faces
that are all so unique.
Everyone beautiful freaks.
Imperfections
turned perfect.
We are original
in ourselves.
Our laughs
and smiles
make us who we are.
And thats
by far
the most amazing thing
Ive ever come to know.
YWP NEWS & EVENTS

SATURDAY, NOV. 8
9:30 A.M. 5 P.M.
FREE WRITING WORKSHOPS
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP
MILLENNIAL WRITERS ON STAGE


RECEPTION TO HONOR PUBLISHED

WRITERS & PHOTOGRAPHERS
36 COLLEGE STREET
MONTPELIER
Register for workshops today
at youngwritersproject.org! Its FREE!
MAIN STREET LANDING
THE VOICE
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
CHECK OUT THE OCTOBER ISSUE OF

YWPS MONTHLY DIGITAL MAGAZINE!
The way life is

BY TATIANNA BANUS
School
Sometimes things get complicated.
You think life should be easy.
But its not.
We make mistakes.
And thats okay.
If life was not complicated we would not
make mistakes.
And if we did not make mistakes, we would
not learn.
And learning is a miracle of life.
Decisions
BY JULIA ELLIS
School
Oh, decisions, decisions,
how do we make decisions?
What path shall we take?
Will our decisions lead to destruction or accomplishment?
Decisions, decisions,
good or bad,
we learn.
Oh decisions, decisions,
your good makes me happy and proud;
your bad makes me sad and ashamed.
please be kind,
please be accomplished,
please be good,
please be happy,
please be proud.
everyone makes decisions,
no matter how hard, easy, or complicated they
are.
Oh, decisions, decisions,
you give us answers;
you can set us back,
you can lead us.
Oh, decisions, decisions.
Go to thevoice.youngwritersproject.org
READ, ENJOY AND GET A FREE SUBSCRIPTION!
Honk! Festival of Activist Street Bands, Boston, Oct. 11. YWPs Sophia Cannizzaro of West Glover took this photo and
also participated with the Bread and Puppet brass band.
NEXT PROMPTS
Tracks
As I stare along the tracks
I realize that I cannot imagine your face
after traveling just sixty miles
and
Im glad.
when I looked at you

and thought to myself,
she
is trouble.
And now
youve proved to me
that everything I denied thinking
was true.

I recognize and appreciate the fact
that they are nothing like
the tracks that you left on my heart.
Pluto. NASA writes an apology

letter to Pluto for demoting it from
planet status. Who receives the letter
and whats the reaction? Alternates:
Alone. What do you love to do when
you have time by yourself? or Dream.
Write about a dream that keeps recurring. What does it mean? Or write
about the strangest dream youve ever
had. Due Nov. 14
They arent a memory Id rather

forget;
theyre a way
for me to escape
from you.
I realize that Ive been meaning
to do this,
to leave,
since the rst time I saw you,
Door. Youre walking along when

you spot a large blue door in the wall
of a building that you pass every
day and youre sure the door wasnt
there yesterday. Open it! Where does
it lead?
Alternates: Season. Write about
your happiest memory of a holiday
season; or Mythical. Invent a mythical creature and tell us about it. What
does it look like? What does it do all
day? Good or bad temper? Is it a fan
of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?
Due Nov. 7
Photo 3. Chelsea Somerset, Essex High School

A haunted tail
BY KAYLA MCARTOR
Shelby! Stop, you dumb dog!
I start sprinting down the cracked sidewalk,
grateful that the street Im on is abandoned.
God, how embarrassing would that be if
other people could see me like this, chasing
my retriever like a little school girl after a
buttery? A very angry school girl, but still,
not cool.
Shelby! I yell again as the muddy yellow
blur of her body streaks around a corner, out
of view.
My scarf aps up into my face, momentarily blinding me. I almost run straight into a
low-hanging maple branch, its leaves in peak
autumn uorescence.
Jeez! I duck quickly, smacking it aside.
At least the leaves were like stop-signs, warning lights. Nature is on my side, woo-hoo.
Finally I turn the corner, praying to every
higher power I can think of that Shelby is still
in sight. I skid to a stop on the damp cement
overgrown with weeds, panting with exertion.
My hair is in my eyes, but I ignore it and
pan my eyes around desperately; Im more
irritated than anything, the stupid mutt nearly
tore my arm out taking off like this!
Then my eyes catch a glint of gold at
the far end of the street, almost completely
obscured by shadows and old boards nailed
haphazardly around the doorway: Shelby!
I take off like a demon, every curse word I
know tumbling from my lips.
I realized it just in time. The street Im on?
Sterben Street. The reason this part of town
is abandoned? Wesley Strice was murdered
in one of these houses 20 years ago. And four
other girls have gone missing since then. And
now, my stupid, awful, stinking dog is inside
that very house.
I slow down reluctantly, failing in my attempt to not shiver in the gust of cold October wind. In front of the overgrown lawn,
ivy-choked brick walls, broken windows,
and gaping hole in the wooden door, tufts of
golden fur visible on one edge, stands a rusted
mailbox that shrieks as the wind jostles it.
There, clear as day, is the number: 5666. Wait,
I think to myself, in the papers wasnt the
number 1, not 5...?
I groan outwardly, as if I myself were a
troubled spirit haunting the crumbling road.
Shelby? I call out tentatively. Shelby!
Eek! I squeal as Shelby bolts out from
the house, howling like a furry banshee with
its tail caught in a meat grinder. She crashes
into me, spinning me around and getting the
leash caught around my wrist.
Aaaah! I yell as she continues barreling
down the road with me in tow, trying not to
fall and break my neck then again, death by
evil spirits sounds a lot less desirable, and at
that moment I decide Im not so mad at her
for running.
Finally, after much screaming, stumbling,
and avoiding collisions with brick walls,
Shelby slows enough for me to tug mightily
on the leash and bring her to a complete stop.
Shelby! I swat her little black nose accusingly. What did you see in there?
Her dark brown eyes gaze into mine, usually so warm and happy. Now, they seemed...
knowing. Scared. Shelby? I kneel down
so her doggy breath is right in my face. She
whines. Sweetie, its all right. Just never,
ever, do that again. Okay?
Her tail thumps against the ground, as
if shes saying, You dont have to tell me
twice! I smile for the rst time since she
took off. Were going home now. I take her
leash rmly in my hand again, and the two of
us start our brisk stroll back to the safe side
of town. The gray clouds blanketing the sky
nally give way to tears, and before the rst
drop falls, the wind sighs into our backs
Such a cute puppy...
THIS WEEK: Lie & Haunted

responses to the prompts, Lie: Use this line: You dont have
to lie, I know it was you; and Haunted: Your dog takes off
into a haunted house. More at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP



JANES TRUST
PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Youre guilty
BY JULIA REMILLARD
You dont have to lie,
I know it was you.
I know what youve done,
and you do too.
This isnt funny;
so why are you laughing?
My feelings have become numb,
and my thoughts are splashing
against my skull.
This empty pit you created is dark and dull.
What have you done?
You told me itd be fun,
but now Im seeing the consequences
as I slowly lose consciousness.
This eternal hope I had
has shriveled up to a sad
handful of nothingness.
Your lie is burning me,
blinding me,
killing me.
I know what you did,
what youve done.
How do you plan to outrun
this one?
You are doomed, yet so am I
because I let myself get caught in your shallow lies.
YWP NEWS & EVENTS

THIS IS YWPS KEY EVENT
OF THE YEAR!
SATURDAY, NOV. 8
9:30 A.M. 5 P.M.
Derek Pham, Essex High School
Lost souls
BY GENEVIEVE DAVIS
Grade 11, Bellows Free Academy, St. Albans
You dont have to lie,
I know it was you.
You dont have to lie
because I was there
and I heard you cry.
I watched you scream.
I lingered my face into your dreams.
I prayed for you to nd happiness
when you begged for death.
I held your heart in the palm of my hands
when you asked
and I squeezed tighter when you reached for
it back.
I wanted your compassion,
your beauty and faith,
so I gave you what I had instead
to keep the qualities I desired in you.
I have forgotten about the rst day of summer.
Oh my dear, I remember it all too well.
I told you I hated life.
You smiled and said,
I often concur but we make do.
A silent outstretch of words.
Well that doesnt make sense
but I suppose that maybe it does
for I had hoped to make you happy with
words so wrenched.
I lost track of the differences between truth

and my manipulations.
How easy it is to do so but to admit it,
well, I never could.
A summer forever stained to a plastic organ,
once a heart, I suppose,
although hearts stop beating
when the soul it belongs to cares for nothing
but freedom.
Dont lie.
Ive known the truth,
Ive lived the truth,
Ive fallen into him
and hes never said a lie
though I accuse the innocent of changing a
lost soul
because you grasped mine by its very root,
faltered, cut, tied it into a pretty bow
to place on your mantel of control.
That is what you strive for, Ive noticed.
I found release in the beauty of honesty,
trust, changes for the better,
of which hes longed for me to make,
but never to satisfy needs he cant meet himself.
You are doing this for you,
he said and I cringed.
I told him,
Ill never be what you want me to be.
An unsubstantial truth.
A person never truly changes;
they may only be lost and found again.
Oh, and how I have nally been found.
36 COLLEGE STREET
MONTPELIER
More details and registration
at youngwritersproject.org
NEXT PROMPTS
Winter Tales. Tell a story about your
experience of winter in short descriptive poetry
or prose. No
clichs, please.
The best will
be selected
for presentation by the
Vermont Stage
Company
at its annual
Winter Tales production at FlynnSpace
in Burlington in December. Alternates:
Lyrics. Find a line from a favorite song
that inspires you/ excites you/ makes
you feel good, and use it to sprout a
poem, song or story; or Photo 4 (above).
Due Oct. 31

The Drop
BY HALEY NOEL
It is time for me to change
brilliant green to extravagant red.
My other friends change too.
Slowly,
we turn to reds and oranges
so vivid
its almost as if
the tree has caught re.
This time of year
is bittersweet,
like the sap from my tree.
People come from all over
to gaze at us in awe.
I love to see all the people,
the small ones,
the big ones,
the young ones,
the old ones.
It makes me feel important
knowing that all these people travel
just to see me.
The happiness
doesnt last long.
This time of year means
the Drop.
We utter to the ground
like red and orange butteries.
We become part of the earth
again.
I dread the Drop.
I have made so many memories
with my friends
on this tree.
From the mud season,
when our tree provides sugar
for the people to feed on,
to the warm season
when gentle breezes
tickle our stems.
I will miss it.
I know that it must be done
to complete the circle.
I will come back as a sapling
someday.
But until then,
I must let nature
do what it does.
THIS WEEK: Objects & Leaf

responses to the prompts, Objects: Write about a relationship between two objects; and Leaf: Write from the point of
view of one leaf on a colorful maple tree.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP


AMY E. TARRANT FOUNDATION
PHOTO OF THE WEEK

VPR.NET
VTDIGGER.ORG
& THE VOICE!
The breeze feels nice against the hot summer

sun,
but to know that at any moment the wind
could pick you off the tree its a scary feeling.
I started to sprout in the early spring and have
grown since.
But nowadays I no longer grow.
Im starting to lose my vibrant green color for
a sickly shade of brown.
Am I dying?
I, of course, am not the only leaf who is experiencing this.
Before, the wind would rustle the leaves, but
now they crackle.
I look back on my lifetime and think of all
those who have sat in my shade
or have hit us with Frisbees;
the memories are clear and fresh as if they
happened only a few days ago.
There is no more warming sun above us and
most of the tree is nude.
I have now become dry and brittle.
Now when the breeze comes through I only
crunch.
It is time for me to leave the tree, for I am no
longer of any use to it.
I let my grip on the tree loosen and then gently oat down.
A little breeze picks me up; I do not resist.
I ride the breeze until I can no longer see the
tree.
Lets see where the wind will take me, I say to
myself.
YWPS KEY EVENT
OF THE YEAR!
SATURDAY, NOV. 8
9:30 A.M. 5 P.M.
MONTPELIER
Leaf and tree

Our maple tree,
the tree that cares
for all of us
and takes us under its wing,
this is our home,
the tree that houses
thousands of us leaves,
colorful and strong;
my brothers,
my sisters and our tree,
we are all united
and tall we stand.
I begin falling!
The tree has betrayed me.
Someone save me;
I was forsaken.
BY LAURENT GAGNE
YWP NEWS
Alex Russell, Essex High School
BY JUSTIN DAIGLE
When autumn comes
A bond beyond wireless signals

BY KAYLA MCARTOR
I couldnt function without you.
Of course you could, silly!
Perhaps. But I wouldnt be appreciated.
The speaker wished she could turn her
cheek away, but knew her network signals
didnt work that way.
You mean I would be completely unappreciated and useless without you? Remote
sighed, as if it were the most obvious thing in
the world.
You could be a decoration...
Pfft, now you see how youre the important one here.
Well, what do Americans value most?
What do you mean?
Which is more important: watching TV
or the ability to remain motionless; in other
words, laziness?
Thats a trick question. I refuse to answer
such a paradox.
My point is, were both important. The
speaker, or rather TV, hoped that compromise
would sufce.
It didnt.
Yeah, but Im just a convenience. And
rather an inconvenience when Im stuck be-
tween the couch cushions.

But thats the couchs fault; you are an
example of how far technology has come! The
Remote Control!
Flat Screen, youre right: Im amazing.
There, see? I would not be so great without you, Remote.
Uh-huh. Nobody wants to push your buttons, TV!
You got that right!
It was true; the buttons on Flat Screens
side were small and painfully indistinguishable from each other. One could try to change
the channel and end up shutting her off.
Remote continued, Yeah, Im the god of
laziness! I covet the couch potato!
I am the shrine at which lazy folk gather
to praise your holiness!
She wobbled slightly after TVs remark,
hiding in plain sight on the edge of the coffee
table as she was. You think thats a little too
dramatic?
Hey, have you seen some of the shows
people watch on me? Even a whole series
about the relationship between a TV and a
remote would be more interesting than some.
True. Love ya, plasma screen buddy!
Love ya too, lil clicker!
More details at youngwritersproject.org
THE VOICE
Next issue coming
Oct. 22!
Go to youngwritersproject.org to view
the magazine and
subscribe. Its free!
NEXT PROMPTS
Letter. Write a letter to your mother,
father, a grandparent, teacher or favorite
person to say thanks for something
special they do, or for everything.
Provide a specic story to show why
the person is so great. Alternate: Habit.
Think about a bad habit you might have
and create a character with a similar
bad habit. Write about why the character wont easily give up the habit.
Due Oct. 24
A cheap little heart

responses to the prompt for General writing. Read more at
youngwritersproject.org, a safe, civil, online community of
writers.
BY KAYLA MCARTOR
Joyce, are you okay?
I snapped out of my reverie and looked
blankly at my friend. Wha...? I managed.
She snorted at me and tossed her hair, causing it to ripple like a golden waterfall in the
street light. Unlike mine, which would probably look more like a mud pit went cannibal
then barfed on my head.
You were spacing out again! You know, I
took you to the mall so you could relax, not
get even more uptight.
I paused before answering her. We were
almost to her car anyway, the perfect shiny red
Ferrari with these expensive God-only-knowswhat-famous-engineer-designed-them tires.
I mean, even though it was dark in between
the evenly spaced lamps I could see the sleek
glint of chrome. And they were white, for crying out loud.
Sorry, I said nally. Im okay, really.
See you tomorrow.
See ya!
I clenched my teeth as she clicked her way
to the back and tossed in her bags full of Victorias Secret and Lands End.
Gripping my one little item from Target, I
continued slogging over to where my sad little
minivan was hunkered down.
Ah, there you are.
It looked just the same as usual, dinky little
hoola dancer on the dash, Nebraska plate
slightly rusted around the edges. Not even a
little happy to see me.
My throat felt constricted, but it might have
just been from the hot peppers that had been
on my taco salad. Slowly, I reached my hand
into my bag and pulled out my big buy of the
day.
Thats a very beautiful necklace.
I jumped and whirled around to see who
had spoken, my ngers automatically closing
around the cheap little silver heart pendant.
It was a young guy around my age, maybe
18 or 19. His dark chocolaty hair was partially
hidden by his hand, as if he were embarrassed.
Yet, his smile was condent and warm. Uh...
thanks? I offer lamely in response. What was
the point in trying anyway? He was obviously
out of my league.
When I checked you out, I didnt realize
you would be wearing it yourself.
My cheeks got hot. Checked me out...?
My wide eyes blinked, and I realized he
was wearing an employees uniform for
Target. He must have been at the register, and
I was too dull to notice him then. His name
tag read, Marvin. Oh, um, yeah, its, uh, for
me. I paused. Marvin.
He looked surprised momentarily, then
glanced down at his shirt. When he looked
back up, his grin was lopsided.
Guess theres no use introducing myself
then, huh?
I chuckled in spite of myself.
Guess not. Im Joyce, nice to meet you
Marvin. Hey, what did you mean when you
said you thought I wouldnt be wearing this?
I asked, dangling the necklace in front of me.
Marvin blushed and looked at his sneakers.
Oh, well, youre just so pretty, I thought even
that necklace would pale in comparison.
A horn blared in the distance. From start to
nish, I was speechless. Marvin stammered
on, D-do you want help? Putting it on?
I glanced over at the empty parking space
where the perfect red Ferrari had been. But it
was gone now.
Yeah.
I smiled at him, holding the hand with the
necklace out.
And you know what?
He took it.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP



VERMONT BUSINESS ROUNDTABLE
CELEBRATION
OF WRITING
YWPS KEY EVENT
OF THE YEAR!
SATURDAY, NOV. 8
9:30 A.M. 5 P.M.
Writing workshops
Millennial Writers on Stage
Reception
Release of Anthology 6
MONTPELIER
More details to come
at youngwritersproject.org
PHOTO OF THE WEEK

NEXT PROMPTS
Angel. For the rst time you meet
your guardian angel. Write a short story
developing your guardians character
and his or her relationship with you.
Alternates: Snapchat. This is no time
to Snapchat! Use this sentence in your
story, poem or play. What has just happened or is about to happen?; or Photo
3 (below). Due Oct. 17
Photo 3. Chelsea Somerset, Essex High School
Letter. Write a letter to your mother,

father, a grandparent, teacher or favorite
person to say thanks. Provide a specic
story to show why the person is so
great. Alternate: Habit. Think about a
bad habit you might have and create a
character with a similar bad habit. Write
about why the character wont easily
give up the habit. Due Oct. 24

Jared Lee, Essex High School
Beth
AND NOW AT
... THE VOICE
YWPS EXCITING, NEW

DIGITAL MAGZINE!
BY ELIZABETH MAGNAN
Racing through the air,
carried by silver wings,
a memory of happiness.
Mourned by those
she left behind.
VPR.NET
VTDIGGER.ORG
Exulted by those
she joined above.
She forever lives on
in the hearts of those
she touched.
Check it out at
youngwritersproject.org
Grey shirt
BY GENEVIEVE DAVIS
I should throw away this old grey shirt
that sits day after day in a wooden drawer
collecting dust and wasting space.
I should fold it up and place it in a bag,
give it to a second-hand store,
a child wearing torn blouses,
or use it for a rag.
I should really stop wearing it to bed.
I should stop smelling you or feeling you.
For that matter,
after countless washings,
I should throw it away.
I should erase the last part of you,
rid myself of distress and memories,
become vacant.
I should throw away your effect on me,
the last control you have over me,
so I wont be washed over with weakness
when I see your face.
I should really throw away this grey shirt
when its the last thing
I have to hold on to,
an old comfort that doesnt bring much comfort
anymore.
THIS WEEK: Treasure & General

Each week, Young Writers Project receives submissions
from students across Vermont and New Hampshire. A team
of staff, mentors and students selects the best writing and
images for publication. This week, we present responses to
the prompts, Treasure.What is something you should throw
away but cant? How did you get the object?; and General
writing. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
THANKS FROM YWP


PHOTO OF THE WEEK
Its queer to think were gentle creatures,

hard to imagine ourselves as innocent vocal
preachers,
when in reality we crave esh and war
and endless gore.
Our minds feel taken over.
Our hearts beat lower
to the indenite sound of our existence.
We are beasts,
and we feast
on the victories instead of the losses.
I believe we are victims
of poverty and misfortune.
I believe we are misguided
souls.

VPR.NET
VTDIGGER.ORG
AND NOW AT
... THE VOICE
YWPS NEW DIGITAL MAGAZINE!
THE VOICE
AN EXCITING NEW
DIGITAL MAGAZINE
BY AND FOR
YOUNG WRITERS
to view YWPs new monthly
e-mag and subscribe!
THE CALVIN
WIN $1500 FOR AN
ESSAY ABOUT VERMONT
NEXT PROMPTS
The inevitable
YWP INTRODUCES
Deadline is near! Sept. 26!

Write an essay and win $1500 and a
trip to New York City to be honored at a
reception by the Calvin Coolidge Foundation!
Young Writers Project partners with
the contest sponsor, the Calvin Coolidge
Foundation, for the best essay writing in
Vermont for the 2014 Calvin Prize.
This years theme: To stay or to
leave? Are you likely to stay in Vermont
or relocate elsewhere? What factors will
inuence your decision?
Your writing must address this prompt
and be fewer than 1,000 words.
You can nd more information at
youngwritersproject.org/calvin.
BY JULIA REMILLARD
MORE GREAT WRITING EACH WEEK AT
THIS WEEK!

Believing in reality
The inevitable
a thing of beauty and wisdom,
but also love and lust,
of loss, pain,
guilt and trial.
Yet we all must know to trust,
because the inevitable,
though beautiful and ragged,
is innite.
YWP NEWS
Jasmine Douglas-Hughes, Mount Manseld Union High School
Over again
BY ROSIE BIBONA
If I sat down
on this scratchy grass,
would you sit with me
and let everything else disappear?
Can we just stare at
the stars and bask
in the moonlight?
Could we share our
deepest, darkest secrets
without any fear of betrayal?
Can we just forget all
that there is and just be?
Is it possible to show
my terrible doings
without judgment?
Or would ignorance
rear its ugly head,
and I am cast into the
pile of unworthies?
Should I put my trust in you?
Or am I supposed to dive
back into my reserve of
emotions and not share
with anyone?
Can I share with you
my worst fears
and greatest memories,
and know that youre listening?
Lets relearn each other,
start from the beginning.
Can you look at me
from a new perspective
so that I can start over again?
(This poem was written at the end of the 13-14
school year.)
Complicated. Your life is complicated, and some days, theres just one
mess after another. Describe one of
those days in detail it can be funny
or tragic. Alternates: Leaf. Write from
the point of view of one leaf on a large,
colorful maple tree; or Photo 2 (Write
a story or poem based on the photo
below). Due Oct. 3
Photo 2. Jeff Schultz, Essex High School
Room. You have a chance to redesign your room from scratch with no
limits. What do you do? Alternates:
Lie. Use the sentence, You dont
have to lie; I know it was you, in a
poem or story; or General writing.
Your best piece in any genre. Due
Oct. 10

Saint Albans Messenger 2014-2015

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City of Legend

THIS WEEK: General writing

ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to

YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses and

Special thanks this week to

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

of us? she asked Lazuka from the air.

Nate Ertle, Essex High School

who or where she was. Fortunately for her, it

sense when a person near her was about to be

READ THE JUNE ISSUE

THIS WEEK: General writing

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred

ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to

YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses and

Special thanks this week to

THE BAY AND PAUL

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

WRITERS AND PHOTOGRAPHERS!

Kristina Pretty, Essex High School

RISING OUT OF THE GROUND

The powers were perfectly divided; three

cians were trapped by the ancient demons

You will never understand 21st century

READ MORE GREAT WRITING AT

THIS WEEK: General writing

ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to

YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses and

Special thanks this week to

MGN FAMILY FOUNDATION

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

BOB AND JOE AND THE BIG BOX BET

After the eighth snap of

Joe thinks for a moment, knowing that this is

Joe: Alright, fine then. Go ahead. What do I

He placed it on his bow,

MORE GREAT STUDENT WRITING AT

Kevin Huang, Burlington High School

YWP NEWS & EVENTS

The adventures of Bob and Joe

THE CAR RACE, PART 2

BOB AND JOE AND THE CAR RACE

Bob: Hello again, Joe. I have another challenge for you.

READ THE MAY ISSUE

THIS WEEK: General writing

YWP NEWS & EVENTS

Each week, Young Writers Project receives several hundred

ABOUT THE PROJECT

THANKS FROM YWP

Special thanks this week to

THE BAY AND PAUL

READ THE MAY ISSUE

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

I would be glad to hear all about how excited

Little green fish

FINAL SLAM OF THE YEAR!

I dug my faith into the ground,

THURSDAY, MAY 14, 6 P.M.