YWP Anthology 3

Anthology 3
Young Writers Project

Back cover photo by Jason Ro|
Back cover poem by O||v|a P|nta|r
Anthology 3
Young Writers Project
2
Acknowledgments
Young Writers Project is made possible by hundreds of people who have donated
money, time, expertise, ideas and advice: from students and teachers to business leaders and
professional writers, from arts organizations and media outlets to educational experts and
foundations. So many people make this project possible.
Each week, YWP publishes great student writing in 12 newspapers: St. Albans Messenger,
Essex Reporter, Colchester Sun, Burlington Free Press, Stowe Reporter, Waterbury Record, Times Argus, Rural
Route Today, Addison Independent, Rutland Herald, The Valley News and Brattleboro Reformer. We also
select one piece and accompanying podcast when available for Vermont Public Radio
on vpr.net. Thanks to each for their generosity in affirming students ideas, opinions and
creativity.
5pccIa! thanks tn nur majnr dnnnrs: Bay & Paul Foundations, A.D. Henderson Foun-
dation, Green Mountain Coffee Roasters, FairPoint Communications, Vermont Community
Foundation, Windham Foundation, National Life Group, KeyBank, Main Street Landing,
Susan Cross and our founding sponsor, Vermont Business Roundtable. Board chairman
Stephen Kiernan has been instrumental in helping the organization grow; his energy has
been a lifeblood for YWP, its staff and its financial stability. And to YWPs board members
past and present, including: Douglas Beagley, Suzanne Beste, Lynne Bond, Luanne Cantor,
Tom Carlson, Lucy Comstock-Gay, Dave Demers, Barbara Ganley, Hasse Halley, Sabina
Haskell, Rick Machanic, Michael Mathon, Molly McClaskey, Rachel Morton, Bobbe Pen-
nington, Alysia Perkinson, Sara Quayle, Jeffrey Rutenbeck, Bob Stevens, Marc & Dana van-
derHeyden and Lisa Ventriss who all helped push our ideas further.
Thanks also to Melanie Roberts who designed our logo; attorneys Joe Sano and Serge
Bechade of Prince Lobel Tye in Boston; and Virginia Roberts who helps with the books.
This book was made possible by YWP board member Kathy Folley who has donated
countless hours of help proofreading, selecting work and mentoring teachers; her tireless
spirit, knowledge and understanding of writing and kids have been immeasurable. Kate
Fallone, now getting her Masters in Education at UVM, has been remarkable in her tal-
ent and hard work and, with Renate Dubois, a senior at University of Maine Farmington,
has helped pull together the initial selection list. Susan Reid, YWPs new content coordina-
tor, proofread the book several times. Andrea Gray, our graphic designer, and Queen City
Printing once again did their magic. My hearfelt thanks to our finalist judges Bill Schubart,
Phoebe Stone and Erik Esckilsen, three superb writers who set aside their writing projects to
read and select the student work in this book.
A special thanks goes to Physicians Computer Company and one of its founders and
YWP board member John Canning. In early 2007, I received an email from John, posted
at 3:29 a.m. typically enough, introducing himself and asking, How can we help? Oh my,
let me count the ways. John has been an inspiration to me and this organization; his gen-
erosity, ideas and expertise in building nonprofits has been critical to our success and is a
major reason why we are dedicating this book to his company. Because PCCs support goes
way beyond John. A host of others have willingly offered ideas, advice, technical help and
expertise. A few who should be singled out: Deb Bergeron and Jen Loiselle for their patience
and help with innumerable projects big and small; others include Katy Demong, Bill and
Paula VanDeVenter, Chip Hart, Erica Greenwood, Jay Schuster and Brandon Smith.
Thanks to all of you for supporting young writers, our next generation of words and
ideas. Nurture them well.
Geoffrey Gevalt, YWP director and founder
3
We are pleased to dedicate
this anthology to
Physicians Computer Company,
an organization that has unwavering
belief in the value of young people.
PCCs support is deeply appreciated.

4
NataIIe Puma
ChampIaIn VaIIey UnIon HIgh SchooI, Crade 11
5
Introduction

If Vermont had tall buildings, skyscrapers even, I might be able to craft an elevator
pitch that I could complete by the 101st floor. But maybe not. Young Writers Project enters
its sixth year as full and complex as ever with components that many including you
readers may not realize. For instance, we are partnering with a school in Shanghai, China,
and another in Uganda, all with an idea of bringing Vermont students together with kids
who live in different worlds. We now work with well over 12 percent of students in grades
4-12 in Vermont. Our after school Web site now boasts nearly 1,000 visitors a day. We have
four fabulous former teachers in the field helping teachers make the transition to the Digital
Age. And and and.
Whew. I think were at Vermonts top floor.
Let me express it to you this way. The book in your hands right now represents our
main purpose: give audience to as many young writers as possible, particularly those
who, before they encountered us, might have told you that they thought writing was, well,
boring and pointless and not something they could do well. We believe that, as a first step,
giving students authentic audience affirms their ideas, creativity and sense of worth. It also
gives them purpose and the confidence to express what they observe, think and believe.
YWP began as an idea to show that writing is vital to a childs development and
that more attention must be given to its instruction. We began as a newspaper feature in
2003, became an independent nonprofit in 2006 and have grown to a multi-faceted digital
learning enterprise. With a tiny staff, YWP:
5c!ccts and pub!Ishcs bcst studcnt wnrk in 12 newspapers and Vermont Public
Radio each week during the school year. Since 2006, we have received nearly 30,000
submissions.
Maintains a civil, student-led nn!Inc wrItIng cnmmunIty, youngwritersproject.org, that
has approximately 4,000 active Vermont and New Hampshire teen users.
Runs the YWP 5chnn!s Prnjcct, a comprehensive writing program for schools that
includes yearlong teacher training and leading-edge private Web sites for teachers
and students to use as digital extensions of their classrooms. In 2011/12 we are
working with 50+ schools, 500+ teachers and 8,000+ students.
Sponsors monthly slams and pcrInrmancc wrItIng cvcnts as well as a variety of
wnrkshnps and other programs in our Winooski headquarters and around the state.
Works with colleges in Vermont and New Hampshire to provide trained college
mcntnrs who give feedback to young writers.

Thats a lot. And we keep long hours, stay up late at night, stretch our knowledge and
capabilities, say yes to most anything the kids want to do because of the little things
those moments when we realize that just by gaining an audience, young peoples views
of themselves have changed. A secret: I love calling the kids in this book to tell them their
work was chosen out of 7,000 others as the best of the best. If only we could bottle their
reactions; if only we could share their joy and pride and giddiness, wed probably be
able to cure the Monday morning blues, the bleakness of rainy days or, well, just about
anything.
So my thanks, as always, goes to the kids: You make my days.
Cheers and keep on writing!
gg
6
The Stars
zzy UsIeWoIIeI
8arre Town EIementary SchooI, Crade 4
I feel like taking flight,
leaving my troubles behind,
with all my might,
fly to the stars light,
the Earth, blue and green.
All the people who were bad,
all the people who were mean,
are all just ants on the world,
The world of the stars,
seeing Mars,
and all my stress melts into space,
but lonely...
how I long to see your face.
I cant confine, how lonely I am,
I am yours, you are mine,
so lets fly to space together,
hand in hand,
light as a feather,
no rain, just fine space weather,
so stars pour silver light on our dance,
As I whisper into space,
I no longer miss your face.
That Cirl
PaIge Kehoe
HartIord MemorIaI MIddIe SchooI, Crade 7
Pain
Needles piercing my skin
Leaving ink of colors that will be forever
Forever on my arm
It hurts
Bad
It makes me question why Im doing this
But only for a second
Im here because Im that girl
That girl who wears too much black
That girl who has too many piercings
And soon to be that girl with a tattoo
The rebel
Me
Its who I am
Maybe not who I want to be
But theres no turning back
Ive made that girl
Me
Theres nothing I can do now
Its my reputation
Its not easy to change a reputation
So why bother
Just keep going father and farther until I
accept it
Pain
Needles piercing my skin
Leaving ink of colors that will be forever
Forever on my arm
Because I am that girl
7
l'mFinallyDoneTryingToLookAtEverythingAtOnce
Zach Ward
NorthIIeId HIgh SchooI, Crade 12
Part of me feels foolish like that was ever even possible. But most of me knows
no regret, just circles winding wildygrowingspinesandteethwithTIME. Its a shifting
of gears, a stopping and stuttering and grinding (again to life) thats only audible when
you slow your blood at night to devour, in earnest, that ancient machinery resting,
silently, above us. The semblance of motionless matter that binds us, reminds us to
look up when we havent got anything better to do anyways.
I feel like there are continents asleep on your nightstand. I feel like there are so
many roads left for us. I find myself salivating. I find myself following your hoarse
laughter through time, changing slowly, shifting and churning like a pair of runaway
stars nestled in not-knowing, orbiting one another. And I guess Ive been holding
on to this, like one of the many-colored pens inside my back pocket that I fumble for
when life begins to roar, like television static, and I dont have the heart to dial it back
in again.
KatIe SmIth
Essex High School, Grade 10
8
8rendan Patneaude
Andrew LemIeux
9
Antiquity
8raeden Hughes
Mount MansIIeId UnIon HIgh SchooI, Crade 10
In the chipped paint and overgrown
violets
of half-abandoned houses,
Im dancing at the fringes,
trailing my fingers along
peeled
railings
and neglected vines.
Because theres something magnificent
about old houses:
something in the scent of ancient
wallpaper,
elegance in the water-stained
floorboards and sun-splintered shingles.
Antique is precious because
You cannot fool Time,
and History is embedded in the very
heart
of civilization
(and its materialism).
We hoard
because the story of something
is often just as
beautiful
as the
thing itself.
We live lives full of circles,
intersecting with the minds
and bodies of other humans,
yet the allure of relationships
is the chance to truly understand
someone.
Whether or not we like it,
we carry our stories around
with us. They shape our minds
and our actions
and in time,
we
become
our history,
and our houses.
The Closet Speaks
Meghan LavoIe
RIce MemorIaI HIgh SchooI, Crade 10
A faux cashmere wrap,
green like unripe kiwis
lining the bottom refrigerator shelf;
black seeds the iris
of an omniscient core, a jade-tainted
white pupil.
Threads peppered with deoxygenated
fragments of leaves,
a brown-veined stem,
twisted by youthful fingers,
once bursting in the harvest
of autumns past.
From the day
I pretended to be a
Grecian princess.
And cloaked my body in
the finest silks
east of the Adriatic.
Sandals
were the only thing I was missing.
Seven-button sweater;
plain, unassuming.
Yet sponge of the saline Niagara.
Half-hearted cornflower blue
with cerulean tones to match
the oceans deepest trench that day.
Too loose around the middle,
arm length underachieving again.
But witness to the sorrow
no other clothing could absorb;
survivor in the woven lifeboat
among a sea of fabrics.
10
Calmness
Courtney CIIbert
FerrIsburgh CentraI SchooI, Crade 6
The tide rolling in and out like my breath
Waves crashing down upon the shore
Quiet breeze
A bursting sunset in the distance
Waves crashing down upon the shore
Calmness sets in my heart
A bursting sunset in the distance
Your gentle arms around me
Calmness sets in my heart
The beauty
Your gentle arms around me
Now I can sleep tonight
The beauty
Peaceful
Now I can sleep tonight
Your soft smile
Peaceful
Quiet breeze
Your soft smile
The tide rolling in and out like my breath
Through the Window
Abby CrowIey
Mount HoIIy EIementary SchooI, Crade 3
When I get a
chance
to really see
all the great
wonders that are
in front of
me
when I look
out
through the window,
Why,
I could see
trees and buzzing bees
when I look
out
through the window.
I could see the
sky,
and I could see
the birds that
are
flying high
when I look up
through the window.
I could see
Lance,
one of my
scurrying ants
when I look down
through the window.
I could see trees
and buzzing bees
and I could see
birds that are
flying high
and
I could
see
Lance, one of my
scurrying ants
when I look all around
through the window.
Why,
I really wish I had some time
to really see the wonders
that are in front of me
when I look out
through the window.
11
Do You?
ErIn 8undock
SheIburne CommunIty SchooI, Crade 7
You like me,
I like him,
He likes her,
She likes you.

She likes you,
But you like another,
He likes me,
And I like the other.

I think were friends,
You think were more,
He thinks theyre friends,
But she wants to be more.

Confusing, understandable,
Annoying, and crazy,
The whole situations a little bit hazy.

Do you like me?
Do I like you?
Does he like her?
Does she like him?

If she likes you,
But you like another,
If he likes me,
And I like the other,
How does this all play out?
For you,
For him,
For her,
For me,
Does she like him?
Does he like her?
Do I like you?
Do you like me?
uilding Walls
Sarah WeIIs
U32 HIgh SchooI, Crade 10
I saw you across the way that day back
in summer.
You looked up and smiled at me and my
feet began to float forward.
Moving my feet through the grass, I saw
bricks begin to block my path bit by
bit.
My heart leapt with panic and I began to
run toward you.
As I ran a seam in the sky tore and rain
poured down on me,
ripping holes in my conviction.
Doubt began to seep in and my heart
grew heavier, slowing my pace.
The distance remained no matter the
steps I took through the rain.
The wall kept growing.
Soon I began to doubt Id seen you at all,
that it all was a cruel trick of the mind.
I stood in the wet grass and peered
through the sheets of worry.
In the haze I thought I saw your shape.
It was only just a shadow, but that was
enough for me.
The wall grew to waist level and I found
myself finally blocked.
I searched for the shadow,
I searched for the boy who smiled.
If only I realized I could climb the wall,
the wall Id made.
I would see you waiting for me just
across the way.
12
Unconventional Couples
]uIIette Rose Wunrow
My classes go hand-in-hand,
circulating through the school hallways
like unconventional couples.
Pre-calculus is inseparable from U.S.
history.
When I allow a math problem
to overwhelm me with its cunning
impossibilities
I think of Andrew Jackson:
would he shrink before an equation?
Never! He would challenge every
variable to a duel
until they cringed and surrendered the
answer.
Chemistry class hooked up with chorus.
Songs are word-electrons orbiting in lip-
shaped spheres
around a positive pulsing core, pure and
elemental.
French married painting, words coloring
canvases
je taime red and je ne taime pas blue.
And English? Its on-and-off with P.E.
Some days, writing is a speed workout,
arduous, drawn-out, unpleasant.
Other days, its like rock climbing,
searching, cautious, a little afraid.
But most days, its like the high ropes
course.
I dangle in a chasm of nothingness,
alive and acutely aware, harnessed by
isolation,
but made breathless by the sensation
of incandescent freedom.
Red
]ackson Neme
The 8eIIwether SchooI, Crade 3
Red is fire
Red is dust
The color of dirty rust
Red is your blood
Red is your heart
It is the bite of a sour tart
Red is a morning yawn
The breeze of morning dawn
It is brave with all your might
It is also the morning light
Red is the remaining of a late dusk fight
Red is a rash, the sun, roasted crisp of a
hot dog bun
Red is fury
Red is might
The argue that makes things right
Red is love, the color of a mourning
dove
It is fall
It is a fox
Red is the brush of a painted box
Red is a rose
It is embarrassment
The strongest color
Red is me, you
Red is the colors dew.
13
Through the Window
ChrIstopher ZamarIppa
TrInIty 8aptIst SchooI, Crade 7
He just sat there, frustrated, thinking of what to do. He knew his deadline was
Friday and he still had nothing. All day he had been setting up different objects, trying
to find the right angle, and then tearing it down, thinking it wasnt good enough. You
see, the Metropolitan Museum of Art was looking for young, unknown artists all
across the country, and Matthew was one of the chosen few. He just had to come up
with a decent painting by Friday in order to have his work displayed there. He decided
to go for a walk to try to find some inspiration. As he walked down the snow-covered
sidewalk, a million pictures came to mind. He decided snow was definitely going to be
in the picture. As he walked back home still thinking, someone walked up to him. It
was the neighbor from across the street.
She said, Matt, Im sorry, but can you watch my kids because I need to run to the
store?
Sure, Matt replied. He sat on the step when it suddenly came to him. He would
paint those children playing in the snow. He paced back and forth, wishing Lisa would
be home soon. Finally, after 15 minutes, she arrived. He rushed into his house and
grabbed his utensils. Then he sat there. What viewpoint would it be from? He tried
the sidewalk, steps, balcony, porch and roof, but nothing worked. Almost giving up,
he went inside and sat back at his desk. He looked up, and then he finally saw it. He
found his painting through the window.
AIex MumIeyDupuIs
14
Winter Hunting Trip
CaIII 8ushee
Shrewsbury MountaIn SchooI, Crade 5
The wintry frost cut through my camouflage coat, radiating icy cold heat. I could
feel the snow crunch under my steel-toe boots, the leaf-colored ones that cost so
much. A scentless spray covered me from head to toe, encasing me in a blank smell.
My brother stepped softly down next to me, and then he gripped my sleeve. He
silently pointed ahead. I looked up with curiosity. I wanted to know if he was pointing
to a random piece of beauty or if we had a target. Up ahead there was a ledge about
100 feet tall; the coarse rock was comforting to me. A group of deer pawed around in
the early snow on the ledge, trying to find a few shoots of grass. My brother silently
slipped the rifle off his shoulder and pointed the barrel at the beating heart of the buck.
I put my hand out, pushed the gun down.
Dont, I breathed. The breath that came from my words was a silvery mist. My
brother gave me a glance, and his face reflected my admiration of the deers grace.
Together, we turned and began the long hike home. The forest was silent around us,
and the only sound that could be heard was the crunch of the icy snow under our
well-insulated feet. The magic lasted.
ChIoe WhIte
15
One Year
CaroIyn WoodruII
I have been climbing this staircase for the
past ten years
The wind still howls through the cracks
in the brick in that same lonely way.
You think youd get used to it. Well
You do and you dont
Still that same song that wakes you up
at night
Almost almost a comfort sometimes.

They say a lot can change in a year.
Funny, how they never say
How little.
I have learned even less
about these new types of love and loss.
And I have hated, and gained
and loved
and lost

But its still a cold day in March,
And Im still wearing that same old
sweatshirt,
And the stairs still stand, and the snow
still falls
And the wind still wails
Between the brick.
Cone
LIam O`TooIe
Crossett 8rook MIddIe SchooI, Crade 8
I would give away my Xbox
to have a healthy family,
to see my grandparents more,
and for life to slow down.
I would give away my phone and iPod
to go on a vacation with my family,
to spend a couple of weeks with just us
four,
no worries or complaints.
I would give away my TV
for the family time I never had with my
cousins.
Electrified
Henre HermanowskI
Electrified
Static pulses
streak through the air,
leaving behind
a sharp stream of light.
Clouds
pale gray,
glow with each
crack.
Wind swirls,
and a plethora
of leaves
dances in the flashing
sky.
16
The Song Won't Last
Emma Russo
Slow down for a second,
hold your breath;
dont keep rushing,
take a rest.
Open your eyes,
breathe in for a minute;
life goes on,
youre not in this to win it.
We jump too high,
we run too fast;
listen to the music
because the song wont last.
Dont forget to remember
always wear a smile;
enjoy life when you can,
it only lasts a while.
Hold on to what you have,
dont ever let go;
love every moment,
take life slow.
We jump too high,
we run too fast;
listen to the music
because the song wont last.
Darkness is Near
]ustIn Chen
RIchmond MIddIe SchooI, Crade 7
I watch as darkness starts to envelop the
sky,
Subjugating all but a few faint slivers of
light.
I poke the campfire with a long twig,
urging it to stay awake,
But with a final yawn and shudder, it
dissipates into a snake of smoke,
Twisting and writhing in the wind.
The clearing around me is silent, but for
the soft whispers of the ocean.
Its gentle hand of water grasps at the
shore, washing against the sand,
And under the waning light of the
horizon, I can observe its slow
movements,
Tired after a long day of crashing against
the shore and cascading through the
sand,
Tired after a long struggle to reach the
tree line.
Sunshine is departing, chased away by
the moon.
But before it leaves, it hugs my shoulders
and face one last time,
A warm embrace of farewell.
And though I know its only goodbye
until tomorrow, I lament its leave,
I always lament its leave.
17
CIaIre KeIIy
Essex HIgh SchooI, Crade 9
18
Crying for Summer
AIyx SeIIars
PeopIes Academy, Crade 11
I cried again last night. There is no way of knowing when spring will finally
come, and the sun will break through the mask of clouds that forms for the majority
of Vermonts long year. I feel as though I wait for a wish that will never come true.
For how can it? There seems to be no end and no escape. The only thing that keeps
me from falling into a pit of nothingness is the light of memories. The memories of
the warm summers and the fairy tale back roads leading to hidden scenery that now
seems so unreal. Scattered with wild flowers and a symphony of bird songs. I sit
waiting for the time when I can feel the sun radiate into my skin and warm me to my
heart.
The faces of these small towns, plastered pale and gray, wait with me. Some say
they love the cold, the snow. That is all fine if they say so. But then, why do so many
of their faces reflect my despair for the dismal darkness that is a definition for this
setting?
But there is more than the gray; there are the little rural towns that are scattered
with a few houses and lined with great distances. The short days that bring upon
a darkened night with nowhere to go but home, for no place remains open and
welcome in the late night but the warm woodstove hearth.
I cried again last night. For the summer that seems to become more distant as
the hours, the days, pass. As I wait for the excitement to come, and a place to go, and
the sun to shine, I wait, and hope that my wishes will come alive. I dont want to cry
tonight.
Morgan SaIIord
19
CaraIIne FIaherty
20
Hoping
Courtney Perry
8eIIows FaIIs UnIon HIgh SchooI, Crade 12
Trickle down
Turn around
Sweaty hands hide
Inside deep pockets
Curled around a wisp of hope
Soft heart beats
Plodding feet
Eyes may stare down
But this winter breeze
Carries a soul adrift
In a dreaming world
Sleeping world
Beneath the wildest imagining
Whirling
Twirling
A mindless dance
A baseless plea
I will never be anything

More than just me
Its true:
Afraid to ask
If that could ever
Be enough for you
]ustIn PInard
21
oulevard of the Sky
KaIsang DoIkar
Lyman C. Hunt MIddIe SchooI, Crade 8
I glide
over the streets,
(paved with the stuff of stars)
below the universe,
(gilded with beauty)
beside the sky,
(blended with the hues of a rainbow)
and could not help but notice
my home scattered below,
like the rest of the land,
[lost]
between the folds of time.
Poetry
AIexIa Long
Edmunds MIddIe SchooI, Crade 8
POH-i-tree
Cryptic words that sit in semi-tangible
silence on empty lips,
Singing in jingle and ring that please the
ear in unknown ways,
Written by heretics and followers alike
who chant in mordacious rhythm,
All swaying to an imperceptible beat, a
chimeric urge,
To write
Poetry
Sam RobInson
22
Whistles of the Wind
8asundhara Mukherjee
South 8urIIngton HIgh SchooI, Crade 9
We are flying feathers,
dancing in the shadows of the moon,
dancing into the light of the sun
as it wakes in the morning
until we just disappear in its reflection.
And we are windmills who tamper with
the winds
we send petals amongst the breaths
and molecules and dying heartbeats;
we are rooftops, broken in the center,
forced to bend but its for the good of it
all.
We are flashing lightbulbs,
singing our light out into the distance,
singing into the eyes and ears until
everyone can notice
the flicker of the lights.
And we are the pages of the books of the
children
worn with touches, breaths,
unconditional love;
we are the quills that turn into pens,
wrung with ink-blotches
that swim out onto white space
until it becomes an array of black,
but one day the black will become white
again.
MIchaeI Lynch
23
When l Wear my Childhood
NataIIe SenIor
My younger childhood years sit
gently on the rack,
waiting for more pleasure
to be had.
Now being more grown up
is fun and all,
but sometimes it just gets boring,
so I put my childhood on.
My childhood is pink and purple
with swirls and designs,
with a twist of banana,
now aint that just
divine!
With some beads here
and there,
and some
doodles and sketches,
everywhere!
With some glue and
some tape and some
paper too!
With pictures of me,
my family
hey, its true!
On my childhood Ive got
stains and splotches,
and messes too,
anything from
a horse to
a kangeroo!
With thousands of name tags
here and there,
with veggies like carrots,
and fruits like pears!
But on my childhood
is a most important thing,
its a glued-on shape where my
heart should be.
Now its not perfect,
and its not the best,
but what it is is my heart,
and the same as the rest.
sabeIIa EsposIto
24
Cory Dawson
25
(Parentheses)
Katy Turner
8eIIows Free Academy, Crade 12
(I think) it was in the wind the rain
on black days that
you wrote the sad poetry
(yellow paper running ink a boy in
Maine)
and (I think) I loved too much and
too little (things and people and hearing
my name) to
worry or
to leave
the faces I need are not
the places I need
nor are they in the places I need
to be in
Ill (maybe) sit in melancholic universe-
threads
while you tell me which
New York school to
choose and be (and live)
as if Im breaking little parts
to get the bigger ones as if
we all deal in and
fear consequence
I just put the broken things (always) in
my dresser or
my pockets
lf lt Weren't for Him
Emma Sopchak
The only thing that kept
me from bolting from that
church was him
his hand in mine
his smell
and his face
and his smile and his shoulder
his shoulder that I rested my head on.
The only thing that kept me
from excusing myself and
politely sprinting from that room
was him sitting with me while
everyone else stood and
sang, and sat, and stood, and
sang again.
His body
never moving away from me
never budging, even
when everyone else stood, and we
were the only two who stayed.
All through the service, I
doodled on the program, I
drew stars around the words, I
colored in the spaces.
And all through the service, he
held my hand, and he
looked at my doodles, my
bursts of nervous creation, and he
said, What pretty stars.
What pretty stars.
26
Cardboard Walls
WIIIow HoIschuh
TwIn VaIIey HIgh SchooI, Crade 9
I wander an empty town where the light
inside the street lamps has resided for
years
My thoughts bounce around inside the
soft walls of my mind
I walk alone, hearing only one set of
footsteps treading upon the old faded
concrete
My deep brown eyes stare blankly into
the unknown ahead
I pass withering weeds, watching as the
green bleeds from their stalks
Abandoned houses haunt the towns
neighborhoods watching with their
dark windows
Spirits drift aimlessly staining the air with
curling tendrils of invisible white
Faint whispers of lonely children echo in
the effortless wind
The walls of my mind are damp with
tears from sad silver clouds
My cardboard walls are ripping, falling
apart, tearing at the taped seams
My mind is a lost package in the mail
bin, soggy and forgotten
With an address to the abyss and a
shadows kiss for a stamp
I am misunderstood
Miss Takes
EIIzabeth CummIn
Maybe I made a mistake by being born
too late -
for holding her fingers, slip
and
falling, always
mistakes, mistakes. Miss
Takes, come and
get your test, youre
failing
again.
Failing, Miss Takes.
Miss Takes, re-takes, re-learns,
never re-news
that biography of Mark Twain with
pictures in the middle...
children never smile in old pictures.
I can list
all of my
recorded inconsistencies, all of my
wrongs,
rewinding the tapes in my eyes,
wallowing
in the past
the past has passed and Miss Takes
cant re-take
Life so
we move on.
27
lue Ribbon
Anne ]ackson
FerrIsburgh CentraI SchooI, Crade 6
So much depends
upon a blue
ribbon
with gold
letters
glistening in
the sun
with fading
ruffles
so perfect
and straight
but
my girl
Dena
would rather have
hay
than a
dumb
blue
ribbon.
Where l'm From
]amIe Ray
Im from gazing at the stars
Every clear night
Im from my dads delicious
Grilled dinners
Im from the feel of damp moss
squishing under my feet
From the cold of winter
Chilling my bones
Im from the maple tree
I so often climb
From the paintings of animals
Hanging from my wall
Im from a gnarled old oak
Tall and proud
But bent with age
Each branch representing
One soul, one life
When this tree dies
My family withers away.
Hudson Seman
28
Lady Addeline SackvillePankhurst
SamueI Zaber
CraItsbury SchooI, Crade 12
What a queer old woman she was. More bird than human and more birds
skeleton than bird. She hopped along the busy sidewalk exactly like a songbird, her
head bobbing along and with no more than one foot on the sidewalk at a time.
On her head, a wilting daisy pushed into the ribbon of a shapeless violet felted
hat, wobbled this way and that, always in opposition of the direction of her head so
that it looked like an antenna feeling the space before her. Her jacket, hanging loosely
over her crooked frame, was of the same felt as her hat and was belted by a thick piece
of some reptiles skin.
In one claw hand, she clutched a long tartan umbrella that she used half the time
as a cane and the other half as an extension of her arm, prodding interesting things
(a dropped handbag, a newspaper, a probably dead homeless man). The other hand
swung freely, like the gentle arm movements of a contented baby. This hand was
decorated with an immense ring, an amethyst set into wreaths of gold, a gargantuan
ring that must have weighed more than she did.
As a bus packed with cooing tourists drove past her, her jacket was lifted by the
gust of wind revealing a skirt with little cornflowers growing on a field of blue. The
skirt was too short for her, perhaps she had worn it in childhood, for the hem fell two
inches above her knees. From the hem descended a pair of black stockings that clung
to her scrawny calves and shins in lumps and bulges. On her feet was a pair of delicate
heeled boots with little silver eyelets that shone against the black leather; they looked
like theyd been fashioned during Edwards reign.
A queer old bird, poking and prodding her way along the sidewalk with her
flapping, purple overcoat and wobbling heels.
29
Raindrops
Nora HIII
Vermont Commons SchooI, Crade 8
Welcome to a world where just being
you is never enough
the real world,
young and innocent,
we are told
to be ourselves,
to be bold
but as we grow
we learn the truth
that we are born to be molds,
the perfect soldiers
a fake smile here a fake laugh there,
just want to
scream
loud and clear
but thats just a dream
an improbability
because I dont scream
not any more
I cant even whisper like the wind
how can I ever roar like the lion?
Alone, shattered, misunderstood and
misjudged
the doll stands herself up
a spider web of cracks on her face creak
as they blow dust off to face the sun
because sometimes we have to rescue
ourselves
sometimes we have to be our own
prince charmings.
The doll smiles,
she never had cared for fairy tales
too predictable
in an unpredictable world
they weave a false sense of security
the doll with a spider web face
turns to them
and
roars
loud, pure, raw
a beautiful distaste
a glitch
like raindrops falling up
because sometimes,
we do things that defy gravity.
OIIvIa FontaIne
30
One Wild Night
Samantha Caruso
MIII RIver UnIon HIgh SchooI, Crade 12
Clink. Clink. Four quarters are deposited on a table. Clack. Clack. An insignificant
waitress moves across the tile floor in a tired, over-used pattern to gather her tips. She
is nameless because this night is not her night. This story is not her story. She is part
of the scenery much like the inconsequential noises of her shoes. Hiss. Hiss. A bottle
of cleaning solution, mostly water, emits a thin stream to drive away spilled salt and
ketchup stains, or at least make them less noticeable. The sounds combine with the soft
murmur of late night small talk and tiny collisions of fork on plate.
All at once, there is a shift. Something has changed. A car pulls into the parking lot
but its different. The car isnt moving slowly. It resonates with the energy of a young,
exuberant driver. Every move it makes is definitive; pulling into a spot, parking, the
sudden shutting off of headlights, the door opening and closing after a young female
driver gets out. This is the part that matters. Life fills the lungs of the girl with each
breath, and youthful vibrancy puts such a spring in her step that the ground seems
to be walking with her. Its throwing and catching her like a gymnast on a trampoline.
She wont be alone. Shell bring others. They always do.
One voice becomes many as they stumble in. Each one is drunk with fun and
giddiness. There is a dying gasp of the serenity that once ruled before it is consumed
by the noise. Teenagers. The waitress guides them to a booth. She knows thisll be
the last time shell have control over them tonight. Menus are handed over and eyes
turn to address them. French fries, milk shakes, sandwiches and salads. What are they
craving? Sweet? Sour? Salty? Savory? Spicy? They planned and laughed and counted
and laughed and spewed filth their parents wouldnt approve of. They talked about
booze. They talked about music. They talked about drugs. They talked about movies.
They talked about sex. They talked about partying. They talked about what classes
were and werent good that day. Because it was raw. Because it was real. Because they
could. Annoyance swelled against them like a tangible force. Old men glared. Couples
whispered. Some even pointed. Their laughter took on an undertone of strength.
Theyre no longer individuals. Theyre a gang. They defiantly go eye to eye with
whoever gets in their faces. They express displeasure in mocking, condescending tones.
They practically beg the old man to complain to management. Throw us out! Well go
somewhere else. Call me a name! Ill think of a worse one for you. Judge me! Scorn me!
Look down on me! I have three friends here tonight who think youre full of it!
Theyre wearing rose-colored glasses and the world has taken on a happy, pink hue.
Leaving. Laughing. Piling into cars. Music blaring. Waitress sweeping, finally collecting
her tips.
31
fastmoving
Anna Rutenbeck
You were probably too
fastmoving for windows
positioned in a corner
locking you out
locking you in.

Trees never looked
so green as that
day when your infantile
hands reached up and
over the bars of your crib
(you always had a taste for freedom).
You wanted to be
fastmoving like the light
like the sun
like the stars.
Understanding never came
so easy to you as that
day when the sun fell
out of the sky.
The world fell apart
every plant turned black but
tears never graced your
grey-blue-storm eyes,
worry never crossed your infantile mind.

A crisis
they insisted.

A tragedy
they screamed.

as the world fell dark
and fluorescents lit
alleyways
churches
mountain tops and
you always told us that we
were never
close enough
to the sky
the moon
the stars.
Your observation skills had always
surpassed those of the fire hydrants.

You would yell at me
yell at us
for being comical in times of heartbreak
and that sun falling from that sky
you yelled
that was heartbreak on a massive scale.
You warned us about the oceans,
you warned us about the forests.
We would have to pour oil into the
oceans, spread napalm on the forests
(light them on fire)
just so we might have light for
a week
a day
an hour.
Because, honey, we are human.

Its not that we need to destroy; its that
we need to create destruction. This is
destruction by fire; this is trees falling
away, oxygen becoming as rare as
petrol.

This is a world-wide water shortage and
no-more blue jeans.
I try to explain this to you and your
infantile mind your
infantile hands still reaching for some
light still
reaching for some understanding and,
honey, if you find it
lend me some.
32
Education
ChrIstopher Prado
CoIchester HIgh SchooI, Crade 9
I would like the federal government to make education the focus of national
attention and investment. Top economists, journalists and educators insist that
education is our means to a more productive and technologically advanced economy
and society. A better-educated society will yield a better-educated workforce, capable
of innovation and leadership in new industries. What we know to be true about
the relationship between academic rigor in education and economic recovery and
growth, is confirmed by the OECDs (Organization for Economic Cooperation and
Development) recently released PISA (Program for International Student Assessment)
results. This is an assessment of knowledge and skills of high school students around
the world. Academically, American high school students lag behind their counterparts
in Shanghai, China, Hong Kong, Singapore, South Korea and Finland. In fact, our
nations students were 17th in reading, 29th in math, and 23rd in science, far from a
standard of excellence. Our comparative academic disadvantage should be a wake-up
call to Congress and to our nation because this academic lag will affect our economic
strength as a nation.
Education, knowledge and intellectual capital are necessary components of
both short- and long-term economic recovery, and for economic development and
leadership at home and abroad. The well-respected economist and Nobel laureate
Joseph Stiglitz emphasized this when he described South Koreas transition to a
modern economy, and to a dynamic learning society. Before, it was a shortage
of capital that was thought to hinder economiesbut it is in fact the shortage of
knowledge that matters. It is this shortage that must be addressed by the federal
government.
One solution has been outlined by Harvard-based education expert Tony Wagner,
who explained the three key skills students need to thrive in a knowledge economy:
critical thinking and problem solving, the ability to communicate effectively, and the
ability to collaborate. It turns out that the countries whose students scored well in
these skills have something else in common: they invest heavily to recruit, train and
support their teachers, in order to attract and retain the best. In addition, as author and
New York Times columnist Thomas Friedman wrote recently, parents must turn off the
TV and video games, check that homework is finished, encourage reading, and elevate
learning as the most important life skill. Robert Samuelson of The Washington Post echoes
this view, reminding parents to play a key role in their childrens academic success.
The more we demand from teachers, the more we have to demand from students and
parents. We must also reward academic excellence as demonstrated by individuals and
schools.
33
If we do all of these things, we can serve as leaders in future economic growth
areas, including renewable energy, energy efficient products, clean power systems and
emissions-free transportation. An educated youth is a formidable force in our country,
especially in times where innovation and invention are so important for development,
progress and prosperity.
Our nations leaders must collaborate to reevaluate the priorities of the nation.
More attention and investment must be put toward the education of our children
the future of this country. Whether you are on one side of the aisle or the other,
whether you are from Alaska, New Mexico, Ohio or Vermont, Americans all agree that
knowledge is a public good, and we must all be invested in its pursuit.
TayIor Long
34
Saran Wrap
LIza Duchesneau
MIIton HIgh SchooI, Crade 12
I am Saran Wrap
I wrinkle and contort and frustrate
I stick to whatever is nearby
And when there is nothing
I stick to myself.
I suffocate
I wrap myself around the fresh necks
The surrendered leftovers
They cant escape me
Dewy moisture dangles from my insides
The perspiration, condensation, sensation
of longing
My preserves condensing under the
tightly stretched plastic
They can see right through me
A lucid vision through one dimension
The simplicity of my purpose
Underestimated.
I sit in the drawer
I am a shadow
A roll of predictability
For the first sheet matches the second
Matches the third
My matter is identical
My identity doesnt matter.
I coil around a hollow tube
Shriveling
Constricting
Suffocation to the rhythm of temperature
As warm fingers rip me from my
dimness
Dragging me along jagged teeth
Until I break
Tear
Hoping I will fit their needs
Pulling me tighter and tighter
Stretching me until suffocation is the
only power I possess all my own
They can see right through me.
I am fake.
I am plastic.
They ball me up
They throw me in the trash
They use me until Im useless
Until my insides are rotten.
I am Saran Wrap.
Sunburn
Rebecca VaIIey
8eIIows Free Academy, Crade 11
My sunburn skin is peeling
alone and I thought youd be here
to pick me fresh
in the mid-afternoon but
the bed is unmade again
and our wine glasses, flutes and stems
that soaked in and made patterns on the
carpet
blood puddles
like when you nursed me back to health
in a Saudi compound in 1991
kissed my bile clean as dirty love
(or was that just on the television?
but arent we every late night black/
white film?)
Im no innocent
could be convicted by a jury for treason
except Ive sworn only on the abdomen
rib jutted specimen of
men,
and their skin never peels away
at the center
rings of dead white flesh
dead white wine bottles, and red
for the multitude of tongue flavors
and I thought youd be here
for the aftertaste
but it is all a matter of personal
preference
why pick me fresh skin
when I can certainly do it myself.
Heartbreak is more exfoliation
than anything less concrete.
35
City Cirls
SIerra MakarIs
Stories are just that,
stories,
flights to pace and prowl;
the skeletons of rusted paradigms:
into these we build our lives.
Do you remember
the stories from your childhood
do you -
ever let those musty books
take purchase in your mind?
Do you ever let those figures
reassemble:
the bones of creation,
the archetypes of nascence,
to be filled in by the
flesh and faces
of real time?
That woman on the corner
could be Rapunzel,
skinny and cigaretted
her walk-up patio perched high
against a low-down world;
if I wanted to see her
Id take the stairs
because her hairs too short and smoke-
stained
to ever really shine.
Or
Snow White for the modern age
Eastern chambermaid, mildly bred
emptying the wastebasket
every morning
on the corner of Seventh and Main.
Rapunzel smokes,
oblivious to the congress
of colliding tales
just below her window,
every morning.
Snow White
stands under five feet
and shes got
thin Asian lips
and a home-stitched face
not anonymous enough for comfort,
and no one will exalt her
in a transparent coffin
when she pops off.
Snow thinks the subway is
a luxury:
for all its jerks and belches
there she can rest her
bound and weary feet.
Sharing her low-slung plastic bench
is the girl in yesterdays makeup
and last weeks clothes.
Frosted hair wont come
back into fashion in greater Manhattan,
but her crowd appreciates it;
theyre the ones flicking cigarette ash
into drainpipes
and fending off the down-lows
in their potbellies
and leather jackets
who crave more tricks than
they can pay for.
Where is she going, dressed like that
is there an appointment in the world
worth requiring such an abusive shade
of red?
Id like them all to meet, someday
in that pub above the Laundromat.
Rapunzel with her bored lips,
Snow White with her deference,
Sleeping Beauty with her pierced-heart
narcolepsy.
Each asleep in one way or another;
each missing a piece potent enough to
wake up her corner of the world.
36
Close Your Eyes
8rIdget verson
Close your eyes. Close your eyes. Watch those patterns that only you can see
projected just above the screen of eyelids, shapes and streaks in purple, yellow, white.
Watch them play out and watch them fade. This is a dark you visit every night, the
dark that stays with you, clings to you, and shreds itself into milliseconds every time
you blink or think of stars think of stars think of fires by the side of the fields by the
side of the road where the glass glitters where the glass shatters where the glass reflects.
You drew patterns on your arms with charcoal that you crushed with your
fingers, still warm. You painted your lips with it, licked it from your hand, and left
streaks of black on the skin of anyone you touched and even through the flicker of
light on smoke you could still see constellations.
Sometimes you can stare at nothing much and see those shapes, see a two-second
clip of some memory distorted by recognition into something you can still understand.
Sometimes you try to capture that, remember it, but it turns into the next thing
someone says or the song thats playing in your head or the rhythm of your own
NataIIe Redmond
37
steps across the floor. Sometimes you dont care. Sometimes you tug at your earlobes,
or chew your lips, or hook two fingers round your lower jaw and pull just to see if it
comes off and you end up biting your own hands in self-defense. Sometimes you stare
at yourself in the mirror for minutes, trying to equate your view with those eyes, those
eyes, those eyes that move. Sometimes you lie still and count your breaths and wonder
which one of you is real, the one thats doing the counting or the one thats doing the
breathing. Heres a hint: you lose count but you dont die.
When you think about sleep it doesnt come. You almost like the hallucinations
that arrive with 3 a.m. You cant keep your balance and you dont know if the floor is
real, and if you fall you barely notice because it doesnt make a sound. You think you
can hear music or someone calling your name but its just the hum of the refrigerator
or the water heater switching on.
Once you helped a friend look for an earring but you found her whole life
instead, and when you turned around to give it to her, she was gone. You never
read horoscopes in the newspaper, but you read the obituaries sometimes and their
predictions are always right. You pretend the columns of text are trees, and the pictures
are Technicolor canopies, and the occasional little headlines are birds just lighting
there for a moment before they fly away and turn back into the Dow Jones Industrial
Average. The ink smudges your fingers. Like charcoal.
You wonder sometimes about the patterns blood makes on bones because youre
used to just skin, or skin that heals. And youre not all there. Youre not all there, youre
transparent, youre fading, youre not all here, you dont remember the last time you
were anchored to Earth, pressed down to the floor with the force of gravity, something
you could feel on the soles of your feet and the top of your head and the slope of
your shoulders rounding down to hands loosely grasping something real.
This is real. Remember this, this is real. Close your eyes.
Now wake up.
38
ln My Mother's Womb
Tya ]ohnson
It feels like I have been a part of this
world for longer than my life,
like I was born into these twisted words
and thoughtful imaginings,
thinking up the story of my life before it
even began.
My mother assures me that I kicked in
the womb
like any normal baby,
but I wonder if I was really kicking
and not throwing notebooks of
unfinished pieces
in complete frustration
at their failure to get across my feelings
and emotions.
I wanted out of that balled up space,
into the open air of the world where I
could breathe
and contemplate my thoughts,
your thoughts, their thoughts,
the actions of that man who knocked
over my mother
in his desperation to get away from the
store where he had just stolen a coat
for his little daughter.
I wonder if I know her,
have ever seen her before,
bumped into her in the never-ending
hallways of high school?
I remember kindergarten and preschool
where the teachers rules meant nothing,
nothing
to me, and I broke them over and over
and over,
all the while moving ahead of my friends
and classmates,
reading full sentences and chapters of old
English
way before they could,
and then, later,
writing sonnets and love poems
before they could even begin to fathom
the depths of high school love.
Ive been called normal by some,
but what is normal,
and do I really fit that category?
How many of you were writing on the
inside of your mothers womb
and leaving messages for the little
siblings you knew would follow after?
And while my peers spend their time
trying to understand each other,
I am trying to understand the world.
I mean seriously,
why are teachers paid so little and
treated like nobodies?
Because you must notice that the
somebodies would be nobodies, too,
if it werent for them.
And what about this racial prejudice and
hate of anyone whos different?
Dont tell me that it doesnt exist
anymore,
look around you.
Terrorist jokes?
Gay intolerance?
Political assassination?
People have views, and they show them,
but is the way they do it really
necessary?
People call me insane because I question
society,
but I have a word for you
and your non-respectful, hating,
prejudiced language:
acceptance.
Acceptance.
I dont understand why or how or when,
but I know that all this time I have been
putting thoughts on paper
and fighting for what I believe.
I think my mother was wrong;
I was not kicking in her womb;
I was busy writing and hurling
unfinished notebooks
in pure frustration
at the chaos of words on paper
and the failure to portray
this strange world.
39
Lukas Armstrong
40
Sara
LIIy StadIer
RIchmond MIddIe SchooI, Crade 7
Her name is Sara
she is 15 years old
five foot six
and seventy-five pounds,
she thinks she could stand to lose a few.
When I hug her
I dont know
if I should feel her ribs
against mine.
I dont know if I can take her hand
without breaking it.
Or if her hair should be that thin.
Or her eyes so sunken.
And when I see her
When I really see her
Shes beautiful
Her bodys beautiful,
but its not really a body at all
A body is muscle
and flesh
and love
and memories.
A body has marks
to remind you
that life isnt perfect.
A body has curves
In all the places
That were not meant to be straight.
But her body
Is not a body at all,
Its all skin
and bone
With nothing left
And nothing to hold her.
Shes delicate
And vulnerable.
Her body is full of pain
and hurt,
and sadness.
Her body
doesnt really resemble a body.
And I want to help her
And I want to listen
But there are fingers in her mouth
Where there should be words.
And she needs to listen
She needs to understand
Shes beautiful
But she needs to go back,
she needs to learn
what a body really is.
41
Amate Paintings
HartIord MemorIaI MIddIe SchooI, Crade 8
AIexandrea Cooper Hannah Mahon
Amanda DombroskI Mary Kate LangIIIe
42
Starcrossed
CassIe 8esso
Fools.
Uncross your eyes and the stars will
align.
There are no star-crossed lovers;
only cross-eyed stargazers.
l Talk Softly
MImI TempIeton
Sherburne EIementary SchooI, Crade 6
I talk softly
For fear the wind will hear me
and carry on my voice
whispering to the trees
The birds listen in
flying my words to the mountains
dropping them
setting them free
They float softly down
nestling in the snow
staying there forever
So I talk softly
DaIIIn CarIety
43
Prickle Crass and
Shortcake Child
MIa Eaton
There was a time
when my place was
at the foot of the driveway
sitting tight against the
mailbox post.
Prickle grass ate through
my sundresses
the ones mother had so
carefully sewn
until the small patches
of my knee caps
had stained
bright green.
Naked toes
wiggled together
intertwining themselves
with soft
dandelion stems.
Soft palms
filled with blueberries
refused to feed the cat as it
cried and rubbed against my legs.
I ate shortcake
in the afternoon sun
the tinfoil casing folded back
pink juice trickling into my lap.
Sticky and smiling
I ambled back home
when it got dark
but could not bring myself
inside the house.
Just steps from the door
I lay on my back
as an entire world
of endless stars
danced just for me.
A growly stomach
turned into sleep
and those stained palms
became imprinted
with the prickle grass.
Watch Your Feet
CeorgIa Parke
Stowe HIgh SchooI, Crade 11
Perhaps it was the clams
who stole the
burdensome pearl
from the longer green oyster
who couldnt hold a note underwater
if its place in the sand depended on it.
Perhaps it was the solemn starfish
who choked on
seaweed
when the old man threw it head first
back into the reef.
Perhaps it was the foreign snorkeler who,
lovesick seasick
adventuresome pride,
started to drown when
she lost sight of the sky
and was saved
by the underwater mountain that drew
blood from her toes.
Perhaps it was those bittersweet
lullabies
that taught children to
fear the depths of the sea.
Fear the tide!
Fear the figures pushing you away
from the walls and into the
middle of the carpet the
middle of the room the
middle of the ocean where
you can swim on your own with
nothing
to assist you but the muscles in your legs
you grew from running back and forth
away from the rising tides.
44
Sam RobInson
45
The lnternational Sign for Happiness is a C Maor Chord
Ruby McCaIIerty
8urIIngton HIgh SchooI, Crade 10
Seldom can I find the words to express my true intentions, and I often let phrases
slip from my lips like little bullets to shoot the conversation dead. Ill watch the subject
matter fall to the ground, and in one last attempt to resuscitate it, I will apologize for
my inability to be a social butterfly. In doing so, I lodge another bullet deep into the
heart of the matter. I make a promise to myself to be silent, observant and to keep any
ideas contained. This is a vow I keep for all of three minutes until the topic changes
again, and I find myself bursting to add my voice. My lips once again become the
smoking gun, and I, the shell-shocked girl whose finger slipped on the trigger.
If it were up to me, I would speak in phrases solely musical. Throbbing chords
and drawn-out bass notes and flighty arpeggios that pull bystanders in and drag them
under, all expressing my intentions perfectly. Excitement would be expressed by a
trilling flute rather than high-pitched chatter, and my melancholy complaints would be
written in the air by low, slow cello strokes as opposed to choked, whining phrases. No
fumbled bullets here, just truth, and everyone would always understand because the
international sign for happiness is a C Major chord.
Sadly, I was given vocal cords instead of a symphony, predetermined notes that
always seem to fail me when I need them most. Instead of a graceful melody, the only
noise I can make is dissonance, a sound remarkably similar to the shot of a gun.
Matt O`8rIen
46
For You, For Me
8ethany Connor
Founders MemorIaI SchooI, Crade 5
They say when you die all your lost loved ones come to greet you. But do they
mean the people you love, or the people who love you?
Because here I am, lying on this floor, scribbling out this one last message to you,
and I hope its not a mistake.
Dont be afraid by my words; actually, I hope youre comforted.
When its time for you to leave this world, and you fly through that tunnel, or
whatever youll do to move on, and all your lost loved ones come to greet you, Ill be
there. I hope Ill have to wait a long time. You deserve to live longer than I do.
There really wont be a five years from now for me, no, Remember that boy
you thought you loved? and we all laugh. I wont get that. My mom doesnt want to
believe it, but I know this is the truth.
At least this way I can say for sure: I love you. That wont change. I know youre
in love with another girl, one who doesnt know you, and I hope one day youll get the
guts to ask her out. Dont ever feel guilty for loving someone because of this letter. For
me.
I have songs I downloaded onto my personal iTunes playlist, songs I wrote.
Albums, songs, lies, diary entries, songs I sang when I couldnt admit aloud the truth.
Listen to them please, listen hard to the album For You. Because those songs are exactly
that. For you.
I want to let you know I love you, even if you dont love me. I dont regret one
word I said to you and dont feel guilty about some words you said, or didnt say, to
or about me. For me.
If one day you come to join me wherever Ill go, I hope Ill be able to greet you.
And if I cant because you never loved me, Ill find a way around it.
Somehow, someday, that day, Ill be waiting for you.
47
AIexa DaIIy
48
You Are What You Eat
HartIord MIddIe SchooI, Crade 7
Art Saengem
KayIa Lancor TyIer Avery
Myrandah French
49
Mother of the Night
EIIza CIIes
As the night quietly listens
With her ears in the wind,
And her eyes in the moon,
She watches over her children
In their darkest hour.
Protected and out of harms way,
She moves with the nocturnal.
With the stars as her earrings,
And the leaves in her hair,
She waits for the sunrise
And dances with the daylight
When together they turn the world gold.
Swirls Red and rown
SamueI Perry
Autumn comes
and the light and dark are equal for one
day;
darkness comes,
shortening time for play.
The leaves fall to the ground in swirls of
red and brown,
and the fruitful harvest is ready to be
picked.
Chopping rings in the air as wood is
split,
and animals hide from the cold.
The fire warms through the grate in the
floor,
and a knife cuts eyes in a pumpkin.
The land sheds the last of its flowers,
and the cold wind comes,
kissing peoples unprotected faces.
Two Threads
ChrIssy SmIth
Woodstock UnIon HIgh SchooI, Crade 10
My breath was almost stolen once.
I failed to quite see a luminous glow in
the distance.
The walls began to crumble and sink;
They drew together like large, cruel lips
Cracked with decisions of past
generations.
I wondered what savior was watching,
if any.
I cursed myself too, for breathing too
much life
Into my creations of evil.
In a moment of light, however, I realized
I was not alone.
A force brought me to the surface
Bruised, lacerated, most likely internally
bleeding
But alive.
Weak, and alive.
And that was the day that I promised
My life would be dedicated to this force,
An immensely powerful spirit who lifts
me.
Up beyond the clouds, beyond grief and
happiness
Beyond any obstacle life could throw at
me
That was the day we determined the rest
of our lives.
Ive never been so sure of anything.
Two threads intertwine, meet, separate
and continue into the horizon
Indefinitely.
50
lt Didn't Rain Today
CoIIeen KnowIes
Proctor ]unIorSenIor HIgh SchooI, Crade 11
It didnt rain today.

We all thought it would.
The whole village stood in the square,
between all the houses,
waiting
for the sky to break.
The clouds were black there,
swooping like vultures
and eagles,
but giving us nothing except empty hope.

One drop.
One drop
fell from the sky.
We all watched it sail down
slowly
(it wasnt actually slow, but it felt like an
eternity)
until it exploded on the cracked ground,
the dry ground.

We waited all day for it.
We waited all night for it.
We waited all...

My mother started crying.
She grabbed my sisters tiny,
tiny hand, and
walked back to the little house,
the little wooden house where I grew up.

My fathers face grew red,
red as the blade of his knife
when he killed
that rabbit,
all those months ago.
Red as the blanket we used to cover its
corpse,
cover it until we were ready to cook it.
Red as the herb my mother grabbed
from the earth
at the edge of the woods while we ran
into the forest to stew the rabbit secretly.
Red as my mothers eyes as we ate it,
(ashamed)
(quietly)
(quickly)
so no one in the town would know that
we had this precious gift.

That one drop.
That single drop
had made my fathers face red again
had made my mother cry again
but this time with rage and fear instead
of shame.

The people walked away
slowly,
whispering
and muttering.

It didnt rain today.

And then I stood alone.
Me and the small patch of ground
that the one drop had hit.
The earth had soaked it up before we
could even blink.
Maybe it was an illusion?

No.
The sky still churned.

My fathers boots had left marks in the
dry,
cracked,
forsaken ground,
leaving a path through the parched village
into the forest
of shame.

I touched my forehead to the ground
and sent up a
quick
whispered prayer to the gods.
I prayed for my father.
I prayed for the rain.
51
Poetry
MaggIe SuIIIvan
I found it
in stray shoeboxes
left on the floor until someone
stepped on them,
breaking the cardboard shells.
Written words
and smiley faces
with extra dots that turn into
accidental noses,
awkward alien smiley faces
written down on paper
next to the words.
These are the things
I kept in those boxes,
along with the names
of the days
that were either good or bad.
Names of the people
who are either good or bad.
I found it
stuck on the bottom of my
old rubber shoes,
squished like gum
into the flattened crevices
of my path.
My whole journey
documented,
my whole story
written.
I found the anger
in my fists
when I raised them up high.
A protest,
a non-hate face.
I found the terror.
I found wiped-away goodbyes,
too-long-to-remember hellos,
and I found forgotten eyes.
I found sorrow.
I found how
just a few words,
just a few sentences,
just a few names with those
stupid labels,
those stupid Goods or Bads
can mean everything
in a simple moment.
I found it;
I found life
in those stray shoeboxes
left on the floor
until I let myself step on them.
I am angry at my fingers
for exposing the words
that I always hid in the back of my throat.
I wish theyd
float-float away.

Im angry at my mind for always
running
and my soul for jumping out
in a butterfly sort of heartbeat,
suddenly out of my chest
without even an emergency surgery.
Suddenly everything is out,
my cardboard shell shattered.
I found these things when I started to
write.
These images and these emotions
come alive.
I found it in these places.
I found poetry,
and it is
alive.
52
Looking Through the Eyes of Asperger Syndrome
CIark Hamm
8rattIeboro Area MIddIe SchooI, Crade 7
Some people are special. Sometimes in a good way, sometimes in a bad way. Me?
Well, Im both. Being smart and somewhat neurotic is confusing. What I mean is that
the way I act is weird to people while, to me, Im just doing my regular thing.
The reason I act weird is because I have a disorder. Some people have Down
Syndrome, some people have ADD, some have ADHD and some people (like me) have
Asperger Syndrome. For those who dont know what that means, let me explain it
this way; I have a very high intelligence, but Im socially challenged. From my point
of view, its like being in a mosh pit: no communication and everything all scrambled
together.
It has affected me since I was in kindergarten. I didnt have a lot of friends. I
didnt have a lot of friends because I acted different from the other kids and to them I
was not normal. I was the weird kid who was too sensitive and always was picked
on for being different. When I was 10, my mother signed me up for a therapist. She
worked with me on my talking abilities and making friends. That helped, but very little.
I have since gotten better, but there was something missing, something important.
That thing was a friend who I could relate to, a friend who had gone though more
hardships than I could have gone through in a lifetime. At the beginning of the school
year, I found that person. When I first met her, she helped me so much. In the past
months up until now, we have become the best of friends and started our own band.
So, in conclusion, just know that even when everything seems dim or all hope is
lost, theres always a light, even the tiniest light, in this big, dark void of a world.
This I believe.
53
Realization of Friendship
8ecca RusseII
Friendship is the drift of the wind
caressing your face.
Its the sun when there is rain.
Friendship is that fun thing to do
when there is nothing else.
It, or rather, your friends are your armor
when you do not know
how to defend yourself.
They are your blade
to stab back
at the sight of your blood
or tears.
Friends know how you feel
and they feel how you do.
And they know
you are there for them,
as they are there for you.
Wandering
LIam Lustberg
The RenaIssance SchooI, Crade 5
The face of flame
Basking in all its deadly beauty
Tongues of smoke lick at the grass
Reaching slowly up to go higher and
higher
Fingers of fiery steam envelop the trees
and whisper words unknown
A swirling red vortex engulfs the forest,
the world at its fingertips
On silent wings, it floats eerily above the
ground
Like a bird gently taking flight.
DestIny 8uIIard
54
Apple Tree (Acrostic)
zzIey Woodward
Enosburg FaIIs HIgh SchooI, Crade 12
It was a
Warm summer day. Not those days that
Are unbearably hot, but
5imply a lovely temperature. I had
Gotten a frozen smoothie,
Orange flavored.
I was sitting against a tree trunk,
Not having a care in the world. I heard a
Gong ring in
The distance, and
Of course it made
Me think of you.
Already I missed you, and I
Knew you would be back in two weeks,
but
Even one day without you was
Too long. I
Hadnt written you any letters yet, and
I was terribly
5orry. I wished I could
5ay that everything was fine, and that
All was well, but that would have been
a lie, and
You know
I could never
Lie to you.
Out of all the days you could have been
gone, that was the
Very worst.
Even the cats missed
You. Yes, the weather
Outside was perfect, and I seemed fine,
but
Underneath I was falling apart, just
Because what was the
Use of a beautiful day
That you werent there
To appreciate with me?
How could I enjoy sitting under this
Apple
Tree alone?
I heard the
5wallows
5inging. I climbed the tree and settled
On a branch, sprawled
Up there with the leaves and sap, at
home in
Nature. I liked it up there, completely
hidden from the
Outside world. I could pretend I was
Really Harriet the Spy. Do you
remember how
I used to love that book so much?
Growing up,
I carried a
Notebook with me everywhere so I
could be just like her. I
Almost wrote Secret Journal on the
front, but that was so unoriginal. I
wrote I
Love you on it instead.
55
Like Father, Like Me
Lauren Dundas
ChrIst the KIng SchooI, Crade 8
Sometimes Im not sure if you know me. My face is just yours, reversed with a
mix of feminine features and my mothers boldness. Could you recognize me through
my thoughts, the things that set me apart from the other faceless beings? You are
stuck in the parallel dimension that takes you from me, me from you. Your phone has
grown onto you from constant familiarity of being closer to you than I am allowed.
Like vines, it has weaved its way into you, covering all of your words. Your attention
span is flakey towards me, always moth-wing fragile when it flutters towards me. I find
myself lost between myself and the glass wall you set carefully between us, making
sure not to cast fingerprints upon it. I could sing to you the button songs you play
when Im around, as if too much conversation with your child scares you. Do I scare
you? Have you ever recognized the way my seaglass eyes turn a pale green when the
sun hits in on a slant? Would you be able to list my insecurities, my doubts, my loves?
Would you be able to name anything about me, anything that makes me specific?
Because I know that your eyes are hazel, with little flecks of sadness in them. You
stress too much about work, about money, about the life you want to provide for us,
but when do you ever get to live that life? I know the things that make you weak, the
things that make you strong. I am you, and you are me. You hide your secrets deep
inside your drawers, under your socks and ties. I find myself down there, hiding with
them, sharing the stories we never knew about you.
I am your daughter, and you are my father. We are the best of strangers.
SamueI Swanke
56
Sestina of a roken Heart
Addy CampbeII
Mt. Abraham UnIon HIgh SchooI, Crade 9
Rain pours on a humid summer day.
Young people too young to be old
friends sit on the porch
of the old house, drooping in the middle
from endless treading feet
From their slackened lips hang the
burning embers of a lit cigarette.
They are so young.
But one would never know.

One wonders about those heads of theirs
how much do they know?
They sit quietly, talking and listening to
the rain: just another ordinary day.
Its still light; the night is young
yet they sit there on that porch
the stub of his drenched cigarette
flopped beside someones bare feet.

Blankets, those countless feet
of plaid, cover the couple. From the way
they cuddle one will know
These two have been together forever.
Long enough to know the others
favorite kind of cigarette,
at least. What a dreary day,
for those tired souls outside. But there,
on that porch
they are content, forever young.

A drenched robin pecks at the muddy
lawn, searching for a worm for her
three young
and joining her in the wet are a few
brave pairs of feet
dangling off the edge of the old porch.
One begins to know
this is their favorite kind of day:
this lazy summer evening in the
company of friends and a good
cigarette.

They talk about their problems: why he
first picked up a cigarette,
and why they do what they do so
young,
so early, what brought them to this place
today.
But the thing is they dont want to
change. They love themselves from
their heads to their feet.
They love their minds; all the things they
do and dont know.
And theyre thankful for companions
and over their heads, the roof of the
porch.

He thinks about life, and how much he
wants a hot cup of tea, as he watches
the couple and feels the worn grain of
the porch,
the edges indented, whittled with pocket-
knives and burned from the tip of a
harsh cigarette.
Why are we here? he wants to know,
and how can I feel so old, when the
math makes me so young?
He examines the stains and calluses of
his summer feet
as the minutes drip by, and collect into
the puddle of another well-spent day.

He remembers the previous day, spent
on another porch,
when his bare feet overlapped hers, and
from his lips hung no cigarette.
He was too young, she had said. Thats
what hurt the most to know.
57
Warning Signs
MeIIta Schmeckpeper
Early Sunday morning, hushed
by the air-conditioned chill of her
grandfathers flower shop,
she, no longer a child, but still so young
she has never been kissed,
watches rare blue roses fan open their
fingers
like ultraviolet ghosts.

Amid their more conventional cousins
(Christs Blood red, Virgin white)
they are surreal, and
it would be easy to believe
what her grandmother told her:
Its unnatural.
Dishonest knives and tainted tinted water
made them like this.

The shop is still, its ceiling heavy and
muffling.
A sterile draft from the fans wafts
through her,
muting her thoughts, brushing over them
with pale fingers
until they are almost as smooth and safe
as the beads of a rosary.
Yet there are still half-heard sounds:
children outside playing in the warming
spring morning,
her grandmother calling
Hurry or well be late for Mass!
and a wordless voice humming in the
back of her head,
the notes cradling impossible images
the glowing lady saints and martyrs in
the cathedral
slip free from their stained glass frames,
smiling,
hands offering roses as blue as secret,
as blue as boundless summer sky.
Kathryn Loucks
58
l Could Feel
8aIIy CrawIord
You know how there is an infinite
amount of numbers
that stretch on forever, and then,
in between one and two there is another
infinite amount of numbers again?

Well, driving down that water-logged
street I could feel all of them
along with every pothole between
you and me.
I could feel the moonlight making my
skin blue,
as if it stole the air from my lungs
making room for everything that could
have been done,
stored away with no chance to ever
become.

Above a flooded beach that only asked
us to leave when the sun went behind
the mountains that werent green.
They arent green, theyre blue.
And when the sky is, too, you wonder
where theyve gone.
We lay down to watch them, so its the
only place I feel I belong
because I will always feel out of place
above my feet,
In a mirror-based insanity.
I will always feel the tickle in my throat
that makes me choke
on my hereditary vanity.
And I will always hate why I hate myself.

And enjoy my ability
to decipher the tragedies
that are real.
Because I could feel
because I could feel the impact of the car.
I could feel the recoil of the gun that
would end the excuse for the war.
And as my feet tried to run from what
death was,
my ignorance was already done digesting
his worth because
they were both traveling in circles.
The boy was speeding and the man was
hiding.
And whether they were leaving or they
were just arriving
means little to moonshades of blue.

And thats why I might as well keep
driving towards you.
Even though
I could feel the timeline
I could feel the future
piling promise at my feet.
Telling me to go find people to meet,
go get accomplished so I can feel complete.
Im here to live on a tempo but forget
Im being timed.
Im here to make my own path as I
follow the lines,
And somehow get back after Ive left it
all behind.

Ill take these last few years of clarity
before the faulty finish lines
of the rebound rat races get to me.
Ill look only at the eyes of those who let
loving come easy
and sing only to the ears that will hear
and believe me
and live only with the fear of fears so big
theyll scare me into giving up my ability
to see.

Yes I could feel our counter attack
against the reasons I wouldnt come back
reinforced with ignorance.
I could feel the strength I lack,
and every goddamned pothole on that
street.
I could feel you move to the backseat
of a future, with an awful truth coming
out on repeat
up theres too crowded for me.
59
ObsessiveCompulsive
ChIara Evans
CoIchester HIgh SchooI, Crade 10
Rows of books
Kept perfect, clean, and alphabetical
Spines erect at a 90-degree angle
Thats not the worst here
All is aligned
Dust cannot exist
Everything has no pair: it has to be odd
Just like me
Bed is made and I get it washed every
other day
The mirrors are covered but I cant say
why
The dresser is ridiculously ordered (Im
told)
Colors each with their own
Labels are on every drawer
My room is square, nine-by-nine
When I wash my hands
I get a new bar of soap each time
If I dont open the door three times
before I leave
The world will end, even if you dont
believe
Its the same to close that door
Pictures are straight, frames never hang
crooked
Pictures themselves must be black and
white
The cacophony of colors in the real
world is too bright
I wear only one color a day, mostly
black
Speaking of wardrobe, all is uniform
Just different colors
When I go outside
I carry Purell in hand
To wash away any germs
I step on no cracks, no leaves, or twigs
I cannot go out in the rain
I am obsessive-compulsive for now
My world is organized, color-coded,
straight
Odd, predictable, and square in space
I wasnt always this way
Chaos would reign
I got wet in the rain, stepped on cracks
And I opened doors without closing
them
After you left, the world went in its place
I have my little space
But
Somehow even if I open and close a
door three times
Or wash with new soap each occasion
The covered mirror can only hide me
from myself
Truly, if I must be honest here,
When you moved on and left forever
I became obsessive-compulsive in my
fear
I just cant let the world disappear
Not from you
Night Dancers
CabrIeIIe 8erthIaume
MaIIets 8ay SchooI, Crade 3
Swooping, diving, flying.
Who who, Who who.
They begin their ballet.
Silent they are as they prowl
Through the night.
But at the first crack of dawn,
All do say goodbye
To the graceful night dancers.
60
Kid
]uIIa HancockSong
Pacem LearnIng CommunIty, Crade 9
Editors note: This is fiction.
Sit down.
Youre in trouble, kid. Busted. Grounded. Toast.
Maybe we pushed you forward but its you who crossed the line. Its you
whos been shut up in your room all week doing God-knows-what, coming out
God-knows-when but never when we were around, coming out to eat and use the
bathroom but always slinking back into what you shouldnt have to think of as a
refuge. A refuge from what? Your family?
Look at me when I talk to you. Look. At. Me. What are you hoping, the table will
have more interesting things to say?
I dont know what went wrong with you, kid. You were doing fine with your
classwork, your friends, your attitude, and then you just... retreated. Like a turtle into its
shell. You do not have a shell, okay? Youre a human being and not a turtle, and you
need to act like it because if you keep this up, Ill start feeling like its my fault. Like I
didnt, we didnt, raise you properly.
God knows what youre doing in your room, but you keep the door closed. When
we asked, you said you were cleaning or working, but why do you have the door
closed? Its like you have secrets now, kid, secrets from your family, and I hate that I
dont trust you and you must not trust me and I shouldnt trust you. Thats what I
hate. I hate this back-and-forthing; I hate these circles you drive me and your mother
through.
Look at me, okay? This shouldnt be happening. Why wont you look at me? Im
your goddamn father, and Im not going to hurt you. Toast is a metaphor.
What did I do wrong? Youre supposed to be growing up and youre growing
down. Supposed to be becoming a responsible young adult and instead you do...
nothing. You do nothing, kid, and I should have taught you to do something. You dont
talk; you only eat when we make you, your only friends are your imaginary ones.
Youre a broken child. God, Ive raised a broken child. A vegetable. Toast; youre
already toast. I raised a robot. What did I do wrong? Talk to me. Tell me. Speak up,
Im not the table and my ears are on my head and not the floor. Look at me when Im
talking to you.
Grow better at what you do, kid. I know you have talents because even vegetables
have talents. Get a job, kid. Youre almost old enough, and you need money so when
Im old you can help me out. Make money and help me out.
Why wont you even look at me? Were your goddamn parents, the people who
swear they want to die before you do. You dont talk to us, you dont take our advice,
you dont even trust us.
61
Grow up, kid. Thats what I want. Grow up and grow out of this phase
(godletitbeaphaseandnotsomethingpermanent) and grow into a job and success and
happiness and money.
A parent wants their child to love them. A parent wants their child to not need
them anymore. Stop needing us, kid. We want you to be independent, and in some
ways you are, but we wont let you leave home if you only eat when we tell you to.
Grow out of this house. Study hard now and become somebody important. Dont
forget us. We tried, we tried to raise an unbroken child but your eggshell is cracked
as they come. But remember how hard we tried. I tried to understand you when you
tried to talk to me but it, it, it didnt feel right. Grow up and make money, kid, but
goddamnit, dont forget me. Dont let me become nothing to you.
I was a god in your eyes, kid, and I know thats supposed to change, but not into
this. This cant be right. What did I do?
Dont forget me, kid. Please dont forget me. God, if you forget what Ive sacrificed
for you...
Look at me. Im talking to you and this is goddamn important.
What happened? Youre repelling us now. Blocking us out of your life but were
supposed to be in charge of it.
Dont let me go. Dont let me disappear from you, goddamnit. Im not a god in
your eyes anymore but at least let me be a human.
Look at me, kid. Goddamnit, why wont you look at me?
Look at me.
Look. Goddamn. Up.
Why are you crying?
62
Follow the light, follow it! Now!
Syaoran
I speak emotions, and sometimes words.
Peaches
My extremities are close to numb.
LIza
Inconclusiveness thrives through destitute
writing assignments.
FeIIx the Creat
I wouldnt know (Ive never died).
somebody
It takes two to whisper quietly.
warrIorkItten
You have to break the walls.
IIuIIykIttynInja
I will always hold on. Always.
that wrIter kIddo
What is the time Mr. Wolf?
Pug
Darling, it pretty much never does.
QwertyCIrI
I wish I could tell you.
Nyx
That might be a bit uncomfortable.
gradster1
I know where our dreams go.
kcp
Brick walls can be so forgiving.
8aIIyraee
Lifes like glue; it tastes bad.
LaughIngFacade
I never wanted to go back.
LunaSunset
And then I saw its tail.
whItehaIr
You never left me any stardust.
McWrIter
Can I try that again, please?
AIonewIthFrIends
It is her life, not theirs.
IntrepIdheart
It was probably beautiful I forget.
somebody
I wish someone would answer me.
cIaIrey.bearIe
6 WORDS
On youngwritersproject.org there is often a little widget on the front page where young
writers post their mini-stories, sometimes a sentence, sometimes a paragraph but most
often six words no more, no less. We have a collection of more than 6,000 of them from
the last year or so. Here are some that struck us, with the online usernames of the authors:
63
The truth is always there. Ask.
Anonymous
Can you see it? The world?
IamtIme
Let me figure it out, please.
rIsDoII
We counted down until six, laughing.
DarkDecember
When I was young, I listened.
ZabIra SIIver
The snow fell early that August.
StIIISearchIng
Play with their expectations, my child.
CIrce
Howd you work that one out?
somebodyeIse
That monkey ate my shoe. Again.
TItanIa
Well THAT wasnt what I expected.
EIeanoRooseveItLover
Just toured my future personal hell.
that wrIter kIddo
My white light has gone out.
oIawcb
Mailing herself letters written in cursive.
zzIey
My soul is gone. Im scared.
Anonymous
I die slowly when doing homework.
Nacho
Roosters never made sense in Spanish.
gradster1
Im too tired to be reasonable.
sheIbyncb
64
Student Writers and Artists
Astore, Henry .................................... front cover
Armstrong, |ukas ..........................................39
Avery, Ty|er.....................................................48
Berth|aume, Gabr|e||e .....................................59
Besso, Oass|e ................................................42
Bu||ard, Dest|ny ..............................................53
Bundock, Er|n ................................................11
Bushee, Oa||| ..................................................14
Oampbe||, Addy .............................................56
Oaruso, Samantha .........................................30
Ohen, Just|n ..................................................16
Oonnor, Bethany ............................................46
Oooper, A|exandrea .......................................41
Orawford, Ba||y ..............................................58
Orow|ey, Abby................................................10
Oumm|n, E||zabeth .........................................26
Da||y, A|exa ....................................................47
Dawson, Oory ................................................24
Do|kar, Ka|sang ..............................................21
Dombrosk|, Amanda ......................................41
Duchesneau, ||za ..........................................34
Dundas, |auren .............................................55
Eaton, M|a .....................................................43
Espos|to, lsabe||a ...........................................23
Evans, Oh|ara ................................................59
F|aherty, Oara||ne ...........................................19
Fonta|ne, O||v|a ..............................................29
French, Myrandah ..........................................48
Gar|ety, Da|||n .................................................42
G||bert, Oourtney ...........................................10
G||es, E||za .....................................................49
Hamm, O|ark .................................................52
Hancock-Song, Ju||a .....................................60
Hermanowsk|, Henre .....................................15
H|||, Nora ........................................................29
Ho|schuh, W|||ow ...........................................26
Hughes, Braeden .............................................9
lverson, Br|dget .............................................36
Jackson, Anne ...............................................27
Johnson, Tya .................................................38
Pa|ge Kehoe ....................................................6
Ke||y, O|a|re ....................................................17
Know|es, Oo||een ...........................................50
|ancor, Kay|a .................................................48
|ang|||e, Mary Kate ........................................41
|avo|e, Meghan ...............................................9
|em|eux, Andrew .............................................8
|ong, A|ex|a ...................................................21
|ong, Tay|or ...................................................33
|oucks, Kathryn.............................................57
|ustberg, ||am...............................................53
|ynch, M|chae| ...............................................22
Mahon, Hannah .............................................41
Makar|s, S|erra ...............................................35
McOafferty, Ruby ...........................................45
Mukherjee, Basundhara .................................22
Mum|ey-Dupu|s, A|ex .....................................13
Neme, Jackson .............................................12
O`Br|en, Matt .................................................45
O`Too|e, ||am ................................................15
Parke, Georg|a ...............................................43
Patneaude, Brendan ........................................8
Perry, Oourtney ..............................................20
Perry, Samue| ................................................49
P|nard, Just|n .................................................20
P|nta|r, O||v|a .....................................back cover
Prado, Ohr|stopher ........................................32
Puma, Nata||e ..................................................4
Ray, Jam|e .....................................................27
Redmond, Nata||e ..........................................36
Rob|nson, Sam ..............................................21
Rob|nson, Sam ..............................................44
Ro|, Jason ........................................back cover
Russe||, Becca ...............................................53
Russo, Emma ................................................16
Rutenbeck, Anna ...........................................31
Safford, Morgan .............................................18
Saeng-em, Art ...............................................48
Schmeckpeper, Me||ta ...................................57
Se||ars, A|yx ...................................................18
Seman, Hudson .............................................27
Sen|or, Nata||e ................................................23
Sm|th, Kat|e .....................................................7
Sm|th, Ohr|ssy ...............................................49
Sopchak, Emma ............................................25
Stad|er, |||y ....................................................40
Su|||van, Magg|e .............................................51
Swanke, Samue| ............................................55
Temp|eton, M|m| ............................................42
Turner, Katy ...................................................25
s|e-Wo|fe|, lzzy...............................................6
va||ey, Rebecca ..............................................34
Ward, Zach ......................................................7
We||s, Sarah ..................................................11
Wh|te, Oh|oe ..................................................14
Woodruff, Oaro|yn ..........................................15
Woodward, lzz|ey ..........................................54
Wunrow, Ju||ette Rose ...................................12
Zaber, Samue| ...............................................28
Zamar|ppa, Ohr|stopher .................................13
PrInted by Queen CIty PrInters
SpecIaI thanks to AIan SchIIIhammer Ior Queen CIty`s contrIbutIon to thIs AnthoIogy
Oover photo by Henry Astore
He who holds on, but expects the

world to change
always seems to rise before the sun,
and watch it in exchange.
In the morning glory though, the
color truly prances,
and with the eternal gaze, real also,
he dances.

YWP Anthology 3

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YWP Anthology 3

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Anthology 3

Young Writers Project

I will never be anything

He who holds on, but expects the

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