YWP Content Published in Newspapers

Young Writers Project is most grateful to its eight newspaper partners who publish your work on a regular basis. Weekly: Burlington Free Press and The Valley News. Monthly: St. Albans Messenger, Brattleboro Reformer, Rutland Herald (and Reader), Times Argus (and Extra), Bradford Journal Opinion and Charlotte News.

The papers have a combined circulation of nearly 75,000 and the papers are read by well over 150,000 people.

YWP staff, volunteers and Community Leaders from this site help select work.  If you'd like to help with this process, contact Susan Reid.


Oct 16
Graceful's picture

Just as Bright

          Her smiles were radiant

 Her eyes were clear

          Her hair was flying.

 No longer tucked behind her ear.

        The day was a wet rainy


 The clouds were a dark grey


         She kept on shining as bright as any other


Oct 16
Barciaf's picture

The Ski Weekend

Zippin and zoomin straight through the snow

Put on my boots and watch me go

The snow is very deep

I wake up early when the whole world is still asleep

And when i'm chilly to the socks

I run around like a snowy fox

I smell the waffles straight from the press

I zoom past the lines like i'm playing chess

I do my tricks to try and impress

The weekend is the time, no school! No homework! And no stress!

But suddenly monday rolls around and makes you feel depressed.

Oct 15


I cut through my spiraling, twisting, coalescing thoughts by turning my attention to my phone.
I press the small button to wake it up.
I look at the time.


I turn again, this time away from my phone, and the thoughts come back.
Foggy, confused, uncontrollable.
I think about every action I took today
And how I could have done things differently
Said things in other ways
Left people alone for certain amounts of times.
It feels like I could think about every single thing I did for hours and hours and get no answers,
No conclusions.

I’d have to do something else.

I fumble around with small objects
I tidy the space around me
I shift a glass just a little to the right
I glance at my phone.
I hit the small button, and the phone lights up.
I see the time.



I pick up my phone and text the person I need answers from.
Oct 12


"You're a different soul aren't you?"
  I shift my gaze up from the cracked sidewalk to meet the gaze of the man with the guitar. His dark chocolate brown eyes trailing over my face, and body, as if reading into my soul. I nod in response to his question, glancing back down to the ground, watching the crisp autumn leaves swirl around my feet.
  "I thought so" he replied, returning his gaze to his guitar, plucking the strings in a soft melody. I turn my back and begin to walk down the sidewalk, my feet creating a melody of their own, my heart creating the beat. 
  It was true, I was differnt. Maybe it was my beet red hair that implied I was different. Maybe he could tell by that array of freckles that danced across my face. Perhaps it was the way I walk, cautiously. As though avoiding stepping on shards of shattered glass. Which, I suppose in some ways, I was.
Oct 12
mat.the.man's picture

Your Falling

 Your Falling

Feel the cold breeze in your hair.
Feel the cold breeze on your face.
Hear its howling screams.
You can feel the presence of a dark spirit washing over the land.
It affects you.  
This is your first autumn.
Your spirit is the howling wind.
Its screams are screams of terror.
Halloween is near.
It crawls out of its grave every year.
You can't stand the smell of all this life dying.
Everything is starting to hide.
Then its happens you fall.
You to succumb to its spell it grabs you it flings you through the air.
You are just a mere seed.  
You are torn away from your home.
You are placed in a new land.
Everything looks different.
Then a squirrel picks you up and buries you near its home.
You think it's all over.
When it's just the beginning of your life.

You thought you would be there forever.
Oct 12
laurenwwright's picture


As the leaves start to color the trees,
her hair falls long with rays of burnt orange, golden yellow, and bright red.
The crisp air blows across her face,
changing her sunkissed to fair. 
Leaving the apples of her cheeks blush, and tip of her nose rosy. 
Her light brown freckles covering her nose,
upper cheeks, and polka-dotted on her forehead;
turn burnt orange, reflecting the golden sparkle
in her emerald eyes. 

Her plump soft pink lips, set warm on her ashy face.
Like stepping into a warm house,
with smells of vanilla and cinnamon,
while the fire cracks in the background. 
The fingertips of her pale hands,
turn light red as she catches a falling leaf 
in her palms. 

He stands in awe as he looks at her
through the breach in the trees.
He steps through the breach and calls out, "What's your name?" 
Her glossy eyes meet his through the crisp wind, 
Oct 11

i fell in love with your hair

i fell in love with your hair, 

the way it smelled on Sunday morning,

just before your coffee and right after your shower. 

But now i realize that it wasn’t you I loved, 

at least not at the end. 

At the end, i fell in love with your shampoo, and the memories the smell held. 

But just not....

Oct 11

Mother Natures Vision

    It's hard to go by a new identity every season. You can only have the same friends once a year because if they ever found out what happened to me during the rest of it, they would never speak a word to me again.

Four names,

Four styles,

Four bodys,

Four personalities.

    In Winter I am Winter Winds. My skin changes into a pale gleaming white color. My eyes Ice blue, cold to the touch. My hair a bleach blonde in a messy big loose dutch braid. I’m curvy, thick if you will but not chubby nor skinny. I am shy and harsh, telling the deepest truths for the most ignorant people. I attract the most saddened souls with the kisses of a thousand snow storms. A dusty pink caresses the apples of my puffy cheeks. They are warm even in the cold of my frozen heart.

           Three names,

           Three styles,

           Three bodys,

           Three personalities.
Oct 11
fiction 1 comment challenge: Almost
Ice Blink's picture


The scene in front of her was almost perfect. Almost.

Uncle Jack smiles as his fingers fly over the black and white keys,
the others clapping along to the funky rhythm,
their feet caught  up in the river of sound,
legs competing with each other as the song comes to a close.

As a new tune begins, this time a sad old classic,
she thinks about her grandfather,
the lively, sage old man she remembers,
now seemingly just a wisp of smoke in the chimney.
 He used to have this saying; "Music is like a Hurricane,
it picks you up like a leaf and once you're in its hand, theres no leaving until the storm is over."

That was before.
Before the tiniest hopeful hint of a smile was the only indication that he was still the spirited man he once was.
Tonight is missing something....

It's his laugh.
Oct 09
hmseymour's picture


the blue bird sings at the top of his lungs,
and I wonder if he ever tires
or gets bored
or realizes that his constant tweeting is pointless.
the golden retriever trots along his daily route,
attached to a short red leash.
I wonder if he ever resents
that short red leash
for straining him when he simply wants to be free.
the man travels back and forth to work everyday;
an everlasting routine.
he becomes exhausted 
and bored
and resents his choices and his life/
I wonder if he will ever try to end
this seemingly never ending routine.
I sure hope so...