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.

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Jun 04
MusicLove81's picture

My first Ukulele

"Come on!" Jan yelled.
"Mmmhmmm" I pushed my blonde hair into a tight braid as I always do.
We headed down the street until we reached the park. Jan took a blind fold out of her pocket and carefully tied it over my eyes. "Jan! It's my birthday! Don't suffacate me! I'm not even 11 yet!"
between the bandanna I saw a small shiny grin from Jan's part. We walked down hrough the park until we reached the place. Jan pulled the cloth off and an uncontrolable smile spread across my face. In front of me was a picnic spread and blanket with a ukulele neatly placed in the middle. The uke was neon green (my favorite color) and it had a small yellow bow. "Jan....thank you" 
Jan smiled. We sat down and ate my favorite foods which consisted of Iced tea and fudge pops. I tried to strum my uke and Jan nodded when I got it right (at least she tried to know when it was right). I knew this was a day to remember. The day I got my first ukulele.
Jun 04
poem 5 comments challenge: General
haileychase's picture

If I Die In A School Shooting

​If I die in a school shooting,
politicize my death.
Fight for our safety,
turn my funeral into a protest.

If I die in a school shooting,
I will never play sports again.
My goals, my hopes, my dreams,
will all come to an end.

If I die in a school shooting,
battle until students and teachers are safe.
Don't let my death become a statistic,
help kids go to school unafraid.

If I die in a school shooting,
I will never become a doctor.
I will never graduate high school,
and my parents will no longer have a daughter.

If I die in a school shooting,
my little brother will become an only child.
Fight for all the lost lives,
and make change be required.

If I die in a school shooting,
turn my ashes into a book.
And write the story
of how my life should have looked.

If I die in a school shooting,
deliver my heart to the NRA
Jun 03

Child Delivery Service

Me and my wife are talking about having kids
but child birth is just so taxing
and the world is too overpopulated
this planet doesn’t need anymore humans
so we thought that a robot child would be better.
Scrolling through new products on amazon
there are many different choices
each one comes with a variety of interesting features
they are quite expensive
but I have a gift card, so it shouldn’t be too bad.
I made my choice, a girl droid, about 11 years old
it comes with an artificial memory chip
it won’t even know it’s a robot
so it will adjust to our new family very quickly.
In a couple weeks the parts will show up in the mail.
We’ll have to put it together ourselves.
Worth the effort, a perfect replica
It’ll be better than a real child.
Having kids is such a tiring commitment
but when you get tired of a robot kid,
you can just turn it off.
Doesn’t have to be fed either
May 30
poem 0 comments challenge: General

Too Soon

the last darkness
you left
too soon,
like the moon
behind a cloud.

May 28


not awake
just can’t sleep

standing at the edge of an ocean with two ropes around my chest
one to the beach
another to the sea

as i pull they tighten around my lungs
choked by decisions
no energy to do anything but resist.

i’ve been in this limbo for weeks
gasping for breath

the weekdays are draining
weeknights are plagued with caffeinated fatigue
lying in my bed pleading sleep to wash over me
but sleep likes to come early in the morning
giving me a few hours to scrutinize today and worry about tomorrow

i’m being shouted at to come back to the beach
but the cold ocean laps at my feet;

please let me breathe
May 27


May 27
MusicLove81's picture

Feels Right

Let the music
take you
to another
keep your
heart beating
eyes open
don't ever walk
just keep dreaming
keep moving
leaving pressure behind
lights gleaming
this feeling 
feels right
May 27


Her eyes softly close,
Her lips are red and bitten raw
From hours of debating with herself.
She runs a finger slowly over her bottom lip,
Trying to remember how he had felt.
The mirror she looks into reflects her image
but is cracked in places,
the kind of broken that isn't
The kind of broken that is
May 25
poem 0 comments challenge: General

Nos Faltan 43

Blood summers in the deep parts of mexico
are the reason I only visit in the spring.
They call them blood summers
because of how the air gets thick
and how the children get stolen.

I can either write or they can bleed
with the fragile heartbeats they have left.
Pain has always taken us for weak
and I am weak
so I write.

Sometimes they take them from school,
or from home, or from their father's arms.
And everyone is alone because
they don't get amber alerts.
Just death ones.

I can either write or they can cry
with leaking eyes we have yet to see with.
Memories gathered in the corners
dripping down our cheeks until we feel lonely
and I am lonely
so I write.

Have you seen the marches?
The charred paper with the faces etched in?
The billboards clustered on the highway?
The way they don't let go of their children?
May 23

Artisan Textiles

I’m obsessed with words,
scratching mental letters into threaded blue jeans,
squeaky wooden table tops,
barren midnight swaths of bed sheets soaked in ink:

A cloth woven on a mental loom,
frameworks of English threaded with fine threads of phrases,
each spun of intertwining tufts of verbage
dyed to minute vibrancy by the arrangement of 26 simple shapes.

The cloth often likens to a photograph, 
broken down to pixels,
numbered quantities of red, green, and blue.
The visual cloth of
symmetrical water or geometric fire:
Language of paradoxical symbolism,
existing in the Duat of expression at once
sliding in and out of focus with the earth.
A conceptualization of a pinch of the world.

Music is woven of many materials,
of flowing vibrations which conjure
engraved images of sparotic movement;
a soaring dance of invisible energy.