radio commentaries

My Teacher
By Rebecca Landell
I can still see her there, on the front steps, standing by her son. She wasn't beautiful. No, she wasn't beautiful, but she was lovely. Her arms would be crossed, her carrot-red hair brushing her shoulders, and she would be saying - as she always did when I thanked her at the end of a lesson - "It's a pleasure."

This piece, recorded in studio by Colin Doherty, was aired on Vermont Public Radio in the summer of 2007 as part of an ongoing series with YWP students entitled, "My Life." For guidelines and other examples of student work, click here.

By Colin Doherty
Champlain Valley Union High School, Grade 12

It is cold in this empty hallway. There is too much white here. The walls, the sheets, the ceiling, all white. After a while, I start to forget that other colors exist at all. Then I see blood, and yellow tubing, and syringes full of every color imaginable. All I can smell is cleaning chemicals and the faintest lingering scent of whatever they cleaned up. I don't want to know what that might be. The hall stretches endlessly. I know that I am only feet from the door I'm looking for, but time stretches by as though I'm miles away, because I know she is dying." Read more »

Molly read her piece on Vermont Public Radio earlier this year. For other examples of pieces aired on Vermont Public Radio, click here.

Trust
By Molly Ziegler
Hartford High School, Grade 11

Winter was never my favorite season. All of the inconveniences that come with the season make it hard for me to truly enjoy it, like icy roads and frostbite. Don't get me wrong, I never thought that snow was ugly. I just don't like the consequences of its beauty. Read more »

This piece was recorded and aired on Vermont Public Radio on Dec. 11, 2006. Interested in participating and recording your essay for broadcast? Click here and read Prompt #17 -- "My Life" for more. But don't wait! Submit your essays now! Click here for guidelines

By Danielle Reigle
Middlebury Union High School

Two years away
I can see it now . . .
Saturday morning. Nine fifty.
My mind is clouded over.
The man with the gray mustache says,
“Upstairs
third door on the right
number 117.” Read more »