attic

In an attic I saw a box,
not that big,
But not that small it was old,
But not that old,
it was just stitting there,
not open, just there
Waiting,
Wating someone to open it,
I walked over to the box,
I opened it,
What i found was:
A very old doll it was dusty
from being left out
before it got put in the box,
I think it was old,
and it went every where
its owner went, Read more »

The Wooden Box
by Kaylah Sharpe

The rusty lock clicks as I turn the old key,
and I slowly open the wooden box cautiously.
It’s dark in the attic; there’s only one dim light.
It casts shadows on the walls so late at night.
I examine a fancy carving on the inside of the box
that says “Property of Stanley Fox”.
I question who this Stanley could be,
was he someone I knew possibly? Read more »

Luke Harrington ran up the stairs of the abandoned old house, excited about what he was going to find. While he was walking in the woods this morning, he saw a large, almost mansion-sized house in the middle of the woods. Most of the windows were shattered, vines were growing on the outside, the paint was peeling off, and there was no sound coming from the inside of the house. Read more »

By Greta L.A. Zarro
Rice Memorial High School, Grade 9 Read more »

I woke up on one rainy spring day and decided that it was time I did some spring cleaning. I worked away most of the day cleaning from the basement up. It was about three o’clock by the time I got to the attic and I was worn out. So I started moving this and that. I threw out some old chairs and then I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. Read more »

An Attic Full of Answers Read more »

I walked up the rickety stairs to the attic. They creaked with each step and I silently prayed that they would hold my weight. The stifling heat of the hazy summer afternoon made every movement laborious. A combination of dust and a musty smell caught in my throat and I coughed. Nobody had been up here in a while. Read more »

I walked up the rickety stairs to the attic. They creaked with each step and I silently prayed that they would hold my weight. The stifling heat of the hazy summer afternoon made every movement laborious. A combination of dust and a musty smell caught in my throat and I coughed. Nobody had been up here in a while. Read more »

By Heather Sheltra
Rice Memorial High School, Grade 9 Read more »

There it sits the mysterious wooden box that I found under the floorboards in the attic of our new house. Well the house was new to us, but it was built in the early 1800s. I wonder who this box originally belonged to. Could it have belonged to a General in the Civil War? Was this where he kept bullets or the picture of his family while he was away at war? Read more »

Have you ever found a box or something like that in your, or a relatives attic? Read more »

By Elena Eames
Dummerston Middle School, Grade 8

An old box in my attic
filled with memories
joyful and harsh times
crammed into a tiny box
sitting in my attic.

I crawled through the stuffy heat, my arms and legs sticky like honey. It sat in the center of the small attic as if it wanted me to wipe off the years of dust and pry it open. Sunlight poured through the tiny window illuminating my newly found treasure. An intricate design was cut into the red wood, an expensive old box, no doubt. I gingerly traced the carved swirls and patterns thinking of who had cherished this box before me, who had hidden their secrets inside it and who had lived and loved and packed their life in a box to be found by me. Read more »

By Izzy Moody
Monkton Central School, Grade 5

My attic is where I go when I need to think. It’s a room of inspiration. A cupboard packed full of fresh stories. I like to sit in an old wooden rocking chair in the corner, by the window. I call it my rainy day chair. I sit there and look out the window onto the coloring maple trees. It’s like looking onto an artist’s palette. I can sit there for hours on end and not write a single word. Writing takes time. You need to observe and think. You need to process your ideas. Other times I write everything that’s on my mind and transfer it all onto paper. Read more »

Up in the Attic

By Sarah Ashby
BFA-Fairfax, Grade 8

Up in the attic
So cold and dark,
The small flame of my lantern
Creates a small spark

Who knows what I'll find
A treasure, perhaps?
Or just an old blanket
Where the cat used to nap

I see rows of boxes
Stacked up high
More and more boxes
Piled high as the sky

But in the corner
Something catches my eye Read more »

This Old Box

By Alyssa Miller
BFA-Fairfax, Grade 8

Once this old box
Sat on a bed,
What was in it?
A small gold head
Purple and gold,
This old item is quite old
"What was it," you say?
"Oh yes," I'll say.
"I got in in the war,
On my very last day.
I walked up on stage,
They gave me the box,
The gave me a flag,
I got all my items,
In a green bag.
At the end of the day, Read more »

By Mattie Hayes
BFA-Fairfax, Grade 8 Read more »

The Forgotten Box

By Taylor Trubia
BFA-Fairfax, Grade 8 Read more »

The Box

By Kalinda Santor
BFA-Fairfax, Grade 8

You are dark
Unknown riddle to a forgotten past
Rediscovered in an attic
A secret meant to last.

In the heart of Vermont
In the depth of the woods
Down an abandoned path
Where a cottage once stood.

Under beams, a fallen roof
Where dust and cobwebs lie.
Four wooden sides bound
With a lock to preserve the
Mystery inside.

Cannon Ball

By Allie Minor
BFA-Fairfax, Grade 8 Read more »

Letters from Great Grandpa

By Leah Stanley
BFA-Fairfax, Grade 8 Read more »

By Liz Adams
BFA-Fairfax, Grade 8

Cold Vermont attic
all alone
with a little box
to whom did it belong?
all dusty and dirty
locked up tight
what is inside of it?
on this cold, winter night
the little mice scurry.
I wonder if they know
the majesty it holds,
this little box
that's locked up tight
on a cold, cold
winter night.

Box sitting on the floor,
Once forgotten,
Now no more,

Once this box was gilt with gold,
Now it’s gilt with slime and mold,

Sitting on this floor of mine,
Mighty, strong, contents divine,
It tells a tale of the sands of time,

Of back before the world turned bad,
Back when people were happy, glad,

A child’s doll,
Some toys for Bob,
Gum sitting in a glob, Read more »

By Moya Cavanagh
Browns River Middle School, Grade 8

Ho hum
The pocket sings,
Off to wander
The world.
Nestled in
Folds of grace,
Silken gold
The pocket
Waits,
A sanctuary for
Little things
Ribbons
Gloves
A piece of string
The pocket is home
To every thing.
Flying with
Spinning tiers of
Lace,
The pocket is
A special place,
A wormhole between
Time,
Generations slide by Read more »

Grandpa’s Attic

By Will Kay
Shelburne Community School, Grade 6

Today the most unusual thing happened. It all started with the trip to Grandpa’s. Me, Mom, Dad and my little brother Bobby were cramped into our tiny car for seven hours. Read more »

The Attic

By Emily Coon
Mount Mansfield Union High School, Grade 12

She breaks the cradle
for firewood,
splintering along seams,
rocking horse dreams
melting away
beneath heat’s lick.
She folds up red jumpsuits,
places bobble hats
quietly
inside
an oaken box
her father left.
She turns a key
swift click
of oblivion.
She lifts it to a high shelf
above the window
worn leather toes
stretching up
as she caresses its lock
and hinges.
It sits, stunted
embryo of memory,
a seed entombed
in its white paper
packet, waiting
to grow.

The swirling scent of musty hay nearly knocks me over as I open the door to the attic above the abandoned barn across the street. The smell slowly disperses throughout the room as I move forward. The floorboards groan with the stress of placed upon them with every step I take. The hay piled up in along the sides that once climbed up to the roof is now matted down near the floor. Read more »

Attic Read more »

The Box

In east Vermont it was a rainy day
And Kyler knew it was here to stay
No one was coming home till four
So he decided to explore

Up to the Attic Kyler went
And thats where the rest of the day was spent
Around the lampshades and the plaster fox
He stumbled across a great big box

Very little did Kyler know
The secrets and surprises the box could show Read more »

Cigar Box Memories
By Sarah Sturm Read more »

The delicate box sits, silent, screaming, waiting. It is the color of burnt umber, coming smoothly out of the acrylic tube. The maple wood is decorated by aging dust and a dull gloss. Was the finish tenderly applied the same year Nelson Mandela was let out of jail, or the year AIDS finally had a cure? Or was it when Elvis first sang Hound Dog? What about the year Roosevelt finally left office? Read more »