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.




 


 
Mar 26

Platforms

I guess where I am in life at this point is at a station. Lets call this station platform A.  Here at platform A is a sea of faces, all of which blur past me with one face being indistinguishable from the next. I hope that you can see that it’s quite easy for one to feel like they are drowning when it takes so much energy to stay afloat. But as I’m standing here at terminal A I scan my surroundings until my gaze meets yours. I see you standing at platform B, with a look in your eye unlike any other I’ve known. All of the sudden I want to throw myself across these tracks and take every piece of you into my arms.
Mar 26

Flower, Flower

Flower, Flower

Summer is coming, coming, and flowers will be blooming, blooming. 
Mar 26

Here and There


Every drop of oil
Burned 
In the multitude of American cars,

Is a drop of water

Drowning  
Innocent island homes.

Every re-microwaved cup of coffee, 
Is a contribution to a 
Record- high heat wave,
 
In a place 
That may not even use electricity.

The disaster television shows
That some endlessly watch
Are 
Lived 
By others who never picked up a remote.

Should it be 
That because some of us 
want quick transportation, 
Others lose their freedom?
  
Should some 
Enjoy a hot beverage, 
while others are deprived 
Of the life giving element
Water?

Should the happiness
Here
Cause misery 
There?

 
Mar 26

The Universe's Waltz

hearing your name makes me panic
I feel heat crawl up my throat
clawed tendrils burning every spot of flesh it digs into
my stomach turns sideways
and the acid burns

I close my eyes
pathetic dams hoping to stop a river
and I see you

hiding in the corner of your room
a cloak of shadows
the purple lamp casts light wildly
the salt lamp cycling through the colors of the rainbow
and thick clouds of rose incense

the record player quietly droning some record I never really cared for
spinning around its center point
like some unknown system revolving around a brilliant silver star

it was a waltz
not really but in three four time regardless.

if I pull your spare sweater around me tighter it feels like a second home
these were my weekends
absentmindedly listening to records and callused fingers dancing on metal strings
while a guitar sang
Mar 25

The most amazing thing

The most amazing thing has been given to you.
It arrived the same time you did.
You've been together since the start of your life.
No one could separate you two.
If one of you was lost, the other always helped them to find their way back.
It's something always with you, it goes wherever you do.
You can't really carry it in your pocket, but I suppose you could try.
You can't fit it in a backpack, but it'd be worth a shot.
It doesn't take up much space, but it's the size of the entire universe.
This most amazing thing
this beautiful, wonderful, magnificent thing
is your own imagination.
The greatest invention on Earth,
is you.
Mar 24
mythicalquill's picture

Family Connections

I just got off the phone with my two grandparents. We don’t talk often, so it was a nice surprise to hear from them.
Out of the blue, my mom knocked on my door and handed me the phone. I answered.
From the other end, my grandpa responded with, “We saw your article, and we’d love to talk about our family names!”
Now, they were referring to the writing piece I did for YWP that had been published in my local paper. It was titled Name #2,432, and welcomed a baby to earth while discussing the importance (or unimportance?) of names. And my grandparents had a lot to say on the subject. How they wanted their children’s names simple, easy to pronounce, without strange spellings; Anne, Matthew, Tom. How my great-grandfather had wanted a son called James, so when my grandma arrived, she was named Jamie. We talked for a while; they were full of anecdotes and interesting facts about our family’s nominal traditions.
Mar 24
fiction 0 comments challenge: Attic
keelan durham's picture

The Attic

I walk up the stairs of my grandparents house the house is big and has many rooms when I get to the top of the stairs I take a right, walk ten feet and then look up there in the ceiling is the opening to the attic. I pull the string hanging from the ceiling and the stairs rumble down. I climb up them. It is mid summer and around 80 degrees but inside the attic it is at least 90. The attic smells of old books and is full of stuff. The items strewn around are varied there are boxes from the first computer my grandparents ever brought to school work that belonged to my aunts and uncles and of course books lots of old books. I walk around, the ceiling is low so I have to duck my head to avoid being smaked by the old roofing nails poking through the roof. I walk over to closet in the middle it is small but big enough to stand in. I get inside the room and my eyes instantly fall on a little chest,curious I walk closer and find that it has my name on it.
Mar 24
amireland's picture

Mourning Summer

Frost.
It eats the leaves at my feet,
suffocates the grass in my yard,
and sours the last few vegetables in mother’s garden.

Wind.
It whispers summer’s eulogy with its icy breath,
bites my face despite my sweater’s shelter,
and broods about winter’s inevitable return.

Trees.
They embrace the sky,
battle the wind in its own domain,
and protect me from autumn’s threats.

Leaves.
They chase each other to the ground,
play games with the breeze,
and scatter like my thoughts.

 
Mar 24
fiction 0 comments challenge: Attic
l.sleeper's picture

The Attic

I decided that I would drive over to my grandmothers house to help her move the junk from the basement to the attic. After talking to her, I went up to the attic to make some room for everything that was down in the basement. When I was moving around some boxes, I saw a very old brown book that was covered in dust. I carefully picked up the book and blew away the dust. It was titled "My Life". I opened the book and saw a picture that has been in our family for generations, the first picture of my grandma as a baby. Then I turned a few pages and saw her when she was five, and learning about seashells and why they are shaped in so many different ways. Then, a thought came into my head, and I flipped to the back of the book. There I found page 96, which is how old she is now. I got sad at first, because I thought that that meant that my grandmother was going to die soon. But when I looked at the page, I realized that she just hadn't written the rest of her story yet.
Mar 24
Abigail.hebert's picture

Home

 
                        I like sitting on the brown leather seats after a rifle match taking in the warmth from the wood stove, waiting with anticipation to see my scores. When I am riding in my coach’s old red Ford pickup truck up the narrow dirt road and we pull into the range for practice, I feel the most like me and I know I’m going to do what I love. I am supported and loved by my team, that is a true family, and the glue holding us all together, a sweet old man in his 70s with balding white hair and a passion for coaching. When I get to the range, I change out of my high-waisted skirt and tall, black, leather boots and into my stiff, suede, leather, red white and blue shooting pants and matching jacket, throwing my hair into a ponytail. I become a different side of myself. I share the whole experience with my dad and the passion we share for the sport is what makes it all that it is.

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