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.


Nov 28


I AM AFRAID OF BEING ALONE. I know it sounds ridiculous, but early on, me and my twin brother Owen were inseparable. Gradually we got used to the other always being there, so now, even though I am with my brother less and less, it is still strange to be alone. I remember before we had a dog, and Owen was still working at school, I would come home and within 15 to 20 minutes, the house would take its toll and I would spend half an hour just to calm myself down before I started working again. I am not afraid of the dark, but afraid of not seeing what is around me and looking at nothing, feeling all alone. Have you ever turned around while alone somewhere, feeling eyes piercing your neck?That feeling flows me when I am alone. To me, being alone feels like nobody has got your back nobody to help, nobody has ever been there to help.
Nov 28

1, 2, 3... You're Out

There is no definition for it,
But I can assure you it does exist.
“Batter up”,
The umpire calls out to the on-deck circle.
 An exuberant amount of thoughts race through your head.
Is his first pitch to me going to be a curve ball?
A slider?
His 90 mile an hour fastball?
You don’t know the answer to the questions until you experience the moment.
The first pitch wizzes by,
You don’t even know what pitch it was because it was so fast.
That’s one down,
You have two more chances at the least to make this at bat worth it.
“Strike two!”
Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the right pitch for you,
But you know you’re screwed now.
The count is 0 and 2.
This is it,
You best make your move now or that’s it.
With the swing of the bat,
You miss the ball completely with an off-speed pitch.
“Strike three!”
Just like that,
Nov 27
mbrookens's picture

My Star

thinking ahead
is the scariest thing
for me
a day is managable
but I can't imagine
living the rest
of my life
without you
Nov 23


Nov 23


Nov 23


Nov 19
essay 0 comments challenge: Road

The Third Path

The old dusty lane wandered idly along the hillside and disappeared over the way. An old yellow double dotted line in sore need of repainting dallied loyally along, splitting the road down the center. It showed which cars, cranking exhaust, would discover what lay on the other side of those hills, and which cars had seen it all and had come back to tell the tale - perhaps they had retreated in fear. There could have been water springs spurting joyous burbles of life, nymphs skipping in the lush grass, and daffodils nodding happily along the roadside. Or, over the hill it could be just as dusty as the other side. Perhaps there was nothing but soda bottles tossed from windows, or memories of shadows of wild beasts scampering over the road just before a car came roaring past. Alongside the old dusty lane an old dry creek croaked over the stones and parted to follow where the hills dipped in a deep valley.
Nov 17


The sound of my leather boots crunching rocks on pavement as I walk down the silent street.
The soft clinking of my jacket zipper as I shift to look behind me.
The shuffle of my jeans as they rub together as I put one foot in front of the other.
The locks of hair that fall from my bun caresse my face.
The strap of my camera around my neck chaffing with every step.
The bitter wind licking at my nose and cheeks.
Turning the places it touches rosey red.
My pale hands red at the fingertips against the pastel blue of my nail polish.
The busy world around me falls silent as I trudge forward on my adventure.
The smell of early morning rain fall still lingers as the sun threatens to dip behind the mountains.
My quick steps soon slow to a stop.
I turn to face the beautiful sunset before me.
I allow the golden rays of warm sun to run through my veins, enlightening my spirits.
Nov 17
jake.dearruda's picture

The Chair

“Open up!”

Moments later, a door creaked open from the outside. A tall, thin masked man and his more plump henchman peered in, both dressed in black from head to toe.

“Nothing’s in here. We can stash him in this chair.” The henchman examined it closely before continuing. “The wood looks like it’s rotting. It won’t break, will it?”

“Shouldn’t.” The two men wrestled with their bag, which was at least six feet long.

“Why is it tied so tight?”

“Dude. Really? There’s a dead body in here. What do you think, we should’ve carried him piggyback or in a giant ziploc bag or something? We can’t have anyone figure out it’s him.”


“Yeah, you better be. I don’t want to have to strap you to this chair instead of the dead guy.”

“Sorry boss.”

“Here, prop him up a bit, try not to make it look obvious.”

“Gotcha. That should do it.”
Nov 17
Dayne.greineder's picture


Gentle wind,
Pushing through the open door.

It rocks on the splintered floor,
Alone in silence,
It waits.

Like a dog, waiting at the door,
Longing to have a companion,
To fill the silence with laughter.

Hand crafted,
Love and care embedded within the wood.
It rocks the day away,
Waiting upon the return of a warm butt.