Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages Vermont and New Hampshire students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences in newspapers, before live audiences and on web sites, youngwritersproject.org, vtdigger.org, vpr.net and cowbird.com. Young Writers Project also publishes a monthly digital magazine, The Voice. YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing.
Many local writers were included in this year’s anthology, a collection of the best writing and photography submitted to Young Writers Project during the school year. Here is a sample:
i.
I have too many big feelings and too many small words.
ii.
Sometimes they break out of my skin,
bleeding black ink on the paper.
iii.
Every time I write it hurts,
and I don’t know where these words come from.
They are not my words
iv.
These words hurt others
more than they hurt me,
but painful words beg to be spoken
more than they can be shut up.
v.
They tell me I am smart
but I do not know what I am doing right
because they tell me to learn from my mistakes
and I cannot tell if I am even trying —
and that’s too easy to count as living.
vi.
I want to tell people things, everything,
and even though it is hard, I try
because I do not try hard enough everywhere else,
so at least I can try to be honest.
Even though I do not even want my thoughts,
they are still mine, so I must keep them.
vii.
I feel too much. I feel too little.
And it all comes out at once
like a messy flood of tears and sighs.
I do not like how I am not me.
I do not like how I am not trying to be me.
I try to change but I like myself the way I am,
at least I think so, but I am never sure.
viii.
I dream too hard, too far,
always chasing, never followed.
One thing leads to another and
I am left behind again in the dust,
watching others live better than I.
But my head will not come out of the clouds
and I wonder how other dreamers
do not trip every time they think bigger.
Go. Go faster and stronger.
I can do better, and I will.
Compete with myself, not the world.
Make sure it’s finished, not done.
Let me. Let me tell you at 4 years old that I am right and you are wrong.
“No, Mom, you can’t brush my hair for the next two years, but I won’t either.
Also, I will never do this math, and you can’t make me.”
I knew. I knew when my mom was sick
and she never had to ask me when her head needed shaving.
Here is that cup of tea you were wishing for.
Yes, I know what you need.
What if? What if it’s not what they wanted?
And it doesn’t work out?
What if you leave me,
and the engine of that plane fails,
and I never see you again.
Go, let me, I knew. But what if?
Or what if I let go?
On the morning of my little brother’s seventh birthday, I woke him before dawn, coaxed him from his bed, and took him out back to the woods to go flying rabbit hunting. I dressed him in soft black clothes. He looked like a particularly small ninja. I even let him wear my leather moccasins that I had bought at the gift shop last year. I told him to be quiet. And sure enough, he was quiet. I handed him a burlap sack to catch the flying rabbits in. Everyone knows that’s how you catch them, after all.
I pushed open the screen door. The air outside smelled like mud and moon and mystery, and I smiled at his goofy, little face as he sucked it all into his lungs. And we went into the woods to catch a flying rabbit.
“There.” I pointed at a knot of grass by the base of an ancient oak.
“I see it!”
I put a hand gently over his mouth. “Quiet. It’ll hear us.”
We crept up to the knot of grass, he grinning all the way, and threw the burlap sack over it. I pinched the top closed tightly so it couldn’t escape. I handed him the sack. He took it eagerly in his red mitten and held it up to his face.
“We caught one!” he said breathlessly.
I held back a laugh at his silly, silly face.
“We sure did!”
Inside the bag, something bulged out a little. Then it moved, straining against the burlap’s tight weave. My little brother dropped the bag, and from the fraying top burst a feathery white wing. Then another. Then a little cotton ball of a tail went soaring past the moon. And the bag was empty.
And a rabbit feather, soft and downy white, lay nestled on the ground.
Congratulations! We are calling to inform you that you have won! To claim your prize you must report to the nearest high school immediately. Upon your arrival you will encounter
overly enthusiastic teachers
crying females
fist fights
and last, but not definitely not least, homework!
We suggest you see a psychologist to help you cope with the heightening levels of happiness you’ll experience here. High school is the perfect place to forget about all your problems — because all you will be able to think about is homework.
For the ultimate high school experience, we encourage you to spend your entire weekends at home studying. After you complete high school, you might find yourself craving more work. If you do find yourself in this situation, be sure to head to the nearest college as soon as possible.
Congratulations again, and we look forward to watching you suffer. If you have any questions, please visit www.schoolisreallyfun.com.