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 websites, including youngwritersproject.org, vtdigger.org, vpr.net and cowbird.com. Young Writers Project also publishes digital magazine, The Voice. YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing.
This week’s prompt: Photo 2-Cabin
Craig was tired. He had been working all day, and even walking home was an enormous challenge. He glanced at his watch. It read 7:30 p.m., Friday, June 20. He focused on the path ahead, to keep his mind off his tired legs and sore feet. He walked past the corner store, and the park, up into the more rural part of town.
The wind began to pick up, the dark grey clouds moving swiftly now. Craig shivered and walked faster, nervously grinding his teeth together. The first drops of rain landed lightly on the dusty road. Soon, the rain was coming down much faster, threatening to soak his jacket. Craig looked to his right, searching for shelter, and saw nothing but forest. He looked to his left. He saw a small cabin, with black walls, and a red, metal roof. He had never, in the many times he must have passed it, seen it before.
Craig ran toward the cabin. He found the door, a small, frail-looking thing, and knocked three times. No answer. He knocked again. Still nothing. By now Craig was almost soaked, so he opened the door and walked inside. The cabin was completely empty, but at least it was dry. Craig found it impossible to fight sleep, so he curled up on the dirt floor and passed out.
When Craig woke up, he was lying on the ground, about ten yards from the road. It felt like he had slept for a long time, but he could not tell. He vaguely remembered falling asleep in the cabin, but the cabin was gone, as if it was never there. The sky was completely clear, and all traces of the rain were gone. Craig walked home, flabbergasted. As he reached his doorstep, he noticed that the newspaper had arrived. On the corner read the date, Monday, June 23.
Read the complete story at http://youngwritersproject.org/node/10231
On this black night the sky is cloudy. A good place to disappear, I think. These old country roads, they don’t go nowhere ’cept up the mountains to the fire houses and the wardens. Ma always told me that they was there to protect us from the fires. I shoulda’ asked what they coulda’ done for us down here. We all so small from that high up.
Something’s howlin’ in the woods, but I know it’s just a coyote. Not anybody think there’s coyotes up here but they be wrong. My heart is tryna jump outta my chest, I tell ya. I gotta think about something else but everything keeps coming back like a bad song or a toothache. I hear Ma shouting and the door slamming. I hit my hand against the tree until it stop hurting inside.
There’s somethin’ bout the way it all looks at night, ya’ know. Almost like there ain’t nothing to worry ’bout ’cept all them sharptooth wolves and bears in their dens, but it’s getting’ cold out and soon ’nuf it’ll be winter. Some leaves blow down the road and sting my ankles. I shoulda’ worn socks, but I had ta get outta there right quick. I ain’t had no time but to get my parka cause it be cold up in these mountains in fall. Some places up north it be below freezing already. I hate snow cause I hafta sit inside all day. Don’t got enough warm clothes for all that frosty ice cream.
Read the full story at youngwritersproject.org/node/10157