Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit based in Burlington that engages middle and high school students from anywhere in the world to write, to express themselves with confidence and clarity and to connect with authentic audiences. YWP publishes student writing every week in newspapers; through YWP’s website, youngwritersproject.org, and monthly digital magazine, The Voice; before live audiences; and with other media partners, including vtdigger.org and vpr.net. YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing.
This week’s prompt: Treetop. Write from the perspective of a character sitting on top of a tree. What can the character see? Include something — maybe a friend, a pet, or even a responsibility — waiting at the bottom.
Treetop
By Calvin Cook
Age 16, Bradford, Vt.
When I was young, I loved to climb trees. I can’t even begin to count how many hours I must’ve spent sitting on the tops of trees.
There was one day where I had a real scare though. I was down by our goat pastures, while my mom was doing vet work on our goat herd. I climbed to the top of the tree and sat there looking out across the field. I’d chosen this tree because it was the best one around for climbing, but it also had a spiked metal fence underneath it that made a potential fall seem even more ominous.
My mom called for me, so I started to make my way down. I stepped down onto a branch below me, and one of my feet ended up slipping. I reached up for balance and grabbed a rotten branch in front of me. For a brief moment it held my weight, but then all at once it snapped.
I fell forward. I remember that fall perfectly: 15 feet above the ground with a rusty, barbed-wire fence waiting for me. And for a second, that fall felt like it was going to be my last. That’s when I hit a branch, landing squarely on my chest and folding over it like a limp noodle, with the wind knocked out of me – but alive.
My mom was worried that I had broken a rib or ruptured my spleen. She came to see if I was okay, but the fall was too much of a damaging blow to my six-year-old pride. I ran off into the woods, embarrassed.
Sorting thoughts
By Emilia Perry
Age 14, Thetford
Scratchy bark. Heavy scent. Slight winds rustling the branches, free of their leaves. Now exposed are skeletal arms that reach and dance when the autumn breeze blows.
I sit, surrounded, hiding within these arms that wrap around me like a comforting hug. I look at the ground. Stark against the brown and green of the surface is a yellow pencil and a pad of paper. Homework: write a poem. How can I do that if I can’t even focus on a single thought?
There is so much going on outside. Inside as well. This is how I find myself here, in this tree, surrounded by grass. Open stretches of ground, roads, people, buildings and trees all line the outskirts of the field, bustling and talking.
I gulp, glancing at the sky. My heart rate slows, and I wipe the sweat off my palms and onto my jeans. The sky is blue, all around. No clouds. This seems unsettling, like the calm before the storm. It tricks me into thinking of the warm days of summer… until the clouds and rain roll in.
But today it is different. Today it reminds me of the sparkling waters of a pond. I imagine the still slate of blue after ripples are stilled on the surface. When I jump in, the bubbles surround me, and I can stop thinking – separate my thoughts as if they’re suspended in front of me, as easy to clear as the sediment that sinks to the ground around me.
I break from this image, but the sense of calm and stillness surrounds me. I feel that I can now focus on my thoughts. Maybe even put them on paper.
I slowly climb down the tree, pieces of bark sticking to my hand as I climb. I reach the bottom and pick up the paper. Settling under the shade of the tree, I lift the pencil, and I write.
Guardians of Childhood
By Laurel Marshia
Age 17, Chelsea
I’ve always felt some kind of connection to trees. I think this comes from my upbringing in Chelsea, learning from my parents and grandparents to love the land. But I think, too, part of this comes from what trees represent to me.
The old silver maple tree in our backyard is unwavering, throwing its shade onto the green grass and dropping its colorful leaves on our deck in the fall.
The perfectly straight, slender maple behind the woodshed is youthful compared to the rest. Its strong roots allow it to grow on a slope, towering over and protecting our house.
Then there were the evergreen trees that stood proudly behind our swing set, forever landmarks in photographs of our house over the years. Although they are now just stumps, they still hold the magic placed in them when my grandfather planted them and nurtured their growth.
The old apple tree will forever be a testament to the childhoods of my siblings and me. Now too just a stump, it once held our small bodies in the crooks of its branches with the only thing between us and the ground being a faraway and easily-ignored reality.
The tree and the dog
By Jason Wolstenholme
Age 16, Thetford
Sitting up in the tree, I felt the branches sway in the cool morning breeze. The fog gently brushed across my cheeks, sending a chill through me. Looking out, I could see across the pasture where the cows were slowly wandering, out to graze until called back. I could see all the way to the forest and its million different secrets hidden in the trees.
I realized I’d forgotten about all the problems that awaited me at the bottom of the tree. They’d seemed to just melt and float away on ribbons of fog.
I sat in the tree, daydreaming, until a barking dog brought me back to reality. It was then that I remembered why I was in the tree in the first place.
The dog had looked cold and scared when I first found it. I left it a little bit of bread. The dog took the bread and devoured it as fast as he could. But then the dog had slowly looked up and glared at me. The look in his eyes told me what he was thinking – he wanted to devour me like that bread.
I turned and ran when the dog started to growl. I ran down the road past the dilapidated barn. When I heard the dog howl as he gave chase, I ran even harder. I could feel him nipping at my heels as I stumbled over rocks. I could not make it all the way home, but I spotted this tree and used the last of my energy to climb it. The dog lay at the bottom of the tree all night, or at times traipsing among the branches.
As I remembered all of this, the dog looked up at me with the same hunger in his eyes as before. When I looked down at the Chihuahua, I realized I could not make it out of the tree alive.