Young Writers Project

Weekly On VPR.net

VPR partners with Young Writers Project to present selections of the work of young writers, photographers and artists in Vermont.
 

Each week, VPR features a submission - an essay, poem, fiction of nonfiction - accompanied by a photo or illustration from the Young Writers Project.

The Young Writers Project provides VPR's audience another avenue to hear and read selections from Vermont's young writers. The thoughts and ideas expressed here are the writers' own and do not necessarily reflect those of Vermont Public Radio.

The collaboration is organized by Susan Reid of Young Writers Project and Vermont Public Radio.

Young Writers Project: 'My Big, Beautiful Bubble'

Feb 24, 2017
Liana Lansigan, a seventh grade student from Hanover, NH, writes about realizing that life isn't always fair and that there is discrimination in the world, including against her family because of their Japanese heritage.
Courtesy, Susan Reid

I live in a bubble

Young Writers Project: 'A Chance'

Feb 17, 2017
Courtesy, Susan Reid

We have been told to give Trump a chance.
We have been to told not to judge based on the past.
We have been told to wait before we judge.
We have been told, "You're just holding a grudge."

Well, I have given him a chance.
And I have tried to ignore the past.
And he has responded with banning religions.
He has responded by ignoring the court's decision.

Young Writers Project: 'Beautiful Person'

Feb 10, 2017
Courtesy, Susan Reid

I hate being a deep thinker, but at the same time it’s a blessing. Sometimes I care so much for people. This can go anywhere from a family member, close friend, to even somebody I don’t talk to regularly. Today, I’m going to talk about someone that I don’t talk to regularly, someone I don't know very well. When you’re in school you’re surrounded by tons of people, right? You have to admit that there are some people that will always stick out to you, no matter what. Sometimes you don’t even understand why, they just do.

Young Writers Project: 'Parts Of War'

Feb 3, 2017
Alison Redlich Photography

i.  Fear

1492

Finding people surprised them.

Spanish ships and the promise of gold had brought them here.

“They don’t look like us,”

their guns whispered as they spit bullets.

“They don’t act like us,”

their blood sang as it rushed to their heads.

Courtesy, Emily Smyth

As I walk into the hospital,
I breathe in the scent of disinfectant
and stale air,

Young Writers Project: You-words

Jan 20, 2017
Courtesy, Susan Reid

Your eyes were always my favorite.
Bright stars on the dark background of your chocolatey, tousled hair.
Warm and inviting they drew me to you
     to sit with you
wrapped in a blanket
     by the fire.
Sipping something warm,
     something brown, and dark from the mug tucked between our hands.
It was dark and brown but never as dark as your tousled hair or your winter hat,
     a shade of deepest forest green – another earthly element in the dark backdrop from which your celestial eyes shone.

Young Writers Project: The Making Of Konrad

Jan 13, 2017
Courtesy, Susan Reid

Mrs. Perkins stormed into the business meeting, stumbling over her high heels, her hair looking like it had gone through a tornado. Her face was beet red from anger and her eyes had a look of slight insanity to them.

Situations like this, except with different people, had happened so many times that Mr. Kiln instantly knew why she was barging in on his very important meeting.

"I quit!" Mrs. Perkins bellowed.

Some of the employees closer to the door yelped and began to scoot away in their chairs.

Young Writers Project: Mi Nombre

Jan 4, 2017
Courtesy, Susan Reid

Briggs. That’s my mother’s maiden name. It is also my first name. It’s a strange name, often mistaken.

It is not Bryce, Brig, Brick, Bridge, Bricks — or even Prince, as one old man misheard.

This was one of many choices for my name. Most were nearly as strange, though I still would have preferred nearly all of them: Ronan, Cadmium, Van, Rory and one of my dad’s favorites — Boy.

But my great-grandmother had a dream before my birth that I would be Briggs, and so it was.

I don’t like my name. It doesn’t fit me.

Young Writers Project: I Believe

Dec 30, 2016
Alison Redlich Photo

I believe hard work gets you

somewhere in life, even though it may

not be the place you want to be. I believe

Young Writers Project: Drugged

Dec 20, 2016
Madi Cohen

I take it like a drug, one that falls
like rain over my open skin,
drink it in like water
until it runs in my blood
knowing nothing but this feeling,
nothing but euphoria of this moment.

Young Writers Project: What He Called Me

Dec 16, 2016
Alison Redlich Photo

Cierra Mist,

that’s what he called me.

A day in June of 2015 was the day I got the nickname.

Young Writers Project: In The City, In The Night

Dec 7, 2016
Courtesy, Susan Reid

In the city, in the night,
a ticket stub sits on the salty, damp sidewalk.
The play title, “A Christmas Carol” is barely visible,
concealed by bootprints and slush.

In the city, in the night,
a ripped-off Christmas bell,
too full of sludge to ring clear,
lies as a remnant of the Salvation Army
and their dances for pocket change.

Young Writers Project: Road

Dec 2, 2016
Courtesy, Susan Reid

Don't play in the road. 
Crisp, stern mouth
pushes our feet faster.
Mother always told us
to be cautious.
But we were not cautious.

Young Writers Project: Beautiful

Nov 23, 2016
Courtesy, Susan Reid

All day I sucked in,

​trying to hide

​any traces of fat

​on my body,

Young Writers Project: Don't Tell Me I Can't Cry

Nov 21, 2016
Courtesy, Susan Reid

Don't tell me I can't cry

because I care.

Young Writers Project: Ignore

Nov 14, 2016
Courtesy, Susan Reid

The word "ignore" has such a negative connotation,

it is only thought of in relation

to being unwanted, an enraging frustration.

Young Writers Project: The Cabin

Nov 7, 2016
Courtesy, Susan Reid

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.

Young Writers Project: Uncovered

Oct 28, 2016
Courtesy, Susan Reid

I am a book.

I am also a storyteller and a door to another world. 

I am also trash.

I used to be considered important.

Young Writers Project: Philosophies

Oct 20, 2016
Courtesy, Fiona Goodman

When or if somebody asks me,

“Why do you think we’re here?”

I’ll probably reply,

“Because we’re so self-centered

we think we’re more important than the rest of the world

This is a graveyard,

I think to myself

as I walk into a clearing

in the forest.

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