[Y]oung Writers Project, an independent nonprofit based in Burlington, engages young people to write and use digital media to express themselves with clarity and power, and to gain confidence and skills for school, the workplace and life.

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Each week, VTDigger features a writing submission – an essay, poem, fiction or nonfiction – accompanied by a photo or illustration from Young Writers Project. YWP publishes about 1,000 students’ work each year here, in newspapers across Vermont, on Vermont Public Radio and in YWP’s monthly digital magazine, The Voice. Since 2006, it has offered young people a place to write, share their photos, art, audio and video, and to explore and connect online at youngwritersproject.org. For more information, please contact Susan Reid at sreid@youngwritersproject.org.

April showers bring May flowers; “these dreary showers give me wings.” Middlesex storyteller Aida Coffey, featured this week, pulls at the heartstrings with a glimpse of brotherly love glowing bright in a dim, drizzly world.

These dreary showers give me wings

By Aida Coffey, 13, Middlesex

He looks up from his novel when he hears a subtle yet loud plink against the window. He blinks, unused to the sound of rain. He closes his book, the cover thuds shut softly. Thump. He places the book on his bedside table, flipping up the bedsheets off his legs. He swings them over the edge, yelping when his feet meet the cold floor.

The room is now dark, illuminated by the rain. Or should I say under-illuminated perhaps? His boring white wallpaper is now an even more boring shade of gray. He winces softly as he puts his weight on his foot. His legs are really no use to him, they’ve never done him any good. But he loves it when it rains, the sound, the rainbow afterward. His mother always tells him that you have to go through the darkness to get to the light. But it’s like, that’s how life goes. Why can’t he just walk around in the light? If he could…

“George! Come outside,” his brother calls. George grabs his crutches and hooks them to his wrists. He huffs softly as he strains his arm to open the door of his bedroom, or maybe it should be called his prison. His solitary confinement. “It’s pouring,” his brother says cheerfully; it’s not something that someone would usually say with such joy. George slowly follows along behind him.

“Callum, he can’t be outside,” their mother says.

“Ma, it’s fine! It’s only rain.”

Her lips part, ready to speak, to stop them. Her frail hand hovers, also a stopping motion. George watches. He expects a no, it’s always a no.

“Come on, George. I hope you don’t mind getting your pajamas wet,” his brother calls from the front door. “And you won’t need these.” Callum takes the crutches from him, catching George’s body when it sways off-balance.

“At least put your rain jackets on––”

The sound of their mother’s voice fades when Callum shuts the door behind them. The water immediately soaks his shaggy blond hair. He helps George down their steps. George yelps at the feeling of the wet grass against his toes. He’s not sure if he likes it. Callum laughs blissfully and opens his mouth, letting the rain trickle down his throat. George emits a small laugh, throwing his head back and doing the same.

Callum grabs him from the grass and spins him around in the air. He’s still small, compared to his older brother, but not that small. He places George back down and he stumbles, falling back on his butt.

“Whoa! You okay down there?” Callum helps him up. George nods, squinting through the heavy rain. Callum smiles at his brother’s smile, the smile that is usually hidden by a solemn frown. He claps his hands against his pants, sending small beads of water flying.
“If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”