[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.
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.

Photo of the Week: Quinn Sunderland, 14, Charlotte
Sometimes our most vividly happy memories are comprised of little more than, well, the little things. This week’s featured poet, Siri Dunn of Morristown, offers us a story of affection that might more accurately be described as a written collage woven through with sunshine, humor, and bright observations.Jumble of my life
Siri Dunn, 15, of Morristown
1.
Tea tree oil on blemished skin, ChapStick tasting like coconut, and
my sun-kissed skin stings from the tears shed by another person.
Why
am I making this list?
Keep going.
2.
Watch him light up when I laugh, find reasons to touch skin.
The campfires and sparklers that we dream up illuminate his face, and
we toss words back and forth, saying everything that we come up with because we mean every
single
thing.
3.
Strands of Christmas lights and
smudges of sidewalk chalk on
smooth, shaved legs.
4.
Iced-over puddles glistening with perfume, scenting broken moments of colored pencil shavings being swept up and pocketed, while
orange blossoms get turned into candles and
pronouns get spilt from the tips of Sharpies.
5.
Ads for Hannaford compete against terrible TV shows while
the time of twilight lingers forever, because that’s how it is in old houses. And
the remnants of salt and vinegar chips taste sweet because nothing can sour your life when you have your moral support with you. And
the graffiti artists reminisce you into their creations, stick you up there on the old cement wall under
the dilapidated bridge because they tell you the sky will not always stay up.
Sigh.
6.
Lie back on the deck, look at each other, careful to not touch because we can’t exist as us here, can’t
wear our hearts on our sleeves like we do in our safe environment – can
only see who wins the staring contest even though there was no contest to begin with,
and there still isn’t, just looking.
7.
Massage the hurt out of sore muscles, thoughts swirling out of control now.
Appreciate the patterns the cinnamon on my skin makes because
they make me whole, keep me together instead of having to use buttons, and my reflections in the puddles of sky are no longer made of blown glass, so fragile.
8.
Je garderai ton secret si to continues de mienne.
Watch ice cream melt, don’t care because for some reason we find it hilarious. Even though it’s strawberry, we still don’t eat it because we are just happy to be in each other’s presence. Go buy hair conditioner instead––
9.
Play with sun rays through the dust, tangle them into your hair until you are laughing and batting at me. Your hair is still too short anyway.
Walk in the rain, be each other’s lifesavers, liberators while we are together because…
we have created the color pineapple.


