Young 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.
Check out the most recent issue of The Voice, Young Writers Project’s monthly digital magazine. Click here.
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.
If you could eat something inedible, like an object or a memory or a feeling, what would it taste like? This week’s writer, Margaret Smallwood of Thetford Center, offers us a descriptive and wholly relatable childhood story that is humor on the tongue.
Eating ice cream out of the container in the early morning
By Margaret Smallwood, 15, of Thetford Center
 You wake up early on Saturday, the windows dark like your father’s coffee. It tastes bitter but exciting, like sour candy with a hint of sweetness in the back of your mouth.
   You stumble into the living room, the brightness of the TV blinding like the first taste of food in the morning when your mouth waters with the shock of flavor. Your brother is already awake and watching cartoons, his excitement tropical like papaya and mango.
   You slip into the kitchen, realizing your parents are still asleep. It tastes sly like cold spaghetti, and mischievous like licorice jellybeans.
   You open the freezer, a blast of cold air hitting you like a maraschino cherry, sweet and devious. You spot the ice cream, Neapolitan, and reach for it, excitement growing stronger and tasting like too-sweet birthday cake, a little bit wrong.
   You open the silverware drawer quietly and take out a big spoon. It tastes like nearing the end of a Tootsie Pop, when you crack the hard candy shell and start to taste the Tootsie Roll.
   Finally, you open the ice cream and start to eat spoonfuls of it. The freedom is euphoric, like gulping cold water on a hot day. The ice cream freezes your mouth and you’re worried your tongue will get stuck to the spoon. The slight fear tastes like sushi with tangy ginger.
   Suddenly, you hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Your parents. The taste of panic washes over you like wasabi, the spicy fear of getting in trouble.
   You rush to lick the spoon clean and put the ice cream back in the freezer, the sheer terror tasting like sour milk that you accidentally poured into your bowl of Cheerios.
   Your dad walks into the kitchen and stops, the realization tasting like oranges, nostalgic. He remembers doing this when he was younger, citrus fruit memories wafting through his mind.
   You’re frozen, spoon midair, reaching for the ice cream lid, your stomach knotted and tasting like pretzels with too much salt.Â
   Your dad just says, “Make sure to share some with your brother,” and walks out of the kitchen. Relief floods over you like vanilla pudding, friendly and always welcome.
   You decide you’ve had enough excitement for the morning, and put the ice cream away. You didn’t really want to share with your brother anyway. You feel good, like you’re doing the right thing by putting the ice cream away, and it tastes like snap peas, fresh and crisp.