Young Writers Project is a creative online community of teen writers, photographers and artists, which has been based in Vermont since 2006. Each week, VTDigger features the writing and art of young Vermonters who publish their work on youngwritersproject.org, a free, interactive website for 12- to 18-year-olds. To find out more, visit youngwritersproject.org, or contact Executive Director Susan Reid at sreid@youngwritersproject.org and 802-324-9538.
“When one door closes, another opens” is an admirably positive attitude to hold toward life’s smaller setbacks, but it doesn’t quite apply when a true personal tragedy strikes us down; sometimes new doors must be built, in that case, before they can be opened. This week’s featured writer, Emerson Campbell of Williston, takes us to a scene backdropped by trauma yet lit by determination and hope for the future.
Sore muscles
By Emerson Campbell, 13, of Williston
I got up from my desk to stretch for a bit, after working on the blueprint for so long. My dominant hand ached from holding my pencil so tightly, so I balled it into a fist, then stretched my fingers again. Slowly, over and over, for a bit. The repetitive motion was calming.
I placed my hands on my lower spine and leaned retrograde, the bones in my lower back crackling appreciatively. I swung my arms around, loosening the sore muscles in my neck after having stayed in a fixed position for hours. I yawned briefly, making the comical sound and all, and looked out my window.
The sun blinded me a bit, to the point where I flinched and had to shield my eyes from the light with an arm cast over my forehead. Once I had soaked in enough vitamin D looking out at the rolling, green fields, I turned back to the blueprint, picking it up and holding the strong paper in my hands. I stood there and pondered for a moment, running my hands over the harsh lines of graphite.
The pencil residue on my fingertips then reminded me of coal. Of acrid, awful-smelling smoke. Flames, reaching toward the ceiling of my little cottage and licking at the walls. Fire, all but blazing my house down in a matter of minutes.
I shivered, even as the memories made sweat roll down my back. I had lost everything in that fire. That’s what the blueprint was for — a new cottage, this time made of brick that wouldn’t catch on fire with nothing but a dry, hot wind. I’d been staying at a family friend’s house until I could get back on my feet, or at least that’s what they said.
I sighed, deeply and solemnly, and sat back down, picking my pencil up and returning to my work.
