Caledonia — Caledonia High School’s Creative Writing Team became JustWrite’s state tournament grand champions last spring at Ashland University in Ohio, winning “the whole darn thing” out of 59 teams from four states.
On March 14, Duncan Lake Middle School will host JustWrite Michigan’s first high-school regional tournament and junior-high invitational.
JustWrite is a creative writing program designed for sixth- to 12th-graders across Michigan, Ohio, West Virginia and Pennsylvania to showcase their storytelling skills in a fast-paced, genre-based competition. Students’ work is also published in the JustWrite yearly anthology, “Collection of Voices.”
While Caledonia’s middle- and high-school writers prepare for their upcoming competition, a few veteran team members share their poetry and short stories from last year’s state tournament.
Charlie Bont, ninth grade
2025 regional submission, poetry
“I Wish You Would Stop”
The space between words is a powerful place.
The space is where you decide your tone, your voice, your volume.
You can make a word a dagger, a balm, a dart.
But you can choose how you use the space
You can choose your dart or balm
It seems you always choose to stab me
All day
Every day
With that space you choose to bruise me
With your words
When I come home from my day and see you in the house
I skirt around around you
So you don’t lash out
I try to not let you use that space
Anymore
I wish you would stopstopstopstopstopstop using the space from between the words.
To hurt me.
Zack Zupin, tenth grade
2025 regional submission, horror
“Unlucky John’s Pet Cemetery”
“Ha, good one Jeff!” Burt exclaimed in hysterical laughter. We stared proudly at the word “LOSER” I had just spray painted on the school wall in big red letters.
Burt and I were best friends for since forever. We’d always skateboard around town, trashing the streets and vandalizing the buildings. My favorite memory was when we went turtle-stomping. The mixture of crunches and laughter echo through my mind now and then.
“What else should we do today?” Burt asked, flashing a mischievous smirk at me.
“Do you think it’s possible to drown a fish?” I thought out loud. “Like pull it out of water?”
Before Burt could answer, a large, dirty mutt crossed our path. The stupid creature’s fur was ruffled and muddy. It had a large snout displaying weathered teeth, yellow and dull. As it growled at us, its cold blue eyes glared angrily.
“What do you want, you stupid dog?” I mocked, kicking it in the face and out of the way. It barked loudly in fury and lunged toward me, ready to bite. I kicked it again, this time with enough power to send it out into the street.
As it struggled to stand up, it didn’t take its eyes off of me. Its icy stare dug into me a little, but I didn’t care. It then finally got on its feet when—
WHAM!
A speeding red car collided with it, leaving a lifeless, furry corpse in the street. Its eyes, still on me, slowly fell shut.
“Dang!” Burt said, laughing. “That was crazy!”
“I guess it was,” I said, half-smirking.
Later that night, I waited outside Burt’s house. He had the brilliant idea to spray paint the tombstones at the local pet cemetery. He joined me, carrying a heavy backpack full of cans with him.
The clouds covered the moon in a thick blanket as we made our way to Unlucky John’s Pet Cemetery. For centuries, people have laid their cats, dogs, hamsters, and even parrots here to rest. Old, rotting stones lined the yard in rows. Each one looked like it could use a fresh coat of paint. I smirked to myself.
As soon as we were in, the iron gate, resembling that of a prison, slammed shut behind us.
Burt shrugged. “Must’ve been the wind.”
We each took a can of paint and began our reckless mayhem. Snowball, a cat dead at 14, received a fresh coat of paint on her grave. The same fate was given to Buster the dog, Sam the guinea pig, and other pathetic animals somebody bothered to bury.
An abrupt boom of thunder shook the Earth. The leaves of the trees danced, and the wind picked up from behind me. Trying my best to ignore it, I moved onto the next grave, only to find it empty.
MEOW!
An old cat with three legs, rotting skin, and malice in its eyes appeared behind me. It jumped out at me, clawing my leg as I stumbled backwards.
“AHH!” erupted a scream in the distance. “There’s a freakin’ rabbit attacking me!”
I looked on in horror as more zombie-like animals appeared from the darkness. They were all bloody, decomposing, and giving off a horrible stench. They circled me, their mouths frothing and ready to bite.
My heart sank deeper and deeper. I reeked of fear more than they reeked of death. I squinted into the growing crowd and even saw a familiar group of small turtles with crushed shells.
“HELP ME JEFF!” Burt screamed. He moaned in agony and pain until he could be heard no more.
Amidst the crowd of killer animals, a figure emerged. Its fur was ruffled and muddy. Its large snout had weathered, old teeth. Its eyes were cold and blue, never leaving me as it stepped closer and closer. It snarled and growled, ready to bite. What have I done?
Katelyn Ferris, twelfth grade
2025 regional submission, historical fiction
“Lighting Fires”
A crowded basement murmured with the hum of ideas as lanterns flickered under the breath of conversation.
“Everybody! Everybody!” a woman with raven black hair shouted above the noise, hoisting her skirts to stand on her soap box.
A hush falling over the crowd, you could hear a pin drop. The other woman hung onto her every word.
“You may ask why they’re so aggressive towards us, but I can tell you why: They’re scared of what we’re capable of achieving. They don’t know half of it, so let’s make them terrified!”
The crowd cheered and passed out the signs, every one painted with care and soul.
Bella knew this was the last place her mother thought a respectable young lady should be, which made it perfect. Nevertheless, she kept her bonnet pulled tightly over her face, not wanting to draw attention.
Women of different stations and careers marched more outside the streets. People stared as they walked, some cheered, but more cursed.
Though Bella never listened to the chants before, she shouted them as loud as she could.
“Hey!” the raven haired girl called, “What’s your name?”
“Bella,” she smiled, “I’m new.”
She stretched out her hand, “I’m Johanna. It’s nice to meet you. We can always appreciate a newcomer as passionate as you.”
When they got to the city square, their chanting grew louder, a roaring chorus not to be forgotten.
Johanna climbed to the top of the fountain, shouting above the crowd. People threw things at the crowd, but they kept chanting.
“You will not deny us our voices!” Johanna screamed.
Then the chaos …
The screams mixed with men yelling started to form at the edges of the crowd. Police men surrounded the crowd, arresting everyone they could. Some surrendered, some shouted, some sang, and some fought like desperate alleycats.
Johanna was still on the fountain though they were trying to get her down. She kicked and cursed and kicked so more, not going down without a fight.
A old washer woman grabbed Bella’s arm.
“We have to go!”
“— But Jo …”
Bella’s voice trailed off because Jo was no longer on the fountain, but Bella didn’t see what happened. She could only wonder.
The washer woman dragged her hand across the square, hobbling to a corner street.
Three policemen stood blocking their path.
“You’re under arrest!”
The washer woman smiled, “No we’re not.”
She charged forward, wrapping her arms around one of their necks and using her body weight to take him to the floor.
“Go! Run!” she shouted.
As Bella stumbled through town, and businesses turned to apartments, apartments to town houses, her eyes welled with tears. She had no idea how many of them made it out. Hell, she had no idea how many lived.
When she walked through the door, her mother’s voice echoed through the house.
“Isabelle Wright! Where were you?”
“Out … I need rest.”
She stared up at her bedroom ceiling, expecting to worry, expecting to cry, but she laughed. Because they were terrified and she knew, one day, women like her would vote.
For every woman taken out of their numbers, like a hydra, two replaced them. Even if Johanna or the washer woman were gone, she wasn’t, not … one … bit …
Read more from Caledonia:
• Writing & winning across state lines
• Fifth-grade author on the ‘write’ track
