Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages Vermont and New Hampshire students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences in newspapers, before live audiences and on websites, youngwritersproject.org, vtdigger.org, vpr.net and medium.com. Young Writers Project also publishes a digital magazine, The Voice. YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing.

The following pieces are among the best recent writing YWP has received and are featured in the April issue of The Voice. Elizabeth Hardt, Grade 11, of Canaan, is The Voice’s Writer of the Month for April.

Prompt: “The Fierce Urgency of Now” (Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. quote)

“The Fierce Urgency of Now”

There is tomorrow.

And there is today.

And there was yesterday.

Yesterday we thought about tomorrow.

Yesterday, this “tomorrow” was hazy.

The wise folk tried to spread the word

That this tomorrow would not be like today.

No one listened.

Now, this hazy “tomorrow” is today.

We are in this tomorrow.

This hazy “tomorrow” where there are dishonest politicians left, right, and center is now.

This hazy “tomorrow” where we have forgotten the wise words of our forefathers and mothers is now.

This hazy “tomorrow” where the first words our children hear are “fear” and “hate” is now.

Think me an extremist, if you like, but I know that.

I, like Martin Luther King, Jr., am an extremist—but of love, not hate.

And you may ask me questions. And I have answers.

Where is the American patriotism?

Gone to apathy.

Where is the American dream?

Turned to a nightmare.

Where is the New World?

It has moved.

And where and who are we?

BYSTANDERS.

And how did this happen?

We did it. We tore it down, brick by brick, stone by stone, till now we lay in the rubble of crushed imaginations, squashed ingenuity, what we have created.

And how can this change?

We must rebuild the United States.

We tore it down together. We will rebuild it together.

How?

How? Children, hear me!

Children, you must write for freedom. You must speak, like I do. Spread the word at school, at home, everywhere.

Teenagers, hear me!

Teenagers, you must use your flourishing talents and show them, show the people that there is still some good in this world. Ask. Question. Do not be afraid to speak your mind.

Those of you in your prime, hear me!

You are our future. Lead marches! Make speeches! Shout! Let the world know of your existance, and shake its roots with your words! Do not stop until you get what you want, until all is as it was.

Elders, hear me!

Teach the children! Tell them about the earth and all the wisdom of the world, so that they will do good and be strong leaders! Help them to rebuild America.

Ancestors, hear me!

We are your successors, the people who will carry on your name and legacy. We will remember your wise words and live them out.

America, hear me!

Live! Shout! Be free! Help to rebuild this new world till the streets are filled with smiling people, till America is truly the pride of the universe. Until we are truly free.

Until we have freedom of speech.

Until we have freedom of thought.

Until we have freedom of love.

We must rebuild America from the rubble of hatred.

We must rebuild it in the fierce urgency of now.

Prompt: General writing

A Blue Jay in Japan

How am I supposed to tell you that you belong in World War Two wearing aviator goggles and a cigarette hanging on your lips?

I’ve always wanted to try smoking.

But instead you stay in the 21st century, one leg propped up on the other and your hands moving like you were playing the piano.

I’ve often copied your movements because you were in me: a part of my arms

and legs and in my fingers when they stretched over the keys.

How can I ask you if you ever read my writing when you’re always in Japan, ruffling and petting yourself in mirrors for good looks?

I’ve been on your writing every now and then, but I didn’t care to read about blood on boys’ shirts at gas stations and trained young men practicing their handwriting in their journal.

How can I say to you that I hate you for being so pompous and for kicking my kidney and for killing off my heart in one of your many stories?

And that you’re beautiful in blue with your grey eyes.

But also cruel when you eat apples and then spit the juice at my feet.

I love to remember when you smiled and took my precious writing and we

wrote jokes back and forth on the paper.

I called you ferret, bluejay, love, and even worshipped you once or twice.

You’ll either be 19 or 20 this year and soon to be in Japan, standing on a corner

in your New England clothes, forcing people to approach you, stroke your beauty, suffer from your cruel heart, and bow low.