Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences in newspapers, before live audiences and online. YWP also publishes an annual anthology and The Voice, a digital magazine with YWP’s best writing, images and features. More info: youngwritersproject.org or contact YWP at sreid@youngwritersproject.org or 802-324-9538.

This week, we present responses to the following prompts: Definition. Pick a word and give it your own personal definition. Perhaps to you, “friendship” means the secrets that are whispered at 3 a.m. in the dark, “pineapple” brings to mind an infamous childhood prank and “flower” is a sunny afternoon in your grandmother’s garden. And general writing.

Prompt: Definition

Family

By Olivia Fredella

Age 15, Newbury, Vt.

Family is endless love and support.

Family is laughing until you’re crying and can’t breathe.

Family is the feeling of warmth and safety.

Family is being able to say anything without fear of being judged.

Family is the feeling of pure joy when you see someone you love succeed.

Family is always there and never gives up on you.

Family is your greatest support.

Family is acceptance — family is love.

Friendship

By Lauren Wright

Age 16, Bradford, Vt.

Friendship is the whispered words of love

through the sadness at 3 a.m.,

the shoulder that fits like a pillow,

the hushed, late-night giggles

when you should be asleep.

It’s the hand that grasps tightly

through scary movies,

and the voice that still sings

Hannah Montana songs

around your room with a hairbrush.

It’s the matchmaking, and the tissues,

and the gossip beneath the covers

with the faint light of a flashlight.

It’s being grounded from each other,

but planning your whole week together

for when you’re ungrounded.

It’s the co-planned birthday parties,

and co-parented pets.

Friendship is a human diary,

a home away from home,

and a first love.

Prompt: General

Baseball – a love story

By Mike Hogan

Age 12, Piermont

It was the bottom of the ninth and we were losing by two.

The bases were loaded, with two outs in the championship game.

It was all or nothing — win or go home. And I was coming up to bat.

My bat, resting on my shoulder, was a comfort.

My batting gloves were tight to my hands.

My elbow guard was strapped tightly to my elbow.

I placed my right foot into the batter’s box, looking down at our coach.

My left foot followed the same path. I swung my bat in a circle.

My feet were set and my hands were ready.

The pitcher lifted his leg and fired a bullet, on the outer half of the plate.

I pulled my hands in front of the ball and let my hips do the work.

The ball made solid contact and my wrists rolled.

The ball flew off the bat, curving down the first base line.

The ball landed in fair territory. Extra bases!

I rounded first, my head already down. I’d never run faster.

My right foot tapped the inner half of second, and I was three steps away from third.

I knew I’d be safe — I didn’t have to slide. But where was the fun in that?

I belly-slid into third base, stood up, and pounded my chest.

I only had a few seconds before the mob (also known as my team) came.

My hands flew up in the air and my teammates were everywhere.

Innocence

By Eden Anne Bauer

Age 14, Hanover

What happens to the innocence in a child’s eyes

between six years old and 16?

What happens to our minds, our mindsets,

when we go from being told

to imagine our own worlds into existence,

then enter the “real” world

and are ridiculed for dreaming too big?

I’m still shy of 16, and my rosy gaze is tinged

with whims and images of fantasy.

I am a child at heart, I think,

yet expected to act “like an adult” —

though I’m not part of adult society or conversations.

When I look into the eyes of a puppy,

an innocent creature, so small and gentle and sweet,

I can’t help but wonder why she’s so content

to wag her tail and lie down beside my seat.

How does she see the world, this bright-eyed creature?

I cannot tell — I cannot speak her tongue.

But I do know I’m happy when I see her,

and she seems happy too when e’er I come home.

To contemplate the simple joys of life

must surely remedy some form of strife.