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 featuring YWP’s best writing and images. More info: youngwritersproject.org or contact YWP at sreid@youngwritersproject.org or 802-324-9538.
This week, we present General Writing responses.
By Kelly Daigle
Age 17, Bradford, Vt.
There is hardly a better place to be
than deep in the archives of a library.
Libraries are chock-full of stories
with direct portals to other universes.
They have a certain cloud of mystery around them,
a promise of secrets to be uncovered.
Libraries have architecture that suggests
hidden rooms and reading crannies,
winding stairs and majestic overhangs,
tiny aisles and dusty stacks of books.
Libraries are the lungs of knowledge.
People enter with a greed for wisdom
and leave with newfound enlightenment,
their cravings for awareness of the world satisfied.
Is there any other place on Earth with such power?
Any other place with so much overlooked magic?
By Alena Demidova
Age 15, Thetford
A pool of warmth and dreams wakes you up
as a cool breeze sneaks into your room.
As you yawn and stretch, you release yourself
from your blanket and roll out of bed.
You put on your headband and wash your face,
splashing water everywhere,
brushing your teeth slowly while half asleep
and still with a wacky hairdo.
As you change out of your comfy clothes,
cold, non-stretchy clothes consume your body.
You notice the sunrise creep into your bedroom
and spill out onto the floor — a new day has begun,
and you doze off staring into the light.
After some time, you hear someone yell,
“Breakfast is ready!” and you start your morning.
By Eden Anne Bauer
Age 15, Hanover
She cried tears of words,
every emotion etched forever
on the wrinkled piece of paper, yet
forever locked away
from the eyes of whatever stranger
happened upon the page.
Pain was hidden in metaphor
and sorrow in simile;
regret was a rose-red symbol
and fear now a promise to keep.
With the rhythm of her aching heart
forever captured in syllables and beats,
her whole self was a poem
on that ever-tearstained paper sheet.
Humans aren’t everlasting, but
these words remember
her view of the world;
these words will never grow old.
Through her writing,
her tale will be told.