We welcome stories, poems, jottings, drawings, graphics, cartoons, extracts from your novel. Anything at all!
We are particularly looking for work from 16’s and under for this page though will consider you up to 18. If you are under 18 please send them to email@example.com
Mums and Dads, Aunties, Uncles, brothers, sisters, teachers, youth workers please get in touch if you have creative children or young people in your lives. WE CAN FEATURE THEIR WORK HERE. HOWEVER IT MUST BE THEIR WORK. IF THEY CAN’T WRITE YOU CAN TRANSCRIBE.
Contributions from over 18’s are welcome for other sections of the website. If you are over 18 please contribute to the quarterly showcase via firstname.lastname@example.org and take a look at the other website pages. Also use the contact link on the menu for enquiries.
If you are 16 – 18 you can also enter the annual international competition.
In the future we plan to have a book with all the best contributions from under 18’s. Please encourage friends and fellow students to submit to our cause to encourage young creative people. We are very interested in extracts from your novels and long term literary projects.
If you have a flickr account you can now also submit to our group page!
No one has enough time for frost.
No time to pause and admire
Each fragile crystal feather-light crowning every inch of the world around us.
You can find a universe in one inch of frost.
We are often blind to the glistening cloak
Accompanied by misty breath and a low winter sun.
It remains undetected.
That seems to be the way of the modern world.
The beautiful things are often missed, lost in the blur of life.
Take a minute,
To find frost once again.
Discover nature’s eternal beauties.
For when your mortal life has ended,
It will be frost that decorates your grave on a winter morning.
© Chloe Peel, Age 17
Money changes everyone
If you’re ‘rich’ you’re a ‘snob’
If you’re ‘poor’, you’re a ‘peasant’
Society can’t be pleased
No matter how hard you try it won’t work
Beauty doesn’t get you very far
If you’re ‘pretty’ then you’re ‘fake’
If you’re not ‘pretty’ then you’re ‘ugly’
Society can’t be pleased
No matter how hard you try it won’t work
Money can’t buy happiness
Beauty won’t get you friends
Just stay the way you are and
You’ll be famous in the end
© Leotie Clairmont, Age 11
its dark and i dream
I’m without worries or cares
I am just being
© Deena Goodrunning, Age 14
My roar puts others to shame,
a deafening cacophony of natural birth.
My surface glitters and pours,
a wind chime come to life,
with a more threatening noise.
My colour shifts in any light,
behold – it is a beautiful sight.
An array of random colours brought to life,
as a rainbow I could be mistaken,
but only as the most powerful one in the world.
My end hides no pot of gold,
just an untimely death –
for those who wish to penetrate my walls.
A knight in shining armor would not survive my wrath,
as I am a castle – only accessible from above.
My sides are slippery,
wet beyond belief.
supporting my weight.
I am a waterfall,
and this is how I fall.
© Georgia Alicja Radka Age 12
Shattered like ice
shattered like ice and
broken like bread my heart has
cracked because of grief
© Deena Goodrunning, Age 14
Give me education;
I demand the right to power,
you will give me rights,
and sleep-full nights
a soft pillow to lean on
a door out of poverty
give me hearts to inspire
a place to perspire from the traumas
I know for sure I can lure
the attention of future doctors,
teachers and aid workers
For education is not just knowledge
it is a weapon;
© Rahela Khatun, Age 17
On the day I was born I was given a scale,On the day I was born I was gifted two weighing pails,
Because on the one hand:
A woman should be pretty, funny and sweet, caring and loving and gentle and neat.
A woman shouldn’t be too loud or too abrasive, women should be smiling and laughing in all the right places.
But, on the other hand:
Who wants a woman too quiet, a woman too sweet? Women have to be entertaining or they’re just plain weak.
Women should be able to take a joke or five, and take all sorts of criticism about how they live their lives.
It’s a balance beam we walk, with no end in sight:
To the left you have insults like doormat and slut, and bitch and bossy to the right.
If you wobble the slightest bit, there’s accusing fingers in your face: stupid, stupid women who just can’t stay in their place.
You have to be needy but not too much, you have to be desperate (but not too desperate) for someone else’s love,
you have to be waiting but not for too long, if you’re taller than a man it’s not right to have high heels on.
You have to be strong but not too strong, you have to smart but not smarter than him, you have to have curves but you’ve got to be thin.
If a man is assertive, he’s a boss, but I’m a bitch? If I wear what I want, I’ll be blamed if I end up dead in a ditch?
I’ve been squeezed and prodded into this box for so long, I’m still trying to unlearn what I was taught was right and wrong.
I wear makeup for myself to make me ever stronger, I wear high heels because I like them, not because men like my legs longer.
I believe in fate and faith and truth, I believe in honesty and conscience and I believe in you.
When people begin acting like feminism is a dirty word, you know they’re the kind of people who think that boys are better than girls:
Don’t tell me to be ladylike or that boys will be boys, teach your sons that women are not objects or toys.
Show me all your promises and repeat to me each one:
Tell me how you equally love your daughters and your sons,
Tell me of equal pay and equal punishment and the same rights throughout,
Don’t let your promises run through your fingers like water in a drought.
If you want to barter off your daughters, barter off your sons too,
Dress baby boys in pink and baby girls in blue,
Destroy the words dyke and feminazi and slut,
Don’t forget all the blood that’s been spilled in the name of equality, don’t forget the true meaning of the word ‘sorority’.
Remember they did this to us, and your mothers and your fathers, but before you start lynching, think of who you’re chasing after:
They is the woman who didn’t know any better,
They is the man who was taught by her to the letter,
They is homophobia and transphobia and misogyny and racism,
Classism, prejudice and ableism,
They is you,
And perhaps once they was me, too.
© Emily Escott, Age 15
Excitedly dashing home wanting to decree, decree, decree.
Everyone must listen to me, to me, to me.
About the galaxy where there’s no gravity, gravity, gravity.
Wouldn’t stop talking about the universe and the planets we want to see, to see, to see.
Finally drifted off to sleep his dream was blank, blank, blank.
He could see some little lights but his dream was not yet frank, frank, frank.
Excited and now in space, but the space debris was mank, mank, mank.
Sitting on mercury roasting mash mallows on the sun. STICK ON FIRE! Give it a yank,yank, yank.
Arriving at Venus, no welcome in sight only rough red rocks that drove me away quickly, quickly, quickly.
Dashing from Venus and staggered on to Earth the bubbly sea quenched his thirst and made his throat tickly, tickly, tickly.
Landing on mars to cool down my drink using the ice pockets but the ice shards were prickly, prickly, prickly.
As I bounced to Jupiter I felt like I was being watched by the planets eye. Turbulence from Jupiter turned my ice
water to a slush puppy but now it tastes sickly, sickly, sickly.
Round and round on Saturn’s rings, but the rings were made out of all sorts of uncomfortable things, things, things.
Ur anus was laughed at and also wretched at, so he floated off like he had wings, wings, wings.
Neptune was skipped past even faster than Ur anus because of the trump gas it possessed and now my eye stings,
stings, stings. Stressed and frustrated because his eye was hurt so he picks up Pluto and he flings, flings, flings.
His mouth drops open because he’s so amazed by the Milky Way, then a bunch of rocks fly into his mouth choke, splutter, spit!
Falling on his knees his head is sucked into a black hole that has been sitting there like a silent hoover bump, voom, suck!
It pulls the rocks out of the boys mouth, then boom, bang, gasp!
A brilliant flash of light and the boy wakes up!
© Flaym Davis-Turner, Age 9
Truth served on a plate
As with every other morning
Scrambled eggs and baked beans
Mixed with salt that hurts the wound
I drink Patience every morning
So that it would enter into my system
Orange juice acid in the stomach
Lunch comes in a box
Amongst packets of crackers and cheese
There lies Hope
Sandwiched between all the irrelevant
The oven ‘dings’
A loud piercing sound that has
Gifted upon the table a carved chicken
Stuffed with Faith
That has roasted till brown
Yet becomes delightful in the mouth
I eat and drink what is to become of me
© Tanya T, Age 17
An Old-fangled Reminder
Tattered and torn.
An old-fangled reminder
of the earlier times,
lies on the floor in bits.
Telling a story unheard of.
It all seems like a puzzle to me.
I try to gather the bits of photographs and rearrange it.
I see our picture , with all smiles on our trip to the Essel world.
I was 8 yrs old then.
Long tousled hair, your radiant smile still smittens me.
You were there with me on that rainbow ride.
I was petrified to go on the huge ride .
But you held my hand,
Lets go on that ride, you said.
You always knew my fears.
And like on the ride ,
You always held my hand
Whenever I was in need of one.
Always ready to sacrifice
In your own beautiful way.
But I let you down .
And I think I lost your trust.
We live together ,
We share the same dining space,
Yet I feel miles apart.
I cry when it’s dark,
You cry when it’s dark.
Now all I have are memories,
Like the old-fangled reminder
Of the earlier times,
Of the happier times.
But with all my might,
With all the courage that still lives with me.
I just want to let you know
With all the sacrifices you made for me,
and all that I’d taken for granted
That I have loved you and
I always will to deep down my soul.
And I hope , I will some day
be able to say this to you.
“Thank you for always being there for me, Mom”.
© Reesha Masood, Age 18
Here is where we begin
the start of a bloom I wished I had fully grasped.
I yearned for the sun to spring upon
A flower with petals I could kiss
Delicate; Fragile at the same time
Then you arrived
Like summer in winter –
No promised roses
But curves in the collarbone I had found familiar
Planting my lips on those cheeks
Six hundred and twenty times till the last
In a world like ours
You spoke a different language of love
That confuses me amidst the seasons
Then here is where we end
No longer came calm seas or oceans
With Mulan and rosewood boats
Instead, salty tears running down
Like the Yangtze River
Watering and planting half-truths
Lies, white lies, or everything in between
I apologize for a cold summer.
© Tanya T, Age 17
Green fields, flies and flees.
Our home. One by one- bees, coldness, mosquitoes and darkness; invade my room.
Each tiny predator, pushing, puncturing-beating me.
Holding me hostage.
Silly me, you left the widows and doors wide open.
Again. I trusted you’d try to close them. But you didn’t.
You’ve welcomed in demons.
you ran into the wild woods without glancing back once.
© Rahela Khatun, Age 17
To someone very dear to me,
I can feel your heart beating fast but gently in my ears.
It’s grazed and barely half alive, a piercing cry and pleas beseeching ‘make the pain stop’ you didn’t tell me,
the dysfunctional beats of your worn out heart did.
I hold your hand, they’re not yours they feel aged and no longer full of life- not young or vibrant like you should be,
rather, like an old piano left gathering dust in a corner.
like they’ve been dipped in your own head drowning it in the process a million times.
And your eyes, your eyes that once shone brighter than the moon now looks like they’ve been hunting for demons all night.
Wide awake just to keep me and the others alive. And every time I look at you I see a frozen river,
colder than ice staining the delicate structure fashioned so perfectly.
If I look deep, and search not your heart but mind I could see right into you.
I see broken brain cells crackled and popped. Toyed around with for ages.
And I see no atoms alive hopeful for life. Your mouth punctured and stitched into a frown.
You do not have to be afraid anymore, I know I can’t change the trauma but I’m here…
Love, your not so little sister.
© Rahela Khatun, Age 17
A Patients Waiting Room
Can you just get on the plane and leave already.
The void between us is making the air so heavy.
Why is life time’s enemy? Out of all the adjectives and plosives and onomatopoeic phrases to be used,
why can I not find the correct conglomerate of words to build a sentence with to help me tell you how I feel.
I can’t deal with the anxiety.
You; sat next to me in the airport breathing oh so scarcely.
Your emotions are strangling my neck holding me down, trapping all the profound words of love I should utter.
I need you to keep me in balance for the tears building may knock me over.
Ironically, I am here so that you have a hand to hold. I try to look you in the eye, the hands of time ticking ever so slowly.
You’ve been summoned by the Lord, and you need to go, we stand and hug for a while, you offer me a manipulative smile.
I try to speak but there’s nothing in me, i stagger across my own tongue,
for the bullets I shoot are going to be punctured in me, not you because you are a rock,
and I cannot see me in you. so I say nothing, hoping the silence will suffice.
Before you turn to leave I manage to say “don’t wait for me, we might not end up in the same place,
but if we do then I’ll be standing near the gates”.
I want your last moment in this world to be like the feeling when you’re on the plane on your way home.
© Rahela Khatun, Age 17
their silence screams something stronger.
How many footsteps on these floors,
bodies in these beds?
How many conversations in these corridors,
emotions in these empty spaces?
the chemicals bleach away our whispers of concern.
A pin drops
and echoes; still.
and moves and leaves
and we cannot be sure if it was ever really there.
©Martha O’Brien, Age 16
Sometimes I feel like a marionette
Toyed with and taunted by you
A pull, a pluck, a pinch of a wire
Again I am all askew
A knot, a tangle, a twist
A dysfunctional playmate worn thin
A painted on smile to hide the chagrin
Abandoned, utterly dismissed
Beyond my control
© Tasha Bharucha, Age 16
You dance alone,
Wind blowing the leaves
You stand tall on your throne.
You provide life
Mother of all,
We breathe your sweetness
Until we fall.
Don’t be sorry,
You’ve killed the life,
Which will kill us all,
Chop, chop, chop,
Breathe no more.
© Kirsty Faure, Age 16
Art in the Garden
A Man on a Mission
© Cameron West, Age 17
Revised Personal Essay
I feel happy here, I feel loved, I have friends, I am always
running off to a friend’s house to play, skipping to the pool or
prancing off into the woods to have another adventure.
Everyone’s naive right now. My friends and I have no clue what race is.
And if we do, we have my dog idea. None of us discriminate;
none of us make subtle racist remarks…(full story here)
© Jorge Perez, Age 15
one time there was a boo boo guy
and the boo boos were all over town
then the poem came to town
and one day it got to town
and started to move
and the poem
got out of apples!
and then they couldn’t make apple juice
then the poem,
he started again to move
© Jonny Barbieri, Age 3
It was late, but Johnny didn’t notice, he just knew everything around him was
soaked in black. He slipped his overcoat off of one arm and returned the bent
cigarette to his mouth before slipping out of the other sleeve. After smoothing the
coat over his forearm he groped the wall for the light switch, letting his fingertips
rest over the telltale cold metal plating… (full story here)
© Miller R. Murray, Age 18
I was raised by the bullfrogs
that lay idle under the winter sun
and damaged every metal vehicle
that dared honk at them
they taught me to release
my unnaturally low voice,
labeled as so unlady-like
that’s what my mother taught me.
but my croaky voice
is my trademark. the throaty
vibrations echo as far as the cows
upstate; my lover swears he can
hear it in his dreams
the bullfrogs taught me that every voice
deserves to be heard by every
succeeding generation and every
word that leaves my lips
must be worthy of all adulation and admiration
no words must be wasted,
no syllable must be thrown away,
no punctuation mark must be disregarded,
no voice should be silenced from the world.
© Patricia P, Age 14
King, listen to my plea:
the crops are dying and people
are crying for the Lord as they flee
the chains that are snaking
the ground, making their way
to the ankles of those who have no refuge
King, look outside your windows
that are graced with stained glass:
the seeds that have been sown
by the blood of our ancestors
now reside in the roots of wilted
bushes and desolate land—
no fruit can be bore
if there are no farmers to till the land
if the stench of death
lingers in the air
King, for once in your reign,
take off your crown, remove the stern
look of authority on your face;
your subjects are on their knees
they are praying and saying
that they will see paradise soon
your inaction, your inability to act
has resulted in the one and only fact
that your kingdom is falling apart
and what was once the heart of it all
is now the reason for its destruction
© Patricia P, Age 14
I want cherry blossoms to fall before my eyes, like the graceful raindrops that fall for her.
I want to don the persona of a likable person as if I could hide mine.
I want to sigh because of her love, not because of her absence.
I hold my hand out in the darkness, helplessly hoping for a warm hand, while I recieve that of a
Minds deceive and desire, but souls demand, because they know best.
It wants her to extinguish the fire that is my paranoia kindled by my past.
It wants her to fend off the solitude that I’ve trained like a soldier to ward off the jacks and the
jokers, for she will be my only queen.
It wants her to turn this hopeless game of solitaire into a game of poker, and on the table is my
sanity, my judgement, and my love and hers.
With it, I could buy a sunset, a dinner for two, a feeling of love, and two rings to seal it.
It could all be mine!
No, it could all be ours.
But, this is fantasy.
For now, it’s a spiral back to hell, with a cold shot of whiskey to numb the pain of my words for
her being ripped from my stillbeating
heart and being strewn across campus.
It’s back to the river for me, because no cherry blossoms fall on the Styx.
© Caelum Lefevers, Age 15
If you are happy and you know it
Mix, Mix, Mix
© Maanya Gadeela, Age 2
How I know my heart
I’ve seen my heart
on a very special machine.
jelly on my tummy.
They can beat differently.
like a lion in my chest.
My sound is excitingly rare.
© Alexia Rachael, Age 6
Why Such A Hurry
Tugging on his hand, I groaned, “Hurry, papa,”
He shrugged, his eyes smiling at me
“Why such a hurry?” he questioned
I stopped short, unsure of my words
He laid his wise fingers atop my head, looking up at the sky
“Hear the wind?”
“You can’t hear wind, papa,”
He covered my eyes, and I heard it
Rusting leaves and bird calls
Ah, so this is what the wind sounds like
“Smell the sun?”
“You can’t smell the sun, papa,”
I sniffed the air, and there it was
Fresh and crisp, the scent of the bright spring sun
Ah, so this is what the sun smells like
“Feel the life?”
I took his hand, engulfing the atmosphere
Warm, wrinkled and calm
Ah, so this is what life feels like
“Why such a hurry?” he repeated
© Abby, age 14
A.R.O Plane Heroes And The White World (full story here)
© Krish Misra, age 7
Roses are red
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
No you won’t predict what I shall do,
A pot is brown,
Some chairs are blue,
Clothing is White and are you too?
Leaves are green,
Birds are black,
And do you know whats after that?
But none of this matters,
Not all of all of that,
What matters is you,
And have you any idea what’s inside that?
© Eva Ford, age 9
The following poems written by the children of Class 2 at Henleaze Primary School (Mrs Mumford’s class Year Six class) The poems were all written in response to the following poem by the American poet William Carlos Williams:
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold Sue introduced the poem during a workshop at the school (for Threshold Prize) and as the children had been focusing on climate change as a topic in school she encouraged the children to write “Poems of apology to the earth”.
I’m really sorry
Dear Mr R. Forest,
I’m so very sorry I
bought my new book this weekend.
It was a very good book though,what you might
call a page turner.
I finished it in 2 hours 23 mins.
I’m really sorry I caused more deforestation
and cut down one of your friends.
Dear Mr. Polarbear
I am extremely sorry for the foolish behaviour, of myself and mankind.
This morning I stumbled out of bed,
I rapidly sprinted around the house!
You see Mr. Polarbear I did not mean you any harm,
but as I arrived, late for school,
I realised what I had done!
I am so sorry and I will never forget the feeling of when I forgot to turn out the lights!
I’m sorry Earth.
I’ve been so bad
Learning how to drive with dad.
It’s just so fun!
I can’t resist.
I should’ve given you some interest
I’m sorry that
the other day
I put some paper
in the bin
instead of in the recycling
So I’m asking you to forgive
me World for my
recklessness and waste
it won’t happen again
Promise, pinky promise,
Promise with all my heart
This is just to say
I’m sorry for driving
to school today.
It’s just that I
was in a hurry to
get to school.
Please forgive me
my Mum decided to
I tried to change her mind.
She refused to cycle
and forced me into
Dear Mother Nature,
I am so sorry,
for that handful of litter,
but it wasn’t my fault!
I was abducted,
by a ferocious green man,
and you see,
There was nothing I could do,
He turned me upside down,
It drifted out of my pocket,
into the drain!
I’m very sorry
that I left
the light on
in my bedroom
This was all
a big mistake
I regret my actions
this will never
please forgive me
I am sorry
I am very sorry
That I left you on when I went
out I am wasting electricity.
It is like I am throwing it
away like your nothing.
Because of this I am
killing polar bears
and other animals.
I am very sorry
please forgive me.
Why did I do that?
I’m extremely sorry,
so sorry for poaching
and killing your home.
I should have checked
if it was sustainable,
maybe if I’d read the label.
I’ve encouraged them to
destroy your habitat
and I don’t think it
will stop at that.
Why oh why am I
why oh why did I do that.
A foolish toss!
I threw a recycleable piece
of paper in the normal bin.
I was playing a game of paper
toss. I was aiming for the recycling bin and missed
and I didn’t get it out.
Please forgive me, it
was selfish and irresponsible and is
destroying our forests and
Why did I do this
I am so sorry
I left my light on
When I went to have my tea
When I had done this
I turned it off as soon as I realised
I know you are not happy not happy at all
This will not happen ever again
By Loli Baird
I am sorry
This is a little letter to say
how sorry we are for cutting
down your forests.
I’m sorry I am useless at drawing
but my teacher makes me do it again and again.
Even though I tell it ruins you. I do I do.
It wastes paper and is picking you off
like ducks at a fair.
Pleeeeeeease forgive me.
Collaborative poem from the children of Class 3, Henleaze Primary School (Mr Burge’s Class)
has blazing suns crashing
exquisite multicoloured grass
diamond tootsie roses,
clowns eating quavers,
sky aliens, flying cows,
flaming weather beaten mango asteroids,
happy pink ninjas,
a funky platypus laughing flamboyantly,
sagging miniscule realms,
knife twisting gorillas,
a cold vindictive hand.
Someone fighting for their life.
Can you hear?
The screams pounding in my ears.
Can you taste?
The bitterness of tears from pain you can’t express.
Can you feel?
Loneliness that you can’t explain.
Have you ever?
Walked alone for miles.
Think before you speak.
Give back what you took.
Whether that be,
Or even purity.
Because even now, you still don’t think.
© Samantha Schumer, age 14
A Short Story From Isabella French
Life is so boring. There’s nothing to do. Wait!, hang on a minute, what’s that noise? It is so loud and I
suddenly feel icy old. A Tornado? No, it can’t be.
It’s just a …………………. yes, it is a Tornado!
Panic! Where am I? I was at home in England, playing in my garden, everything is bright, am I in
the white shirt on the washing line? Or tangled in the toilet paper perhaps? No. It’s the, ….. the
Tornado sucking me up, whirling me around like a washing machine!
I suddenly saw my Dad looking as small as an ant “Dad, Dad!” I called. I managed to look over the
Tornado. “Mum! Mu-, wow! I’m in America!” I looked over the side again and saw (full story here)
© Isabella French, age 7
A Short Story From Shaylee Rosnes
They tell me I was left on their doorstep when I was a baby, but I don’t believe them. I mean
I know I was adopted because I look nothing like my parents, but left on their doorstep I doubt it.
Although to be quite honest I’m not sure what to believe anymore. My parents never talk about my
real mom. (They were kind enough to tell me that my real father died of cancer right after my mom got
pregnant with me.) So since they never talk about her I’m hoping to at least get her name out of them so
I can go find her myself….(full story here)
© Shaylee Rosnes, age 16