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 firstname.lastname@example.org
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 email@example.com 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!
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