hexagons

Some call it “just kicking a ball”

but I call it

a part of my soul,

my heart.

A part of 

who I am.

On the field,

as I dive

for the save,

my eyes sparkle

black and white.

Pupils shaped like

hexagons, the blur of them

that I see

every time a beautiful shot

is taken on me.

I stand tall, firm,

in my goal,

on my line,

in my space.

Everything is mine

on my field,

my turf

that I call home.

Because it’s where

I’m often found,

I’m often happy,

I’m often saving 

shot after shot,

reaching out for

dive after dive,

jumping up for

high ball after high ball.

Where I make

mistake after mistake,

where I’ve learned and grown

for the last ten years.

It’s funny

how what once was “just kicking a ball”

became something

I can’t imagine myself without.

I don’t know who I'd be

without those black and white hexagons.

Comments

Music's True Nature

Beautifully complex

Yet seemingly simple

It flows from fingers and mouths

It flows from metal and wood

It floats on the breeze

Swaying the leaves in the trees

A bow on a string

A mouth singing in harmony

Air leaving a mouth

Traveling through a tube

And transforming into beautiful notes

Haunting

Yet gorgeous

Melancholy

But hopeful

Emotions of every kind

Words no one dares to speak

A story to tell

In every piece

Music can heal

It can say more than a thousand words

It can help you connect

Understand

And grow

I play violin

And in every piece

There is a peace I cannot describe

There is a hope too strong to tell

And there is a story told

With every note

For me

Music is beauty

It is connection

And it is emotion

Music is so much

I don't even know how to say

Comments

This was really well done. It perfectly captures how I feel when I play my instrument too, and it was a great description of something that can be really hard to describe! :)

A Sort of Ode to Joy

I got home from work at nine o’clock and decided that I would go down, through the gate, across the creek–socks mushy all of a sudden in my Adidas sneakers–and into the meadow for a walk without stopping to see anyone. My brother was home, my parents were not, and the breeze felt too light to matter, as if there’d be no difference if I stayed inside or left for a walk, it’d still be hot. So I left for a walk. 

Swish, swush. My shoes made squishy sounds as I walked up the road. Work shoes, unused to a long walk. Stiff. I felt my toes cramp as I crested a small hill, teeth digging into the skin of my cheek. 

I walked a little ways until I passed the first few cottonwood trees, bare now that they had released what clung to their branches. The breeze raised a few pieces of bark that were barely hanging on, pushing them up until they waved like leaves. I took a few moments to watch how they moved. 

One. I could see little lines of healthy green on the underside of the bark, bright even against the pink-white-orange sky. 

Two. The trees all swayed a little, so it almost seemed like they were dancing, flyaway pieces of themselves like little pieces of thread on a sweater, pulling away from too much motion. 

Three. Birds had made little scratches, almost grooves, into the trunks, and they made such perfect lines that I could only think of pleats, schoolgirl uniforms with starched skirts like in the movies. 

“What’re you looking at?” I hadn’t heard him approach.

“The trees,” I said, eyes ahead. I wondered if they looked glassy. I could feel the tears gathering in the soft inner corners of my eyes, some sort of emotion heavy enough to make my throat burn. “They’re alive.”

“You’ve noticed,” he said, biting the skin of his own cheek to stifle what I believe was a laugh at my expense. “Paid attention in science class. Good for you.”

My lips tilted toward my chin–with my lips closed, my smile was switched, upside down. “Thanks.” Don’t ask me what I got on my ACT was on the tip of my tongue, but he knew. It was low. 

We stood in silence for a moment. The breeze picked up a little, made itself substantial, and I shivered in my thin, black work shirt. I brought my hands up and crossed my arms, cupping each opposite elbow.

“It’s eighty degrees.”

“No, it’s not. You’re a walking furnace.”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked it. “Seventy three. Same difference. Are you seriously cold?”

I bit down on the inner skin of my lower lip and nodded. “No. Maybe? You don’t feel anything?”

“Walking furnace, remember?” He glanced at me sideways. “You’re shivering. That’s crazy.”

I laughed a little. “I’ve been standing here, in the shade, for probably the last ten minutes without moving. Also, I spent a lot of time in the walk-in.”

“Like, the freezer?”

“Fridge. It’s like, forty degrees, though.”
“You could argue that that’s a freezer.”

I turned and looked at him fully. “Did you come here to argue with me about my body temperature and the semantics of electric appliances, or do you want something in particular?”

He grinned his long, slow grin. Lazy, like the cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland. “Am I not allowed to be doing both?”
I groaned. “I was going to take a walk.”

He nudged me forward. “I’ll come with you.”

“You’re annoying.”

You called me.

“Two weeks ago. And I thanked whatever God shining on me at that particular moment that you didn’t pick up.”

“Oho. Who’s arguing now?”

I kicked him in the ankle. “Both of us. Fine, come on.”

We made a couple of strides forward, stepping over and around rocks and branches in our way, gravitating toward each other but not quite touching. His curls brushed against mine and they mutated into a mega-curl. When the strands pulled apart sparks tickled my neck, all static. 

“How was work?” He asked, kicking a rock out of his way with accidental force. “You didn’t say anything specific about it, just that you were in the free–fridge a lot.” That grin again, looooooong and slow. “Anything memorable?”

“It was okay,” I said, the Claritin I had taken a day ago choosing that moment to wear off, making my nose run. I wiped the snot away with the back of my hand. “I got off early. Had to help the cooks put away the extra stuff, made a fifty dollar tip.”

His thick eyebrows rose. “Hey, that’s good–fifty bucks.”

“Yeah.”

We made it to the fork in the road. One way we could go led up, through a copse of trees, and back down to the path. The other way was more even ground, but narrower, with an edge you could tumble down, and meandered over to a little incline, at the top of which the two paths then met. In the middle, there was a pond, thick with gunk. 

“Which way?” I asked. “Intruder gets to decide.”
He laughed. “Intruder? I have a name.”

I nodded, that heavy emotion back. “I know.”
I could hear the thick slide of spit when he swallowed, almost comical. “And?”

I said his name, quiet and gentle. It gave his big mouth some sort of pause, and we didn’t speak for about thirty seconds, just stood there while the air darkened. 

After a moment, he spoke. “I’m cold.”

“I told you.”

He took my hand. “Warm me up?”

I shook my head, but let him pull me in. “Terrible line.”

“Two weeks away from you. I’m out of practice.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He pressed his lips to the top of my head. “I know.”

We stood like that for a few moments, holding each other. 

One. I could feel his heartbeat, hard and fast through the fabric of his blue t-shirt. 

Two. The breeze picked up enough that my teeth had started chattering. 

Three. His hands slid under the fabric at my back and pressed against my skin, almost fever hot. 

Comments

This Summer! The Tomorrow Project

The Tomorrow Project is a chance to explore and speak out about human rights, democracy, ethics, the climate crisis. Join us this summer to write and create art around the current issues of today – with hope and solutions for tomorrow. Challenges, cash prizes, publication, and exhibits! 

 TOMORROW PROJECT CONTEST CHALLENGES


CONTEST DETAILS: 

  • Open to teens, 13-19, who have a YWP account. (It's free to join!)
  • ​Must be original work and not published elsewhere. No AI.
  • Respond to the Tomorrow Project challenges in the writing genre or artistic medium of your choice. No limit to number of submissions.
  • Six grand prizes of $250 to be awarded in October 2025.
  • Prize winners and honorable mentions will have opportunities for publication in YWP's digital magazine and anthology and with media partners.
  • Deadline for all Tomorrow Project challenges is Oct. 1, 2025.

[Photo credit: "By" by IceBlink, YWP Archive]

This summer, write and create art for The Tomorrow Project, a series of writing and visual art challenges that explore the issues of today – with hope and solutions for tomorrow. Cash prizes, publication, and exhibits!

 TOMORROW PROJECT  challenges

Subscribe to