The Voice, YWP's Premiere Publication

Each month, Young Writers Project publishes the best work -- words, images and sound -- of this community. This premiere publication features writing from community members from all over the world and reaches 15,000 individual IP addresses a month, a good deal more than 15,000 humans who spend a lot of time reading AND they come back to finish! Help us get more readers! Spread the word -- and the link: -- on social media, on your email signature, in emails to friends!

The selections for this magazine are made by YWP staff, volunteer professionals, mentors and Community Leaders on the site. If you'd like to participate, contact Susan Reid. 

Feel free to add sound and images to your posts! That will make this magazine even better.  To view it, click here.


Aug 16

The Voice - August 2018

Special Summer of Stories issue! Enjoy!

Jun 04

The Voice - June 2018

A TRIBUTE to MGMC (& all about Voices for Change!)

Apr 23

The Voice - April/May 2018

Enjoy this beautiful issue of The Voice! 

Mar 19

The Voice -- March 2018

WHAT DO YOU THINK? Please click "read more" and put a comment on the side. THANKS. Your reactions are important. Be heard.
Mar 19

The Voice -- March 2018

 The Voice -- February 2018


WHAT DO YOU THINK? We need you to comment and tell us what you think of this month's magazine. THANKS. Just comment on the side.

Feb 08

The Voice- February 2018

Jan 16

The Voice - January 2018

Dec 05

Nov/Dec 2017 Issue

Aug 14

Wild Blackberries for Early August

There were thorns involved
and so with careful fingers 
the firm, deep purple berries
were pulled off stalks,
held in palms,
and eaten.

It reminded her of birds 
when they delicately land
on thorn bushes.
Tiny toes splayed,
balancing the sharp mountains
in between skin.

Blackberry picking was a slow, methodical process, one that could last hours
if let alone.  

And she was alone;
reaching with night-stained fingers, 
for another jewel 
draping towards the ground,
adding it to the collection of savored
things from summer afternoons.

Cool ponds,
tiny caterpillars,
dirty calloused feet. 

They were simple and achievable 
and are the things she remembers 
20 years from now. 

Blackberry picking 
in early August. 

Aug 14
poem 2 comments challenge: General
Lynnez's picture

Day Dreaming

Aug 12

Abandoned Robin egg + nest

Two robins recently moved out. The other eggs (three I think) hatched fine. We don't know what happened with this one.
Aug 10

49 flames.

It is sometimes that i realize how much 

I love him

Like when I am supposed to be 


But instead i am lying awake listening

To him bustle about 

The kitchen underneath 


And i catch 

A small smile 

Tugging at me 

As he hums—

albeit off key—

a tune that i once sung to him. 

Or when i am in the car and 

I can feel his voice vibrating in

The leather seats as 

We swerve down the road. 

(his hands never were steady.) 

it comes to me when i embrace him, 

inhaling the smell of coffee beans and lost sleep lingering on his cotton shirt. 

It’s when i daydream of when i used to beg to ride on his shoulders, and when i cry silently when he seems lost in his own 



Aug 01
poem 1 comment challenge: Elephants

The little girl

Once there was a little girl
who had an elephant.

it is not clear how it came about,
but she loved it.

one day she decided that she wanted
to go to the house up the street,

where the humans were,
for she lived with others,

people she had created out of ink and paper,
enchanted and kind, but untouchable.

she came up to the door,
and read the sign that hung on the door.

read the sign in the big bold letters.

she looked at her elephant,
with eyes made of rain and chocolate,

and sat on the stoop and began to think,
grabbing a pen and paper.

the people inside the house read the little girl's paper,
the paper that was stuck on the door,

some began to weep for what they had lost
to get into the house.

some began to long, long for the outside world
Jul 24
poem 0 comments challenge: Stairs
Kittykatruff's picture


Suddenly, I'm awake.
I'm not 
where I fell asleep.
I'm not
in my bed, 
in my room,
at home.
I'm at a place
I never thought 
I'd see again,
Or want
to see again.
here I was, am.
The rain pours down,
half-sleet, half-water,
pitter-pattering on the roof
of my old school.
It's not frozen enough
to do any real damage,
it feels colder 
and sharper
than their words had,
through my confidence
and Hope
and heart—
so I ran.
I ran to the stairs
and sat,
nearly oblivious 
To the puddle 
I was sitting in,
to the kid staring
At me
through the window of a
passing car.
I now walk 
to that girl
Sitting on the stairs,
the girl I used to be,
The girl I gave up on.
I know what happens next,
And I don't want to watch.
Yet I do.
My eyes are frozen
Jul 22
poem 0 comments challenge: Silence
Icarus Blackmore's picture

The Silence of Noise

Burned Down-
An old motel lay,
Just a pile of
Ashes and soot.

Kids clambered
To the windows.
In such a hurry,
They forgot smoke drifts.
It slipped in,
Stinging eyes and throats.

Still, kids clambered,
Eager to see,
What lay before them.
Sirens cried out,
As the bus drove away,
From the smoldering remains,
And the smoke that danced above.

Quiet Reigned-
Code Red Drill.
Words we’d all
Heard before.

Kids silent,
Except for a cough,
Or a stifled laugh.
They sat ears and eyes clear.

This was the norm after all,
No need to clammer,
No need to cry out,
As the principal stepped away.
From the smoldering remains,
Of a ruined foundation,
And the smoke that danced above.

For us, tragedy is as normal,
As the motel standing,
While hope has become,
A spectacle akin to fire.
Jul 21



the age-old yet new

flamingo would be half dead

if it was alive

dug into the half live

ground, it is the end

of beach ball

and a deflated


or maybe inflated winter

it is hard to tell falling

through sideways

history. I stood on the tattered

concrete and the painted over grass

of old England or new Florida

wondering if any young Alice

wielded the queen’s

mallet when the lawn was croquette

trimmed enough to

put through, cut through

the maze of white and red and black

blood dried up, wondering if any old

Alice is sat inside desiccating,

pouring emptiness

into a tea cup stained

by the dregs of

evaporated mercury

as everything here is

plastic sagging
Audio download:
Jul 19
poem 0 comments challenge: Silence
GabriellaF's picture

The Quiet

The quiet comes
like a cat stalking prey

It sits hanging in the air
reminding of loneliness and pain.
Traping, suffocating, killing
with its emptiness
Jul 12
sophie.d's picture

Little toes

I stood in the sea
little toes mushing into
waterlogged sand. 

Deep gray waves
crisscross crashed 
under the charcoal blanket
woven of clouds.

The tide pulled at my
blue tinted ankle bones
and the wind whipped
a hair cloud around my face.

Raindrops began to pla plunk 
into white tipped water
which blossomed with
overlapping ripples 

Black clouds tightened 
around my head
and the wind edged me
towards the hungry sea.

I wondered
What did the universe do
to anger the earth
into this howling fashion? 

The sand trembled
shaking seaweed out
of its mineral pores
And the water danced
frenzied spirals
through my little toes.

Here I am
in the middle of the sea
catching the sky's sorrow.