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Young Writers On Love and Silence

Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with audiences through the Newspaper Series (and youngwritersproject.org) and the Schools Project (ywpschools.net). YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing. If you would like to donate to YWP, please go to youngwritersproject.org/support.

YWP News

Every year, YWP publishes an anthology of the year’s best student writing and photos.

On Nov. 9, we will toast the publication of Anthology 5 with a day of celebration and free writing workshops at the Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpelier. Special keynote speaker is author M.T. Anderson, winner of the National Book Award for Young People’s Literature. Register today at youngwritersproject.org/celebration2013.

Can you hear me?

I stop, staring at this little old lady sitting on the park bench. Of course I can, but I’m really too busy to sit and chat. Besides, she doesn’t even know me. Why would she want to talk to me, someone who’s clearly got too little time to waste with her. I lift my feet to continue, already calculating how long it’ll take me to get to my meeting. Maybe if I run ...

Sit down, please.

This time, I know she’s talking to me. Her eyes are clear blue, and are totally focused, unlike all the old people I see. And they’re looking right at me, piercing me with this look that says, “You’re not too busy to talk to me for a bit.” My heart gives a little twinge, as if already resigning itself to this lady, and thus to being late.

I sit down on the bench, shifting uncomfortably, trying to get as far as possible from this lady as the two-person bench will allow. My briefcase bounces on my lap as my legs jitter in anticipation. I’ll be running. That is for sure.

Her voice creaks, like she hasn’t spoken in a while. And she begins to tell me her life. How she grew up during the Depression. How she fell in love with a man 10 years her senior, and married. How he broke her heart, like she knew he would, and how he had a name she loved: Richard …

She whispers something into my ears … tears roll down my face, falling onto my briefcase and turning that shiny brown leather to a dark dull black. I turn to look at her, to ask her to repeat those words I haven’t had spoken to me in at least thirty years and a lifetime ago, but she’s gone. I curl up on the bench, and cry.

I love you, son.

Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.org/node/84127

My foggy ventures clouded up the glass

Distorted in my mind my greatest thoughts

Condensation formed with hand on task

For this no more time I will allot

As the thorns they pierced my withered hands

Blinding weary bonds to set me free

Of my once pursued and wondered trance

Back to where one’s mind does wish to be

Can it be, no, time will only tell

Crystalized, no theory set in place

Was it the wind to catch me when I fell

They come, in time, to watch my fall from grace

If I could see, would you, my friendship take

Fiery, like the ice that’s set in stone

Judging, if a judge I truly make

Silent, yes I’m silent to the bone

The world is one stressful place being in Tsarist Russia and of the lower middle class. I am a rather tall fellow, and I am told that I am rather androgynous. The ridicule from people as a child was demoralizing, and I decided to separate myself from others and from that. I have a different perception of things from the average person. I find beauty in a freshly crafted blade or horseshoe, rather than things that “normal” people find beautiful. They scare me to death. I have encountered situations that still to this day make me cringe: the sight of a baby puppy, a meadow of flowers, but the worst was the sunset on January 22, 1892….

Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.org/node/84998

They stare at me, with eyes of a child,

curious yet confused,

never knowing why I look

so heartbroken,

so lost, so distressed, so alone.

My trembling hand clutches his locket

as I sit as still as stone,

looking at the page in front of me, no longer legible.

The tears escape my eyes, slowly running down my face,

smearing the words, causing them

to collide, constructing a puddle of ink,

yet I know every word written.

The words swirl in my head, “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead,” like a tornado at full speed.

The repetition never stops, creating a sensation of loneliness.

The people that stare don’t know what I have been through,

the pain I have endured,

the days of suffering.

If only I could reach out of my 30 x 30 confinement and tell them,

tell them he is dead; that he died for his country,

that he was everything I had,

but I cannot;

I am trapped in time,

never moving forward, never changing, trapped in this one picture,

forever heartbroken, forever distressed, forever without him,

I will always be lost.