Young Writers Share Winter Tales That Will Be Performed
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).
To be performed Thursday, Dec. 5, 7:30 p.m. The wind nipped my face as I flew down the hill. I’m skiing, I’m skiing! What a thrill!
My parallel skis glided through the snow, making deep tracks in the powder. Go! Go! Go!
I raced past fellow skiers, laughing with glee. Faster! Faster! Ski, ski, ski!
I flew by a skier, and when I saw her face, I knew I had found my competition and we started to race.
We ripped down the hill, the whole time side by side, and when we reached the bottom together, I realized we had tied.
To be performed Saturday, Dec. 7, 7:30 p.m.
Looking out at the snow-covered ground,
there is so much running through my mind.
And as snow falls silently, I realize
winter is coming without making a sound.
Trees are covered in a glistening white;
everything looks peaceful and cold.
I wonder how harsh the winter will be,
and how cold the frost will bite.
And as soon as it arrives, I wish for it to leave,
the harsh winter cold that fills the air.
Oh, but the sight, that it can surely spare,
and the holiday feel that fills your home.
As I sit here by the warmth of the fire,
looking out at the white unknown,
I think to myself, this isn’t all that bad,
on the inside looking out.
T o be performed Saturday, Dec. 7, 7:30 p.m.
Snow drifting from the sky
Falling on those who walk by
Ten stories down;
Beneath her window.
Shades drawn to conceal
Never opening to reveal
The pale and worn visage
That once was a face.
Winter for her
Has lost all of its allure;
When the first snowflakes fall
She shuts her window.
But forget the fires
That others admire
In other apartments
On other streets,
She lives privately,
Studying the wall attentively;
She never sees the snow
Just outside her window
Because of repeated wishes
And unwashed dishes
Floating in the filthy water
Clogging her sink.
Outside, people walk by,
Free, and happy to defy
The biting cold in warm rooms, just
Across the street from her window,
But she remains hidden,
In the frigid air
Of her one room.
Making barely enough to pay rent,
She scrabbles with her one cent
To find a way to pay
Her way out of this room with one window.
Winter is not a happy time
For her single last dime
Clinking into the pot
That used to contain gold.
But the cold sucked dry
Everything she had to get by
So now she sits alone and freezing
Staying away from her closed window.
And she wishes she could repent
And not remember how much she was lent
To live in the crumbling hellhole
That she liked to call home.
So she sits quietly,
Shivering, but waiting politely
For the spring to come
And send slanting rays of warmth through her window.
Closed eyes and smiling mouth,
Dreaming of days in the south
When she doesn’t quake and shiver
And everything she wants
Is right outside her window.