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.


Sep 20

The Voice - Fall 2018

Young Writers Project proudly presents The Voice! 
Aug 16

The Voice - August 2018

Special Summer of Stories issue! Enjoy!

Jul 17

The Voice - July 2018

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

Dec 10
Sydney_Kulis's picture

every day

my mother is a teacher to 7 year olds.
she brings home stories about their funny thoughts about the world,
whether or not santa is real,
when they accidentally swear
and them peeing their pants from excitement.
the other day when she came home,
she didn’t have a funny story,
a man had walked into her school without checking in with the office.
so over the loudspeaker they asked if the
“man without identification could come to the main office."
my mother had students and one of her 7 year olds looked up at her and asked:
“is this our shooter?”
this kid is 7 years old.
she looked at him and explained that they didn’t have a shooter.
she finished her story and flopped down on the couch.
i sat down next to her and leaned on her shoulder.
then i began to think.
do we all have a school shooter?
the next week we got a threat.
and another threat was made to another school,
Dec 10
poem 1 comment challenge: Snow
Emma Colby's picture

Snow on the Mountain

The old chairlift creaked and swayed gently
as the crisp morning flurries nipped at the rosy, red cheeks of the young girl.
Her grandmother sat to the left and her grandfather to the right.
Both of them had their arms wrapped tightly around her, attempting to keep her warm.
They sat in silence and watched the mountain grow in front of them.
The bright sun illuminated every aspect: the smooth coating of ice that clung to the trees,
and the conformity of every neatly groomed trail.
The previous snow had left a fresh layer of powder
that wordlessly begged them to disrupt its purity.
At the peak, they looked down and out over
the mountain, the town, and the valley that seemed to stretch on forever.  
The sky taunted them, dangling just out of reach,
and the overwhelming panorama reminded them how small they were
—even at the highest points.  
Dec 09

me and mlk

The day is bloated with heat and

the air is buzzing with voices.

I stand with my arms close to my sides

while bodies brush past me,

some nodding as they pass me by.

I am a rock,

watching the stream pass over me.
Behind me folks are beginning to take off their shoes

as they slip their worn feet into the coolness of the pool.

I look down at my own feet, dusty from the walk

just when a booming voice begins to speak.
My legs nearly cave;

his voice floats above the massive crowd

in which I am only a tiny speck,

but still a piece nonetheless.

Every voice is quieted,

every ear is turned to listen,

every eye looks forward towards those steps,

and the air becomes solid with anticipation.
We wait for his voice again.

Finally, it comes.

And when it comes,
Nov 20


we are the dreamers
you warned your children about

with the wild hair and the wilder eyes,
and the smiles that bordered on insanity. 

we will come when the night is still young 
and the last streak of purple has not yet

faded from the sky and we will gather up our forces,
reach for the powers you tried to stifle,

and you will regret the day you ever banned us
in all of our glorious craziness. 

We will take out or pens,
our painbrushes, our charcoal, our pencils

and you will watch as they transform into swords and arrows,
glinting in the dying light

and you will watch as we give the world back it's colors,
its chaos, the things we love the most.

because we are the dreamers, 
and we're about to become your nightmares. 
Sep 05

I am breathing.

I think
I almost stopped
I am gasping
through pouring rain.
I open my eyes
—my mouth—
I am 


I feel

a heart


I am


Sep 05
g_rob02's picture

Poetry and Tragedy

Poetry and tragedy 
                             go hand in hand. 
but never deal in tragedy,
                                         when you've had too much to think. 

Sep 05
Fiona Ella's picture


it's my first grade of the year.
solid 100 percent
and i feel a thrill as i look at it even though
i hate this system. 
and it's not even a thrill because it's a good grade
because god only knows 
that grade has a whole semester to go down.
it was only based off of a few things anyway. 
that thrill came from the simple reality of 
having a grade
that curse of last year. 
that reinstituted prison. 
i hate having grades. 
i hate the way having your learning evaluted
kills it. 
i hate how subjects i used to like
are converted into numbers on a page
and those numbers determine my future. 
i hate having to obsess over these,
and i gloried in having a whole summer free of it. 
and now the prison is back, 
and i welcome it with open arms. 
because i no longer know how to evaluate myself
without it. 
Sep 05

Beautiful Dying

He's standing there again.
Right in front. 

Stomach fit full of bees 
and a shirt that smells strongly 
of 2am books 
and burnt morning coffee. 

Your minutes turn to hours,
hours to days,
days to years. 

Where have you gone
with your green velvet pants
and a hole in the right side of your head?

Please tell me what it's like
to hold the whole world
in your ears. 

No, don't tell me. 

Show me.

Show me what it's like to slip
your silent honey fingers
into someone else's overwhelming

Sep 04
wondering about rain's picture

The dark of an unlit candle

All the flowers in the world
wouldn't have been enough,
not nearly.
Not enough to cover the gentle
valleys of your heart or the
bed of candles lit as prayers
and silent whisperings to something
bigger than you. 
All the time in the world won't
erase the ever present
smell of the kitchen as you,
small but a force of nature,
worked throughout it.
The quiet shuffle at 5 am
as you awoke to a day as I am sure
had been done your whole life.
Wisely crafted from years past
I felt you always saw
right through people.
"Oh Mija I have missed you".
I have missed you too but now
the words are spoken
to an empty chair and the 
quiet flickering of candle light.

Sep 04

Women Stand Up

At camp we play a game,
Called Women Stand Up.
We stand up for what we’ve accomplished,
We stand up when we’ve been hurt,
And we stand up for our truth.

Women stand up.
All of the intelligent engineers,
Painters, and singers.
The brilliant architects, chemists,
Mechanics and dancers.
Stand up,
Not just because you are a women,
But because you’ve accomplished something amazing,
You have been you.

To the non-believers,
Don’t be surprised at what we can do.
For the world tries to seperate women and education,
Just as much as they try to seperate art and science.
Unfortunately for them,
We can’t be classified as “art people” or “science people”,
We can't be stopped by your inability to innovate,
We aren’t just “people”.

The headlines won’t read: “First women to do…”,
They will simply state: “First to do…”.
Because when we succeed,