This summer, The Writing Barn had the pleasure of teaching two creative writing camps for young adults, ages (8-17). Students spent a week at The Writing Barn learning in a classroom with floor to ceiling bookshelves, writing on a porch over looking a wooded wonderland filled with flowers, foxes, and deer. The students participated in a number of exercises and wrote a variety of genres, from poetry to fiction and hybrid prose/essay.
Students were also encouraged to submit their work to The Writing Barn and we have the fortunate opportunity of sharing some of that work with you here on The Writing Barn Blog. These students showed that their love and passion for writing is what ultimately puts the words on the page. They were brave and took risks with their creativity and the outcome is a series of poems and stories that are as magical and as unique as the writers themselves.
Check Out Our Upcoming Fall Programming for Young Adults Here
Ebony Ivory
Once there was a place. It was quite a dull place; no stories, no ideas, no origin. No people really lived in that place, perhaps because the people were the place. Alas, this is not the story of that place. This is the story of a young girl named Ebony Ivy, who left that place.
Now, she didn’t necessarily want to leave. It’s just that one sunny Sunday afternoon, Ebony Ivy began to float. No matter how hard they tried, neither her mother, nor her father, nor her brother could pull her down. With every pull downwards, Ebony Ivy rose higher up in the sky. Soon, she was too far off the ground for them to reach her. Ebony Ivy could have been happy that way, floating above her family forever. But then the wind blew. And when the wind blew, Ebony Ivy blew with it.
Soon Ebony Ivy was high in the sky, the wind pushing her over mountains and trees and clouds and sparkling rivers. She could smell the sharp green of grass on the hilltops and could feel the slippery snow dusting the mountain peaks as they grazed her fingertips. She could hear the chatter of the birds beside her and the excited shouts of the speck-sized children below. And all could have been fine with her then, if she did not know that one day, if no one caught her, she’d fly so high up that she’d never be seen again.
by Jade Hale, age 12
Illusionary Walls
My heart is swathed and shadowed,
Kept from prying eyes and cold winds.
It flocks with its kind, and burrows
Deep into the dirt when without.
It has never been hurt or broken; its surface unscathed.
It’s glass box only for preservation.
It isn’t unfamiliar, or unique,
It breaths the same as any other
And it beats the same as any other.
But it is mine alone.
As yours is yours alone.
The thin iron walls built around it are not strong.
Its visage only as perceived.
It yearns and howls,
And dreams in the clouds.
It wallows and hides like a breath in the wind
And it has grown.
By Jacob Van Baast, Age 17
Excerpt from The Flame Within
Some deaths are slow and methodical, but mine was fast and methodical. I guess I should start from the beginning, but where is that truly? I’ll start from the knock. It was my twelfth birthday and we had just finished setting up the candles when there were three knocks with exactly one-second pauses in between each. My parents froze in place and stared at the door in shock and fear.
My mother clutched the necklace that she never took off. I always thought that it looked liked a cursive “B” with blue and green stripes. Whenever she held the charm, it meant that there was danger. When we visited Greece a few years ago, she told me to hide while she held it and walked into the store where a robbery had been held a few minuets after. When she came out, the robbers were waiting at the door as the cops came.
“Vi? Did you hear me? ” My mom whisper yelled to me.
“No, sor- “ I said as she cut me off with, “ Hide.”
My eyes widened and I crept upstairs as two knocks with their signature pauses came. I hid in the closet and heard the door open. I could also hear my father’s voice, “ You said we had more time.”
A female voice answered, “She’s ready.”
“For what?” I wondered under my breath.
“No she isn’t. She still can’t see them. Give us more time.” My mother pleaded.
A sudden wave of coldness passed over me and I curled into a ball to keep warm. The voice was as cold as ice as she said, “ Whether she sees them or not is of no consequence. You know what she is, she needs to train early.” There was a long pause and I could faintly hear my parents mumbling to each other.
“Vi! Come down please.” My mom called out to me. I hesitantly stepped out and headed downstairs. When I got to the bottom, I saw a shimmering woman going in and out of image.
By Lily Klingenberg, age 12
Poem of Dog
Between two cliffs,
Where life is the same
There is a small town.
Life goes on normally there.
Nothing ever happens.
Stairs lead up to the cabins,
Small, but cozy.
There is plenty of food,
Water,
And shelter for all.
But then…
Dog
Came.
The people were afraid of Dog.
They cast Dog out.
Dog didn’t mean any harm.
A woman decided to be kind
And invited Dog in,
Into that small town, between two cliffs,
Where things had been different lately
Where things happened with Dog.
Where stairs led up to the cabins with Dog beds.
Small, but cozy.
Where, in-between two cliffs,
Dog had found home.
By Elizabeth Muller, age 12
The Colors of Harmony
Colors are definitions, like words from a dictionary.
They define and help, giving truth to what is living and breathing around us.
We are, all of us, colors in a water color painting of realty.
Quite often we swirl together, creating beauty and friendship and love in our painting.
But sometimes our colors do not blend harmoniously,
giving a throne to power and anger and stimulation to war.
But like a cool summer rain, blue washes away the tears that we shed.
Red is always alive and vibrant to help us center our being in concentration.
Yellow shines bright and green gives life.
Pink blooms and purple mystifies.
Orange ignites like the burning sparks of courage in our hearts.
Sometimes the painting of life is confusing,
Sometimes the painting of life is out of balance,
But we, as the artists, must never give up on our mission.
There is always a balance,
Always a song of harmony,
It has the potential be reached in every work of art.
In the painting of life, everyone has the opportunity to create beauty from their heart.
Whether your medium be oil paints or pastels, pencils or chalks,
Remember that we are all gifted with the ability to create harmony.
By Bailey Judis, Age 17
Mark Your Calendars!
Dates for upcoming summer creative writing camps:
Camp Spitfire (8 – 12) – Summer July 8th – July 19th, 2019
Pen to Paper (Teens) – Summer July 22nd – August 2nd, 2019