You're Write Online Zine
Calling all teens ages 13-17: share your writing in our online zine, You're Write
Anyone from the age of 13 to the age of 17 is welcome to submit short stories, poems, and creative nonfiction via the submission form. We will select and post work on a quarterly basis, with new issues going up in January, April, July, and October. We'll let you know if your work has been selected within a month of your submission date.
Please read our submission guidelines before submitting.
NEXT ISSUE (Fall) comes out October 26, 2018.
DEADLINE for submissions is October 19, 2018.
Please enjoy the selections for our latest issue below.

I’m in the dark with music playing quietly when I hear the distinctive call of a car horn. For a second I don’t want to respond. I just want to stay in the dark and not look at anything. But I know that horn, and I know its owner as well. That knowledge is enough to stir me to action, albeit slowly. I pull myself up from my trench of self-pity and quietly leave my room, also leaving the turntable running on its endless spinning journey.

Downstairs I can hear the TV, but nothing else. She must be asleep by now. I think for a second about going in to see if she is, but I know better than to punish myself further. If she’s asleep, leave her. If she’s awake, leave her. There's no difference either way.

The air outside is humid. I can feel the moisture coalesce on the skin between my fingers. Macy is leaning against the hood of her convertible, checking her nails. She looks at me and sighs.

“What was it this time?” She asks indifferently. “Bach or Handel?”

I look at her with a passive expression. “Mozart."

“Mmm-hmm.” She nods at the vehicle. “Get in the car. Let’s drive, and you can talk it over.”

Like oil paint, you set into my soul
Blending in with all of my quirks and casualties
You were there in bright colors
With galaxies in your eyes
and wind in your hair
Eyes that shine brighter than the sun
You were more than a simple simile
For you could not be described with words
You were beyond the human mind

We’re tranquil during the storm
Cornered in chaos
And coated in grime from
Depths where sea meets land.

In crisis we sing
Our hearts high, souls sought
If you listen close enough
You can hear our ocean calls.

David: The beauty of days of old. The honor, the glory. (Reading out loud) “O goddess! Sing the wrath of Pelus’ son, Achilles. Sing the deadly wrath brought woes numberless upon the Greeks.” These words are greater than have been written for thousands of years, these words are sweet as honey, beautiful as daffodils, bright as the very stars in the sky. They are magnificent. Wondrous. The paragon of paragon. They are...
Emile (offstage): David! David McWilson! Where are you David!
David: Here my sweet Emile.
Emile: David! What are you doing?
David: What am I doing? Listen to these words, my wife. “O goddess! Sing the wrath of Pelus’ son, Achilles. Sing the deadly wrath brought...”
Emile: That’s nice, but shouldn’t you get on to work? There’s no salary for wasted time.

I have spent my life
Running from a reflection
I don’t know how to

Wishing that I could
Redact the marks of
My flesh
And erase these imperfections
That run along my limbs
And twine between ribs.


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