MIDDLE SCHOOL WRITING CONTEST
2026 WINNERS
First Place
instructions for how to hold a morning
by Dhaanvi Jaipuriar
don't open the blinds all at once.
light should arrive
hesitant,
like it isn’t sure
you’re ready to be seen.
check the air.
some days it tastes like metal,
some days like thawing fruit.
either way, swallow it.
pretend it was your choice.
touch the counter.
the dust is a map
of everywhere you’ve been avoiding.
drag your finger through it.
call this progress.
if a memory appears—
your grandfather’s laugh,
a hospital hallway,
the way someone once said
don’t go
and you did—
let it sit with you.
do not offer it tea.
do not chase it away.
just breathe
beside it.
listen for the house sighing.
every building keeps secrets.
every secret learns your name.
when the kettle shrieks,
don’t rush.
let it scream.
some things want to be heard
all the way through.
pour slowly.
watch the steam rise
like a ghost rehearsing
how to leave you gently.
sip.
pretend the warmth is enough.
pretend you are, too.
open the blinds now—
only halfway.
the world will wait.
step into the light
as if it knows you.
as if you don’t fear
being known.
About the Writer...
Dhaanvi Jaipuriar is currently in 8th grade. She attends William Hopkins Middle School in Fremont, California. she lives with her parents and enjoys reading and riding horses in her free time.
Second Place
the clarity of drowning
by Avani Reddy
i’m drowning and it’s so much worse
because of the distance between us
pristine, transparent sheaths of ocean
cleaved by sun wedged between the tip
of my finger and the soft flesh of your
pale cheeks.
it’s worse because the ripples distort
your face like a carnival mirror, pinching
your features like pliant magma, liquid
gold bending to the will of the water.
i sink further below and it’s harder to see,
the light tries to follow, snaking beneath
the greedy waves, but she shrieks as
the currents slide around her waist and
chain her to the surface of the water; she
thrashes, and instead the shadows
devour me and my sticky puddle of fear,
collecting where my falling tears should be.
i try to look at you, because i want to see
your face before i die, because i must be
dying; my lungs are searing in their emptiness,
my throat blisters as my screams come out in
innocent trails of glassy bubbles;
and when i see your face—
it’s black as soot, lacquered in malevolent
darkness, that wafts over to my tongue and
stings it sour, the acid ices my trembling
vertebrae like sick frosting, i blink, my lids
and consciousness shudder: now, cracks slither
across once pale skin, once milky as a
moon, crusting with dirt and blood and acrid
monstrosity i scream, there’s more bubbles,
your lips peel (i remember when i kissed them
and they were soft), and bleed; for a moment,
you’re wearing lipstick; i try, in horror, to save
you as i realize you never tried to save me; then
you crumble, withering away.
my last breath is haunted and mangled
the darkness froths around me as the bottom
of the ocean grazes my blistered feet, i
settle, the betrayal skewering me like
thorns and i remember when i loved you
before the water scraped away everything
that you were, leaving only the truth.
About the Writer...
Avani Reddy is an 8th grader at Whitney M. Young Middle/High School. Her work has been recognized by the Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest. In her free time; she enjoys writing poetry, reading, and learning languages.
Third Place
Outgrowing Gravity
by Ishana Kunapureddy
I used to whisper to walls that forgot my name.
Glow-in-the-dark stars still cling to my ceiling,
but I’ve outgrown their gravity.
Hot pink posters curl at the edges, peeling,
no longer part of my reality.
Back from when I counted dreams
instead of deadlines,
when kindness came in easy gleams
and I got excited over distant coastlines.
Every height mark on the wall
whispers of the days before.
The wooden chair feels too small,
just like the frames on the door.
The walls stayed statue-still
but somehow I have changed.
I have a secret to spill:
it wasn’t the room that was rearranged.
It was me, it was me, it was me.
I’m packing constellations into a smaller sky,
folding galaxies with careful grace.
The ceiling can keep its paper stars—but I
step beyond their borrowed space.
About the Writer...
Ishana Kunapureddy is an 8th grade student at Gold Hill Middle School. She is a published author who enjoys exploring complex themes in poetry and flash fiction. In her free time, she likes to play tennis and read fantasy novels.