2025 Teen Writing Contest at the Morgan Library & Museum Winning Entries
Describe a landmark, location, or other feature of New York, but add your own fictitious twist. How has your space been transformed? Is it more welcoming or sinister? Does it draw crowds or repel them? Who will inhabit your imagined space, and what will they do there?
Stephanie L.M. Aged 13, I.S 219 New Venture Middle School, Bronx
The Statue of Liberty is a symbol of freedom and hope, but few know its dark secret. Beneath the statue's towering figure lies a hidden truth: it’s actually a giant sea kraken. This kraken guards a treasure that is hidden beneath the waters of Liberty Island. The treasure is so valuable, filled with gold and ancient artifacts, that it must be protected at all costs. The statue may appear peaceful and welcoming, but it is, in fact, a powerful protector of the treasure hidden deep beneath the sea. Long before the statue was built in 1886, an ancient sea kraken was summoned by the gods to protect the treasure that once belonged to a lost civilization. The treasure, too valuable to be taken, is kept hidden underwater. The kraken, now in the form of the Statue of Liberty, stands guard over it, ensuring that no one can reach it. Only the kraken knows the true location of the treasure, and it will stop anyone who dares to get too close. During the day, the statue is a symbol of freedom, welcoming immigrants and tourists alike. It is an inspiring figure, standing tall on Liberty Island. But when night falls, its true purpose is revealed. The torch that the statue holds is not just a symbol of hope; it serves as a warning to those who might try to steal the treasure. The light from the torch shines over the water, guiding sailors who may be lost or need help. But for pirates and treasure hunters, this light serves as a warning to stay away. The kraken will not allow anyone to take what it is protecting.
If pirates try to get close to Liberty Island, the kraken awakens from its still posture. Its giant tentacles rise from the water, wrapping around any ships that come too close. The pirates, frightened and trapped, are dragged under the sea, never to be seen again. The treasure remains safe, and the kraken returns to its silent watch.
So, while many people see the Statue of Liberty as a symbol of freedom, it’s also a fierce guardian of treasure. Its torch is not just a beacon for sailors—it’s a warning to anyone who might try to steal the riches hidden beneath the waters of Liberty Island. The treasure will remain safe, protected by the mighty kraken forever, guarding it from anyone who dares approach.
Alma A. Aged 15, Hunter College High School, Manhattan
Everyone knows to avoid the C train.
First, it was the revamping of the seats, elongating them into pleasant shades of blue. Then it was the air systems, pumping the cars with sweet honeysuckle perfume.
Then those horrible screens were installed.
It was harmless at first, a couple of advertisements. “Injury Lawyer Gets The Job Done”, “Fancy Face Cream”, “Wireless Network Lines”. They pulsated with blue light, but could be ignored. Then companies got creative. They made longer films, ones with plot and suspense. With technicolor displays and infinite genres, the train cars became mini movie theaters. The booming orchestras, the transatlantic accents of old movies, the din of familiar actors, all of it set to branded backgrounds. But commuters, more focused on getting to work on time, still ignored the advertisements.
So what did companies do? They added sleeping cars. Drink bars. Arcade games. They built themselves a cove, filled with the sweet melody of a siren's song. Technology advanced, and no one knows when it happened but it became common knowledge that you do not enter the C train. People who survived spoke of withering people, muscles decaying and eyes watering from screen fatigue. When you entered the C train, there was a mutual understanding that you belonged to the train now, to the technology that enveloped it, to the deterioration of all your original thoughts until you forget to feed yourself, to sleep.
It was a death sentence.
He wrote his goodbyes last month, scrawling them on a legal pad before walking to the station. I remember my friend Sandra, she told me about how it happened to her son. “The stress of being a teenager, it gets to them sometimes,” she giggled. “I’m sure they’ll come back eventually”. Sandra, of course, was an idealistic idiot. It didn’t help that she wasn’t even from New York. She still thinks her son is coming back. One particularly wonderful boy, Tommy, is rotting in that train as well. His goodbye note is still taped to the fridge.
I miss him.
Every day, the news goes through the same routine. Weather, war, and the missing kids. The numbers climb every day. Of course, some adults go missing, most of them desperate parents hoping to find their children, but it’s usually the kids.
Well, tomorrow the news will have a success story to report on. Tommy is coming home whether he likes it or not.
The train is entering the station now. I’ll see you at the end of the tunnel.
Katherine C. Aged 17, Stuyvesant High School, Manhattan
When I was a kid, Wall Street was still a place for money. Stocks, bonds, commodities. You could lose your savings, your pride — but at least you kept your life.
Now, we only trade time.
I’ve been at it thirty-seven years. Desk 1127, Lower Hall, Sanderson Exchange House — the old Merrill Lynch building before they gutted it and built the hourglass towers. The Bull’s still outside. Bronze pitted and cracked, a broken watch jammed in his mouth. They say if you brush his nose, you’ll gain a lost minute. Superstition.
The brokers upstairs don’t trade stocks anymore. They shout things like: "Five years of prime youth, premium at 6.8!" "Three months of first love, opening at 22 basis points!" "Six days of pain-free breathing — bid closing in ten minutes!"
Today, the market is wild. New reports said life expectancy's dropping again — biotech screwups. Futures on long lifespans crashed. Everyone scrambled into short-term trades: a week of feeling twenty again, fifteen minutes of pure joy. Fast payouts. No one bets long anymore.
I brokered two contracts before lunch: A corporate lawyer sold ten years of future health — the years he was saving for retirement — just to win an extra week now, healthy enough to survive the partner track. High-performing future years always trade high. Everyone bets on the strong. An old woman sold thirty years of quiet mornings drinking coffee with her husband just to cover a month of rent. Ordinary happiness doesn’t sell. It’s too common. She signed the papers without even asking where her memories would go.
Upstairs, Compliance dumped new regulations: every year sold must be tagged — essential, recreational, luxury. Another twenty-seven forms per client. Half the floor was still stamping papers after the closing bell.
It’s the casual talk that gets you: "He’s got twenty good years left — high risk, high yield." "She’s undervalued — low ambition, low burnout." "I'll short his future — he’s due for a breakdown anyway."
Nobody fights the market anymore. They just sign.
The Bull just watches.
Tomorrow the market will probably jump again — floods out west wiped out three cities. Survivors are pouring onto the Exchange. Most have nothing left but their time. And time is cheap when you're desperate.
I should have left when money still meant something. But the markets always pay better when you stay. Until they don't.
And then they come for your hours, too.
Thomas M. Aged 16, Monsignor Farrell High School, Staten Island
CBGBs
This is the story, that’s less than sublime,
About such a wild and interesting time,
A dimly lit room, that’s darker than coal,
Was how CBGBs swallowed me whole
I craved such a feeling,
That’s not often felt,
It pounded my mind,
Like a swollen welt
I’d meditate similarly to a Monk,
A circus that’s definitely fit for a punk,
But while I made ways with such a strong haste,
I had not an inkling that danger awaits
My mother objected, for she found it scary
To be among punks who were primal and hairy
But a window was open, the show started soon
So I climbed out the window and out of my room
I got to the Bowery in the blink of an eye,
For some reason, I do not know why,
I rode on the ocean, with glorious sheen,
But then saw some messages, come on my screen
I walked like a zombie, into the stink,
No colors were bright, no yellows, no pinks,
Instead there were walls, covered with paint,
And bouncers who had the patience of saints.
The band took the stage with all their long dreads,
With slang I could say that “they drew mad heads,”
The sentence I say, without any pains,
I snuck out the house, to go see Bad Brains,
I readied my fists as the volume rose
The pit became violent, and I curled my toes.
While I became manic, among the shoal
I had no idea it would swallow me whole
During the playing of “Banned in DC”,
The crowd had parted like the red sea,
The music had stopped as I heard a shout,
That CBGB’s had opened its mouth.
Its teeth filled with grime, as if like the walls,
Had shocked the whole crowd, seizing the brawls,
I could not escape, not to the back room,
As the horrible beast, sucked like a vacuum.
Everything in sight, not missing H.R.,
For God’s sakes this thing had eaten a car!
Guitars and drums and telephone poles,
And then CBGBs had swallowed me whole.
I went down it’s throat, with everyone else,
With all the Doc Martins and colorful felts,
With all the spiked hair-do’s, like birds of a feather,
With all of the jackets, with jeans or leather.
And I thought I’d be grounded if I returned home,
But instead CBGB’s had swallowed me whole.