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Dear
Amy Hale
Isobelle Carmody Award
For Creative Writing
Winner & School
Winner
Dear Grace,
I must start by not introducing myself. After all, you are not a
stranger to me. However odd this may be, please disregard who is
speaking to you and lose yourself in these words. You are so good
at that.
I am typing this letter on a typewriter. It’s old and rickety and
bangs whenever I touch it. My hands are stained with ink, and my
brain is drowning in drafts – you have no idea how many times my
fingers have formed the words to say to you. The room is smoky, the
floors are creaky, and my feet won’t stop tapping the floor. Anyway,
I digress. What do you say to a girl who has an infinity of words
wriggling around in her brain? No matter how right my writing is,
you will still edit. So I will attempt to tell you what you need to
know, as I am old and I am sad, so please accept this for what it is.
You are so good at that.
You were fifteen. Your birthday began so spectacularly that you
cried, silver smiles making tracks down your cheeks. Light and
colour caressed your face, music pierced your ears, studding them
with irreversible marks. You embraced. You danced. And your
reality was so deliciously perfect that you didn’t want to dream, for
fear that your brain would create a world worse than what you
wanted. Than what you had. So what came next? What could top
this? I know you, and I know that after the party you sat cross
legged with a moth-bitten teddy bear clutched to your chest, and
grinned at the ceiling. I know you would have blown out the candles
that litter your shelves, and scribbled glowing thank-yous on scraps
of paper. I know you would’ve awoken the next morning to a sea of
wrapping paper and a little nostalgia sitting at the bottom of your
bed. This is my first piece of advice. Enjoy yourself, and enjoy your
memories –but don’t dwell too much on the past. You are so good
at that.
You were sixteen. Your feet blanketed in socks, your ears wrapped
in a beanie. Your footsteps so quiet that you couldn’t even hear
them. His shirt hung off your back,
MGMT
’s tour shirt, a little too
long. Your knees, skinny and bruised, gleamed golden in the
moonlight. And next to you, there He stood, shorts hanging low on
his hips, exposing a strip of tanned skin encompassed in veins. Blue
and red. Too soon, his long limbs crawled out your window, and
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