2021 Contest Anthology High School Young Authors - Celebrating Maryland's - STATE OF ...
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2021 Contest Anthology
Celebrating Maryland’s
High School
Young AuthorsAcknowledgements
It is SoMLA’s privilege to have worked with all participants— the writers, most im-
portantly-- in the 2020-21 Young Authors’ Contest. After reviewing each child’s entry, the
judging panel identified as the state winners the top two high school submissions in each
category and at each grade level. It is with pride that SoMLA now presents this body of
work representing some of the best young adult poets and storytellers in the state of
Maryland.
We congratulate first and foremost all involved in the initial crafting and submission
of each poem and short story. Students, your entries made us smile, occasionally
grabbed us by surprise, and often just made us pause to consider the world around us.
Parents and teachers, your guidance, support, and instruction to these exceptional young
people surely helped to develop their abilities and confidence as writers and as a conse-
quence, helped to propel them to this level of recognition. Your behind-the-scenes advo-
cacy is recognized.
We honor, too, all judges-- local and state-- involved in the process. Your devotion
of hours of energy and personal time to this cause is humbly acknowledged. Recognition
of the writing of young ladies and gentlemen from across the state simply would not be
possible without your efforts.
SoMLA vigorously thanks all local chapters’ Young Authors’ Contest chairpersons
and their committee members. These people voluntarily got their local contests off the
ground, saw the process through to their judges’ decisions, and in many cases, offered
celebratory events of their own. We applaud your dedication to providing opportunities for
students to write beyond their regular school audiences and to be recognized for having
done so.
Finally, we would be remiss if we failed to note that the six months of the
2020-21 contest took place during a historically significant period. A worldwide pandemic
had become a part of every person’s life, and the efforts of all involved in this contest
were affected by it in some manner. In so many ways, it is remarkable that parents and
teachers continued to encourage students to write and that local chapters were able to
press on with contests and creative celebrations. Perhaps most notable of all, however,
was that poetry and short stories arrived from more regions across the state than had
been the case in previous years— a testament to the desire for creative expression by
young people that even the likes of Covid-19 could not… would not put down.
Leslie Sunderland
Chair, Young Authors’ Contest
High School, Grades 9-12State of Maryland Literacy Association
2020–2021 Officers
Chair
Shirley W. Faulkner
Chair-Elect
Michelle Shreeves
1st Vice Chair
Kelly Davis
Immediate Past Chair
Lisa A. Lowe
Recording Secretary
Jennifer Osborne
Corresponding Secretary
Chelley Corpuz
Treasurer
Rita Gaudiello
Membership Director
Ann Apple
State Coordinator
Mary Lou Nelson
Conference Coordinator
Gayle GlickPoetry
Grade 9
1st Place Winner
Float
What if gravity gives out
What if gravity gives out
What if it disappears
Like flowers when snow leers
Will you grab my hand
Grab all the weight around
Just to try to pull me down
Down back to earth
Onto our occupied land
Where nobody stands
Where nobody plays in the sand
Since gravity gave out
Will we have picnics on the clouds
Sleep next to the stars
Put auroras in jars
Written all in our memoirs
Memoirs of surprise
Memoirs of worry
Memoirs of adventure,
Memoirs of heartrise
Only if you do so
Only if you manage
Only if you want
To pull me back down
Back on the cement
Where law and order was fantasized
Where we stared at screens for hours
Where we had unsolved problemsGrade 9
1 Place Winner, cont’d.
st
I would rather float away
Than face climate change
Poverty and wars
Corruption and chaos
Don't pull me down
I’ll wait for you up here
Let go of your poundage
Let's float to jessup
Only if gravity gave out
Only if gravity gave out
All our problems would burn out
As we fly between rain clouds.
MALAK ABDELDAYEM
North County High School
Anne Arundel County Literacy ChapterGrade 9
2nd Place Winner
I Am Who I Am
“I am from the darkness I fell into, my mind, my heart all gave up on me.”
“I am my family, my friends, the ones who left me, and the ones who stayed with me.”
“I am from knives, cuts, and blood.”
“I am from depression, suicide, and anxiety.”
“I am from the sadness from when we moved away.”
“I am from the friends I lost on the way.”
“I am from the divorce of my parents.”
“I am from the art I spend my time on.”
“I am from sexual abuse.’’
“I am from the smell of mangos and the smell of flowers.”
“I am from the taste of tortillas.”
“I am from Honduras.”
“I am from the womb of my mother.”
“I am from the LGBTQ+ community.”
“I am the scars on my body.”
“I am the songs I write.”
“I am the music I listen to.”
“I am from the voice that constantly echoes in my head.”
“I am from the pathway home.”
“I am from the heart and soul that boils deep within me.”
“I am from the place no other than home.”
“I am from the light, the dark, and the inner rage clawing deep into my skin as the blood withers
away.”
“I am from the beautiful sunflower and apple that falls from the tree.”
“I am the poems I write.”
“I am the spirit that guides me.”
“I am from the anime I watch.”
“I am from the blood that drips off my wrist as the knife cuts deep.”
“I am from my best friends.”
“I am from the hair I cut.”
“I am from my two dogs.”
“I am from my phone.”
“I am who I am.”
“I am Jolani.”
JOLANI SANTOS LEON
Long Reach High School
Howard County Literacy ChapterGrade 10
1st Place Winner
The Songbird
As a child I listened to you.
Humming and singing to yourself as you fiddled with your coat zipper.
You were everything I wanted to be.
Music flowed through you like a rushing stream.
Your song like gold, you were rich, and
I envied your wealth.
I would sit and listen to the warm embrace of your tone,
the pure joy brought with each word.
Your song enriched those around you.
You sang as if it meant nothing,
as if those around you did not slowly settle into their chairs,
relaxing when they heard your chirp.
The songbird in your chest began to lose its feathers as you aged.
I grew up going to your concerts, hoping, to see you soar.
But there you stood, secure on your branch, silently mouthing the words.
The fear you felt had gotten to your core,
and it made you slowly stop spreading your wealth.
You closed your doors to the rest of us,
and went silent.
The struggles you dealt with quietly,
surrounding you, like a trapped nightingale, unable to call for help.
I grew resentful from the abandonment,
A child without her sister.
Missing the stranger who lived just across the hall.
Music was our lives.
Always in the background of our memories,
fluttering around our consciousness.
Years later in this house I hear you.
The songbird had taken flight,
and your song filled the kitchen once again.
Soaring around the house,
calling to those of us that had almost forgotten,
the song of my sister.
JULIETTE REDDING
Bel Air High School
Harford County Literacy ChapterGrade 10
2nd Place Winner
Trees of the Past
They used to be so glorious,
The trees so tall and old,
Their leaves would sway within the wind,
At least that’s what I am told.
Only stories remain,
Of what is now the past,
Of plants that opened up the sky,
Large groves with trees amassed.
If I could have one wish in the world,
I’d ask to see the trees,
The evergreen with sturdy trunks,
Bright flowers that swarmed with bees.
How could the humans of old,
Years and years ago,
Tampered so much,
That plants aren’t able to grow?
How could they continue,
To pollute the fragile earth,
So much that it would break,
Giving no chance for rebirth?
How could they have cut down forests,
Endangering animals left and right,
How could they have thought it was fine,
To spread this awful blight?
I wish that it was different,
That they didn’t lead us to our death,
By destroying the things we need,
They took away our breath.
And now I have to live with truth,
Knowing they knew and didn’t care,
That destroying every living thing,
Would destroy our air.
EMILY EGNA
Annapolis High School
Anne Arundel County Literacy ChapterGrade 11
1st Place Winner
september is here but you’re not
you were so dynamic it made sense
your favourite month was september.
it wasn’t because of your birthday or
how your favourite number’s nine. there
was something you found magnetic in the
seasons changing. honestly, i think you just
liked the start of something new, something
short but perfectly timed; it was a kind of
euphoria. you used to love it when
the fading summer breeze turned crisp
and you could wear those baggy sweatshirts,
you know, the ones with sleeves that went
for miles. remember how we used to
dance under the falling leaves and
go apple picking? you held my hand
when it got too cold, and i had to remind
myself it was autumn because your touch
was so warm it brought me back to summer.
maybe you had the right idea about september;
how a small amount of time can mean more
than an endless supply.
maybe that’s the point
of love too. for it not to last. tell me, is that why
you liked september the best?
MARYBETH SULLIVAN
Bel Air High School
Harford County Literacy ChapterGrade 11
2nd Place Winner
Eventual Ruin
The sun god descends
Pulling his gold chariot
Across the clouded
Ceiling, creating swathes of
Pink, orange, and gold above
Another ending
Over the crashing azure
Flooring that shifts and
Crashes against the rocks in
Whispering wind. Night is near
Sure enough it comes
The colors fading above
The quaint house on the
Hill. I think again of an
Inevitability
One day this house will
Crumble, leaving only this
Salty air. A path
Leading to ruins of a
House where seabirds congregate
KERALA BANNISTER
Oakdale High School
Frederick County Literacy ChapterGrade 12
1st Place Winner
On the Trail
The trail stretches before me,
Long and winding,
Gracefully aged from the
Gentle pitter-patter of prior finding.
White blazes guide the way,
Delicately arranged.
A masterpiece of yesterday,
Unique and changed.
I find my perseverance in the evergreens,
My resilience in the towering peaks.
In the trickling creek, harmony, painted ultramarines.
On the trail, my curiosity piques.
The trail, a sequence of rolling hills
And arching curves, sharp as a knife,
Parallels the jubilant thrills
Of the acquaintance called life.
SHOSHANAH HORNUM
Wilde Lake High School
Howard County Literacy ChapterGrade 12
2nd Place Winner
Gems, Myths, and Flight
We see each other,
in emerald and pearl letters
or windows of blue silver.
Some indigo evenings,
when the sun sleeps and stars stir,
with amber exhibits shining the only light,
we go on strolls.
The stygian gravel trails
become streams of
swirling sapphire beads
under our stride.
A canopy of crow feathers shroud
giggles morphing into laughter,
like caterpillars into butterflies
that caper across the zephyr
of friendship.
We sing along with the trill
of nickel and copper shaded robins,
and cavort down the carmine ropes
of cackling crocottas
into nirvana.
JONAS DEWULF
Bel Air High School
Harford County Literacy ChapterShort Stories
Grade 9
1st Place Winner
Drawn Future
Light erupts in a dark and vacant room. Splashes of color and designs of gray dance around the
space. A ball for the royal blues and purples. A field surrounded by trees for the shining lime greens
and the teal blue shadows. A name starts to take shape in that darkness.
“Finn…” The color calls out to him.
“Finn…” They seem to be getting louder.
“Finn Ainsley!” Finn jolted in his chair as he was awakened from his nap. “If you have time to
sleep then you should know the answer to the question on the board.”
“Umm...I uh-...” Finn stuttered. He looked around the classroom slowly. All the attention was on
him. He could hear the whispers and laughs from his classmates. He blushed out of embarrassment
and looked down trying to hold back his tears. “I-I don’t know…”
“Instead of doodling and sleeping you should pay attention and study before you fail this semes-
ter.” The teacher said with a huff.
“Y-yes ma’am…”
***
Finn walked to the library at lunchtime and sat down at his regular table in the back corner. A
semi dark area where no one really goes. He took off his black and gray sketched backpack and took
out his sketchbook and a pencil. A book that held a lot of emotion and feelings. A book that meant the
world to him. It was the first and last thing he bought with his allowance. His parents stopped giving him
an allowance after he bought it. They said it was unnecessary and useless.
Once the pencil touched the paper he let his hands take over. The lines danced across the pa-
per. Gentle yet vigorous scribbling could be heard 2 feet from his table but went unheard of by human
ears.
Finn spilled out his emotions to create a picture with a chained and caged soul trying to get out
of their imprisonment. He stared and admired his completed picture then started turning the pages to
look at past sketches. His sketches are his whole world. He looked away from the book startled by the
bell ringing. Lunch was over but his creative spirit was still with him. He got up, walked to his class, and
sat down in his seat that was in the back corner of the room by the window. He put his sketchbook onto
the desk and started another sketch. He sketched throughout the class, not caring if the teacher called
on him to answer a question.
***
School was over and Finn walked home in silence. He decided to take his time and walk slowly
but as soon as he got there he stood outside the black metal gate and stared. The house was a two
story white and greystone mansion with a black roof trim. The windows have a black outline. The lawn
was very spacious with perfectly shaped trees lined up around a tan concrete tiling. Dark teal shutters
next to the windows and with a lighter teal roof and a small side house with an archway between the
main house and the lesser.
Finn opens the gate and slowly walks up to the door and opens it.
“Finn, your teachers called me today,” Finn’s mother stated, “They said you were sleeping and
doodling in class. Do you mind explaining to me why you weren’t paying attention?”
“U-um...well I uh...I-I have homework to do!” Finn stuttered scurrying up to his room.
“Young man, get back here!” She shouted up the staircase but then flinched when she heard a
door slam shut. “Silly boy. You won’t get anywhere in life with pencil scratches.”Grade 9
1st Place Winner
Drawn Future, cont’d.
***
Finn slams the door shut and presses his back against it. He slides down the door with a sigh.
He looks around his room at all the drawings on the walls. He would draw on the walls when he wasn't
allowed to touch the paper. They would take away the paper as well so he drew on the walls. His walls
were filled with years and years of feelings. That was how he expressed himself. He wasn’t going to let
anyone take away the one thing that made him feel safe from all the hate he has received in his life.
Finn went into his closet and moved his suits that he never wears to reveal a small hatch in the
floor and opened it. Inside was a bag and a cup full of writing utensils including pens, mechanical pen-
cils, fountain pens, a compass, etc. He grabbed the bag out of the hatch and closed it off, hiding it be-
hind the suits again. He grabbed a rope from under his bed and opened the window. He looked around
outside to make sure there was no one there, tied the rope around his bed frame, and started to climb
down the rope.
Once he touched the grass he dashed to the fence and climbed over it. He proceeded to run
through the forest to a clearing. He has been there many times. He goes to clear his head and to draw
without being caught. But never has he once seen anyone there until today. The only reason he knew
about the clearing was because his house was near it but his house wasn’t close to any other house.
He stared at the boy sprawled out on the grass. ‘He looks so peaceful. Like he doesn't have a care in
the world.’ He cautiously walked towards the sleeping boy.
“Hello there.” The now awake male said with his eyes closed, causing Finn to jump back with a
squeak. The boy just laughed in amusement.
“I-I’m sorry f-for waking you. I-I just-...w-well I-...um-...I’m sorry…” Finn shrunk back hiding his
eyes behind his medium long hair.
“It's no problem,” The boy smiled, “what's your name?”
“Uh...It’s Finn.”
“Hello Finn, my name is Clement. What are you doing all the way out here?” He asked, moving
closer.
“I usually come to clear my head and to draw. What about you? I-if you don’t mind me asking!” Finn
stuttered out quietly. Clement chuckled at his shyness.
“I usually just wander around random places. I found this place and I couldn’t help but feel
drowsy so I took a nap.” He smiled.
“How did you get all the way over here from your home? There are no nearby houses.” Finn
asked curiously.
“I’m usually not at home for a few days at a time. I have been gone for 2 days.”
“That’s very unsafe. Do you sleep outside?”
“I do but it's not bad. While you try to sleep you can gaze at the stars. If you're in an open area
then you can see more stars then if you were in a city. You should try it sometime.”
“It sounds relaxing.”
“It is. But right now, I'm glad you came out of your shy bubble. You've stopped stuttering and
panicking.”
“O-oh...umm...well I-…” Finn looked down while playing with his fingers.
“Hey don't go back in,” Clement laughed, “I want to be friends with you.” He smiled as Finn
looked up in shock.
“With me?” Clement nodded, “W-well I’ve...never really had a friend so uh...I don’t really know
what to do…”
“Just come back here tomorrow so we can talk again and get to know each other. It has gotten
pretty dark”Grade 9
1st Place Winner
Drawn Future, cont’d.
“O-okay.” Finn smiled.
***
Finn climbs up the rope to his room as quietly as he possibly could. He had lost track of time
while he was walking back home. When he climbed through his window, he got frightened. His mother
had been waiting for him. He closed the window and looked down in fear.
“And where were you?” His mother asked angrily, staring at him.
“I-I was um-...I just-...I-I went on a walk.” Finn stuttered out, avoiding eye contact.
“Where to?” She crossed her arms.
“N-nowhere in particular…” Fin took a step back.
“And what about your homework that you said you needed to do?”
“I uh-...It’s-...I didn’t do it…”Finn clutched the hem of his shirt, scared of getting yelled at if he
said the wrong thing.
“What’s in the bag?” She scowled causing Finn to shake and shiver while looking up.
“N-nothing!” Finn pressed his back against the window as his mother stepped forward.
“Finn. What’s in the bag.” She loomed over him demanding.
Finn was too scared to say anything else. He brought his hands up to his chest, trying to calm
down his heartbeat. Tears streamed down his now red face. He started hyperventilating as his mother
snatched the bag from his shoulder. He watched as she ripped open the bag and tore through the
pages of his sketchbooks screaming words of disappointment aimed towards him. His mind started to
get fuzzy and it was getting harder for him to breathe. He clenched his heart through his shirt until his
knuckles turned white. Black spots danced in his vision. The last thing he saw was the cover of his
sketchbook being thrown in front of him and a hand swing towards his cheek.
***
Finn opened his eyes and tried to roll over but flinched at the throbbing pain on his cheeks. After
a few minutes he decided to push through the pain and sit up. He was on the floor next to the window.
Memories of last night flooded his mind. He remembered the anxiety attack and the feeling of him slip-
ping out of consciousness. He looked around and saw the book cover lying a few feet away from him.
The pain on his face started throbbing worse as tears spilled down his face. His own mother had
slapped him. The ones who were supposed to be there for him don't accept who he is. He stood up
and walked to his closet. He looks under his suits to see that the hatch has been ransacked. Pens
have been stolen and pencils have been broken. His compass was missing a side and his ruler and
protractor were snapped in half. Finn sat there with tears in his eyes. His drawings have been de-
stroyed and so has his drawing supplies. She has taken away the one thing that made him feel safe.
***
The next few weeks have been hectic for Finn. He would get his bag checked once he got
home to see if he had gotten another sketchbook, his parents went to his school and destroyed his
sketchbook, pencils, and all of his pens but one red and one blue. He would get yelled at because his
grades were slipping even more than before and even got hurt because of it or because he was caught
doodling on his papers in class. The only upside to that whole month of tourture was his best friend and
love interest, Clement. They may both be boys but Clement treats Finn better than anyone he everGrade 9
1st Place Winner
Drawn Future, cont’d.
knew. He helped him through his panic attacks and mental breakdowns. He was the only one that was
there for him. The only one that helped him when he needed it most.
Finn walked through the forest he had come to know very well. He walked into the small field he
met Clement, his field. He walked to where Clement was sitting and hugged him.
“Lemon, what do I do? I don’t know if I can keep my emotions intact. Everything is falling apart.”
Finn cried.
“Lets run away together,” Clement smiled at Finn’s flustered face. “We could go see new places
and live together. No one will be able to keep us apart. No one will be able to tell us that our love is a
lie.” Clement looked down with a raspberry blush present on his face. Finn put his hand on cheek and
tilted his head up.
“Anywhere you go, I will follow...I-I love you…”
“I love you too.”
That night they ran off together. The sound of footsteps faded only fell on the ears of two trans-
parent ghosts.
TOLU MOLOKWU
Liberty High School
Carroll County Literacy ChapterGrade 9
2nd Place Winner
A Journal of 83 Years
She made her coffee the same way she had for years now; a splash of cream with two spoons
of sugar. The steam fogged up her glasses as she took a sip and clung to its warmth. Making her way
to the sitting room to read, she kept her eyes ahead, to avoid seeing what would destroy her peaceful
morning and spiral her into a storm of thoughts: the simple calendar hung threateningly on the wall
across from her. No, it wasn’t the calendar that scared her, but what it represented. The 15th of Octo-
ber was circled in bold red marker, “Happy 83rd!!” written in messy cursive across the box. Even de-
spite her persistence in avoiding the subject, she caved in when she accidentally caught a glimpse of
the day marked.
The sun poured in from a nearby window and kissed her cheeks as she cracked open a book.
The Great Gatsby. A classic. She read half a page before her eyes glazed back to the top, trying again
to pick up even a single word, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room drawing her
focus instead. Sighing, she closed the book and set it on the wooden table at her side. Her thoughts
were far too loud and pressing to be concerned with Fitzgerald’s craft; there must be something else
she could do then reread the same paragraph until the day’s end. Her fountain pen, sitting idly on the
desk, caught her eye.
83 years. Picking it up, she scribbled some quick algorithms in the margin of the page. Almost
30,000 days. Each filled with 24 hours, and 3600 minutes. The clock ticks with each second. There
must be a truly intangible number of seconds in 83 years. Trying to count them would be impossible,
the ticks of the clock would bleed together until you lost your mind trying. What did I do to deserve that
inimaginable amount of seconds?
I’m no saint. She paused in thought. I’ve had my fair share of mistakes. I remember shoplifting
with my friends as a teenager, giggling with the t-shirts hidden under our oversized jackets. I lied to my
boss about why I was out of work almost once a week when I had my first job. I yelled at my father just
days before he would pass away; I can’t even fathom what could've been that upsetting as to take it
out on a dying man. There’s no doubt that I’ve put bad into this world.
Of course, I’m not all bad deeds though. I always listen when people talk. You never know how
much someone is holding on to until they look you in the eyes and speak every word of their mind. I’ve
never raised a hand against anyone. Even with my rebellious teenage years, I never once found the
urge within me to act violent against another person. These small virtues I hold are nothing in the grand
scheme of things. Nothing worthy of 83 years.
What separates me from all the people who die young? Who die in the womb before they’ve
even had a chance at life? All the Nobel Peace Prize Winners meeting tragic demises after campaign-
ing for the welfare of starving children all their life? My life has been nothing extraordinary. Nothing
anyone will gawk or marvel at. I live like any other. I wake up, make my coffee, read my book, as I have
for years now. Oh, I don’t know. The world may not be a system of good and bad as people say it is.
No matter if I wake up tomorrow and donate one hundred dollars to charity or commit a heinous crime,
life goes on. The clock puts no value on an individual’s morals. The seconds always tick by, I, nor any-
one, have any control over that.
She sets down her pen, too conflicted to continue any coherent pattern of thought.
Closing her eyes, the day of her wedding fills her mind. She sees what she saw that day. If she
focuses enough, she can even feel the heavy dress at her hips. The tears in her eyes as she walks to
the altar to meet her husband. Oh, if he were here today, she thought. Blinking, another memory plays
in front of her like a film at the theater.
Her mind’s tour guide brings her next to the scene of her husband holding her newly-born twin
boys. A fresh bouquet of flowers that her father had bought sat on the table in the room, bright and fra-
grant. She could still see everything of the day in such vivid detail. She could even recall the scratchy
feeling of the hospital cotton sheets beneath her back as her husband beamed a radiant smile at her.Grade 9
2nd Place Winner
A Journal of 83 Years, cont’d.
Next, she recalls a much darker time. Same hospital. Her father in the bed, clinging to life. The
flowers on the table that once seemed to burst with life from every petal now sat greying and wilted, a
grave reminder that death filled the very air they breathed, it was inescapable.
Holding back tears, she pushes that day from her head, and picks up the pen and journal once
again, having found a new understanding.
These memories seem so clear. I mean, of course, they’re major turning points in my story. Oth-
ers, more obscure and mundane ones, would take far more effort to visualize. The seconds that sepa-
rate the past from the present create a thick cloud around my memories, too thick to see through most
times. The images of my past surround me like snowflakes in a blizzard. I could reach out for them,
embrace their biting coldness while also seeing the beauty in the way they shimmer in the sunlight.
Finally content, she falls asleep under the heavy quilt laid across her lap. The warmth of the
memories, the sweet coffee, the yellow sun; they keep her mind at ease even with the fifteen of Octo-
ber encircled in red on the calendar that sat near her feet.
REGAN RYDER
Brunswick High School
Frederick County Literacy ChapterGrade 10
1st Place Winner
Footsteps
My whole life I’ve seen footprints.
Everywhere. On the sidewalks of downtown. Up and down the stairs at school. Through the YA
sci-fi aisle of the bookstore. Each one is a midnight-blue, vaguely foot-shaped smudge, as if their
owner were wearing sponge shoes.
In kindergarten, my teacher lectured us on the importance of neatness. That afternoon, I ran to
her as recess ended, prepared to tattle.
“Somebody left foot marks on the playground.”
“Did they?” She craned her neck to look back at the wide expanse of mulch and swing sets, still
guiding my classmates toward the door. “Where did you see that?”
“On the slide,” I said proudly. Standing on the slide was unsafe; everybody knew that. I was cer-
tain I was about to either save someone’s life or get them in huge trouble.
“I don’t see anything,” she said, squinting at the blue-splotched yellow plastic of the slide.
“But they’re all over it!” I protested.
“Aria,” she said patiently. “There aren’t any footprints. The class is going inside now. Could you
please go join them?”
I was too busy scowling because she’d gotten my name wrong to argue any further, which,
looking back, probably saved me some complications later.
No one calls me Aria. I’m Ari.
And don’t you dare say I only took off the last letter.
On the bus ride home that day, it occurred to me that no one else could see the footprints. It
was a too-fast conclusion based on too little information, but it was correct anyways.
Some part of my six-year-old brain eagerly decided to never talk about the footprints again.
In first grade, I convinced myself they belonged to a ghost. In second grade, I stopped believing
in ghosts and decided they belonged to some sort of long-lost best friend. By the time I’d made it to the
August before grade nine, I’d settled on the idea that they were just there and didn’t belong to anybody.
And then one night I was riding my bike down the street, following a new trail of footprints down
a wide, grass-scented street lined with townhouses and scattered with slush-grey paint chips from
someone’s unfortunate car. The sun was setting, but the streetlights were still dark. Nothing moved but
me and the crickets.
I was starting to think that if it got much darker without the lights coming on I could crash into
someone and only know it from the bruises, and then I looked up and there was someone there, barely
ten feet away, blocking the footprints.
Wait, no.
When she whirled to face me, one of the prints bloomed around her left foot as she set it down.
She was making them.
I braked as fast as I could and somewhere in the depths of my indignity made the split-second,
subconscious decision to jump off the bike altogether. The ground flew at me at an awkward angle, but
I barely noticed the way my right knee scraped across the pavement as I landed.
The footprints came from a real person.
“Whoa,” the girl said as I scanned her dusk-blurred features. “Are you all right?”
She was not wearing the fluffy shoes her prints suggested. She was wearing black lace-up
boots. Her baseball cap threw shade over a face at least two years older than mine.
“Um,” I said, with the utmost bravery.
“Did you hurt yourself?” she asked.
“Nnnnooo,” I mumbled.Grade 10
1st Place Winner
Footsteps, cont’d.
“Good
“You were returning a library book,” I blurted. I’d started following the footprints—her foot-
prints—at the book drop.
She froze. “How did you know that? The library’s closed.”
Awesome. Now she thought I was some variety of creepy person.
I scrambled to my feet and extended my hand. “Sorry—I’m Ari Strayer. I live on the other
side of the neighborhood. Please don’t think I’m a stalker.”
She rolled her shoulders back, her mouth pressed hard in a way that I hoped was holding
back a smile. “What am I supposed to think you are, then?”
“Extremely, unintentionally unusual.”
The street lamps flickered on, spilling liquid amber across both of us. Amber that I was sure
was going to harden and leave the moment stuck as a gemstone forever.
Forever only lasted a second, though, and she smiled. “I’m Laurel. Unusual’s good. I’d
rather not tell you where I live.”
“No hard feelings there.”
“How did you know I was at the library, though? Were you there and I didn’t see you?”
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“’Kay. Ah, are you at the high school this year?”
I nodded. “Starting this year.”
“I’ll see you there, I guess,” she said, and waved in that way that says, “this is not a life-
changing conversation by any means.”
And left.
I did not follow her brand-new trail of prints, which were brown in the warm electric light. I
climbed back on my bike and bolted home, forcing the energy boiling behind my thoughts into
every push of the pedals.
See you there, I guess.
A long-lost best friend.
Maybe I could prove my second-grade self right.
Maybe—possibly—I’d even be able to tell Laurel the real reason I knew where she’d come
from. Someday.
KATIE FECIK
Bel Air High School
Harford County Literacy ChapterGrade 10
2nd Place Winner
Dreams Fractured
Someone perches high above the corridor, eyes like a hawk with the stealth to match.
The Watcher dreams of soaring into the heavens, a dark angelic bird. But she’s stuck on the
rooftops, suffocating under agony, without an outlet.
Her fantasy has been fractured—she’s human, not avian.
So she has hardened her heart, accepted her pain. Instead of trying to fly, she darts along
the shingles of the city, staring up at the stars.
Wandering aimlessly across the skyline.
~~~
Others come to the alleyway for different reasons.
The first scrambles backward through the dirty streets early in the morning, desperately
dodging the lunging blows of her pursuer. His knife slices her left forearm, cutting deep, and she
gasps.
She stumbles back, eyelids fluttering woozily. Her feet wobble, threatening to fail right then
and there and ensure her death.
But she locks her jaw and continues running, using the remainder of her energy to throw
herself down a street.
She stops, panting, and collapses with exhaustion after her tormentor loses her within the
maze of buildings.
She’s not the first to wander through this particular backstreet. But she is the first to stop
and glance around her, to actually look at where she is.
She’s the first to see a blank canvas instead of rough bricks.
A scrap of wood lies in the shadows to her right, and she snatches at it with her hand. She
only pauses for a moment before gritting her teeth and scraping the tip of the wood against her
bleeding forearm. It must be excruciating, but she ignores the pain and collects her blood on the
stick until it coats the edge.
She nods once before striking the wood again, this time against the brick. Her mouth curls
into a snarl as she forms images, drawn in her own blood as permanent graffiti.
A heart, slowly breaking itself in half.
An easel looming over the shredding heart.
Two begging, pleading hands.
And a real paintbrush, thousands of times more usable than the stick within her grasp.
She stares at the image. It glares back at her until she finally grimaces, the closest to a
smile her face can get.
She returns three times over the next month, her arm scabbing up safely.
Each time, she holds a stolen can of spray paint.
Each time, she adds a different color to her graffiti masterpiece.
Each time, when she turns to collect her spray can, it has disappeared.
After her artwork is finished, she never returns.Grade 10
2nd Place Winner
Dreams Fractured, cont’d.
Dreams abandoned.
~~~
The second visitor runs frantically into the alleyway, nearly tumbling over his own feet as he
snaps pictures of everything he sees with an expensive camera. The fancy equipment doesn't match
his dusty, worn attire.
He smiles softly as he quickly takes the angle of the sun and the shadows of the walls into ac-
count to gather crisp and clear photos. He snaps beautiful shots of the graffiti on the wall.
The camera automatically prints a few of the pictures, and they fall to the ground, forgotten in
the boy’s desperate rush to capture every image.
A man stalks into the alleyway, glaring and shouting loudly as he pins the boy against the wall
and spits in his face. The boy’s eyes widen helplessly as the man wrenches the camera from the boy’s
neck and places it on his own shoulders.
Then, for good measure, he breaks the boy’s arm, ignoring his gasp of pain. Unfeeling, the man
walks away.
The price of being a thief.
The boy sobs, staring at his limp left arm with angry eyes. Then, caught in a fit of rage, he
madly grabs at a few of the photos on the ground, tearing them to tiny pieces quickly swept away by
the wind.
It’s unclear if he’s angry at himself—or at the system.
The boy turns to look behind him, feral eyes searching for the rest of his forbidden photos, but
they’ve disappeared. The boy glances at his mangled arm once more before sobbing harder and run-
ning out of the corridor, cursing his passion for photography.
Dreams obliterated.
~~~
Another girl walks slowly into the alleyway in the dead of night, eyes darting from side to side.
She unclasps a few stolen sheets of paper from her hands, smiling briefly at them.
Then, using the blank pages and a piece of charcoal from her pocket, she writes a song.
The lyrics flow from her hand as if they’ve been building up inside her for years. Her smile
grows brighter.
As the wind picks up, she curls in on herself, eyes trained on the paper, ignoring the falling tem-
perature.
She finally stops writing after about an hour, and immediately begins to sing.
Her voice starts out weak and hoarse, but after a few coughs, the vibrato in her voice shines
through, and she sounds perfect. Everything flows, the notes are beautiful, the lyrics are heartbreak-
ingly real.
The girl repeats the chorus a few times as she cranes her head up at the stars and smiles
slightly.Grade 10
2nd Place Winner
Dreams Fractured, cont’d.
Anyone could tell, from the last lyrics in her life’s song, that she finally feels free.
Her singing stops eventually, and the sheet music drops from her hand as the temperature dips
below zero.
The night is bitter, without pity.
They drag away the corpse early the next morning.
But the officers don’t find the paper—the sheet music—they were looking for.
The music has disappeared.
Dreams buried.
~~~
More and more visitors stumble upon the nook of an alleyway.
All with a broken dream, all falling to pieces.
It becomes a grave half the time, beggars’ bodies carted away.
The other times, the visitors get away—but every time, they’re throwing themselves back into
danger.
Each time, no matter the outcome when dawn breaks, the visitor leaves something behind. An
example of their craft, a symbol of their hysteria, a moment of their weakness cast into the shadow.
Dreams mislaid.
~~~
None of the alley’s visitors know the Watcher is perched above, silently gazing down with pierc-
ing golden eyes. Nor do they know she’s been there since the first day.
The Watcher’s keen eyes assess the world below and witness all: the way the visitors bare their
souls to the unassuming cinder blocks on either side, the way each vagabond falls to pieces and lies
helplessly on the ground.
Somehow, the Watcher relates to each of them. All broken wings and faded claws, never having
another chance at her dream.
The Watcher collects fragments of each visitor’s identity, hoarding the items until hundreds of
stories circle her.
Three empty cans of spray paint sit in a row behind her, while to her left pictures lie scattered.
Overturned sheet music is on the Watcher’s right.
A notebook and a sharpened pencil, both stolen from an abandoned warehouse, lie on her lap.
The Watcher stares down into the empty alleyway, reliving memories of everyone who has ever
wandered through.
Then she nods, and with a gentle scratching of the pencil, she begins to describe her own pain
using the crushed dreams and experiences of those she has observed below.
From her precarious perch on the shingled roof, the Watcher writes.
She wonders on a girl’s defiant face as she leaves an everlasting mark on the brick.Grade 10
2nd Place Winner
Dreams Fractured, cont’d.
The Watcher’s words speak to the pure bliss as a boy completes his dream of photography, for
those precious few seconds.
She laments a girl who simply wants to sing in spite of cruel reality.
And with every story about someone else, a bit of the Watcher’s own pain shines through onto
the paper. The Watcher’s own scars fade, bit by bit.
It’s real, it’s true, and it’s the story of everyone.
The Watcher steals more paper, sharpens her pencil against the rough brick edge, and contin-
ues to write.
It takes months, but she finishes it.
A novel, full of individual stories that create a cohesive and beautiful web.
Dreams captured.
~~~
When a pile of paper, neatly stapled and signed by an anonymous “Watcher,” ends up in the
accepted manuscripts pile of a publisher’s office, no one knows how. No employees remember meet-
ing with a “Watcher.”
However, the manuscript’s location means the managing editor approves of the story within.
And who are the office workers to question that editor’s wisdom?
The book’s cover—vibrant streaks of color against a rough background—is emailed to an em-
ployee’s account from an unfamiliar address a few hours later. With only a subject line of “For the
Watcher” and no internal text, the email surprises the employee, but he just shrugs off his confusion
and forwards the cover to the managing editor. (He doesn’t get paid enough to think.)
Within three weeks, the book is on a shelf in every bookstore in the city.
And it’s only a matter of time before someone steals a copy.
Two tiny hands latch onto the book, and the small figure leaps out through a broken window.
The girl steals it with a purpose higher than literacy: survival. Material for starting a fire, or a bar-
gaining chip to gain something else.
But when the girl glances at the book after escaping from the building, the breath escapes from
her lungs. Her determined eyes widen, and her grasp on the book weakens. She just stares.
Because the image on the cover is a photograph of her beautiful graffiti, raw, painful, and true.
A bruised and battered mark on the wall.
She clasps the book to her chest with both arms, a scar halfway fading but still visible on her left
forearm.
The girl smiles—a real grin—from ear to ear. She may not be able to read, but her heart under-
stands the book’s meaning.
Her problems aren’t solved.
But now, maybe, she’s a little less lost.
Dreams rediscovered.Grade 10
2nd Place Winner
Dreams Fractured, cont’d.
~~~
The book becomes a national bestseller, as everyone who buys a copy empathizes with a
different piece of the story.
And still, the Watcher doesn’t reveal her identity.
The book reaches more bookstores, and a few more people steal copies of the book.
Eventually, a copy reaches a beggar within the city, one of the literate few.
A dozen people crowd around him as he begins to read the stories of everyone surrounding
him.
~~~
The Watcher sits two stories above the group as the man shares the book aloud.
She still wishes for wings to curl out behind her, for talons to scratch through the sky and let
her soar through the clouds.
But her hopes can’t come true.
She doesn’t have a pure soul, a ticket to heaven after the malice of reality.
But her heart does lighten slightly when she hears other stories being told—when a few of
the group begin to nod, when a few faces crack into smiles.
And maybe that’s enough.
When the reader reaches the end of the book and reads the last line of the author’s note in
a wavering voice, the Watcher smiles slightly and leans back, her head against the comforting
brick as listens to the emotional reactions of those far below.
“May this recollection of stories serve as the means to look within your hardened heart at
dreams fractured to reveal their beautiful promise.”
CLAIRE FAGAN
River Hill High School
Howard County Literacy ChapterGrade 11
1st Place Winner
Superstition
It had never been to Wintry Creek. No one had any reason to be there, so it was off the grid.
The creepy fog was dense and it never seemed to abandon Wintry Creek. I wasn’t about to stop be-
cause of some clouds, however.
Since no roads led to the town, I had to take my horse, which faltered when it saw the first build-
ing emerge from the haze. It was made entirely out of wood, and as I rode by, I tried to get a look at the
sign, but it was so badly weathered that I could not make out the letters.
I was able to make out that I was at the end of the main street notwithstanding the fog. There
were rows of buildings on either side of the overgrown road I stood on. I could hear a mild squashing
sound every time my horse took a step in the deep mud. Other than that, it was dead quiet, apart from
the gentle chirping of crickets and the occasional shrill cry from a crow. Nobody lived here. I was al-
most certain nobody had set foot in this town in decades.
It took a fair amount of searching, but I finally found a relatively sturdy post in the mud at the far
end of the street. I tied my horse to the post, retrieving a small pouch from the horse’s saddlebag.
The pouch was a very faint hue of blue, and it was bound at the top by a single red string. Its
contents were a handful of good luck charms that I had accumulated over the years from loved ones
and important events. I drifted back in time as I placed them in my palm.
One charm was from my late Aunt Dorothy, who bequeathed a small gem to me shortly before
she passed away. She told me it was a family heirloom that once belonged to her mother, who got it
from her mother, and so on. Dorothy never had any children of her own, so I was the recipient. She
claimed it was a relic from the Russian House of Romanov, although there was no proof of that. Re-
gardless, I believed my Aunt’s story completely, and I hung onto the red gem for good luck.
There was also a small rock in the pouch. There was nothing physically significant about the
rock, but it was still important to me. Once, when I was young, I slipped out of my mom’s sight and ven-
tured into the nearby woods, alone. I eventually stumbled across Granite Falls, which was a tall and
beautiful landmark along the Hershel River. I was captivated by the freshwater running off the cliff and
the soothing white noise of the falling water trickling into the river below. Had it not been for a local
hunter who happened to see me venture dangerously close to the edge, I may have fallen to my death.
The next time I returned to the falls, I selected a shiny rock to commemorate my luck in escaping
death.
I shook myself loose from the daydreams and glanced back at the town. It was once a colorful
place, I was sure, but now the buildings were so dilapidated and dull that they were practically indistin-
guishable from each other. The only structure I could recognize was the saloon because of its batwing
doors.
As I continued walking, I saw several pickaxes, jaded at their tips, lying around the exterior walls
of a building at the end of the street. It had two doors, and its spire made it taller than any other build-
ing in town. It was the church.
Inside was more silence, only broken by creaks of the wood made with my every step. The
place was old. There were five rows of pews, and on the side of each pew, there was a cross. I be-
came dubious of the building’s structural integrity when I saw the wear on some of the pillars. Some of
the walls held some intricate designs. There was also a wallpaper trim that leveled up to the height of
my hips, although some pieces were torn off and the wallpaper itself was flaky to the touch. There were
six windows; two on each side perpendicular to the pews, and two behind the altar. The stained glass
was cracked or even missing. Each window curved at the top.
I approached the altar and took a deep breath before I began the procedure. I took some salt
from my bag and created a circle in front of the altar. It was a circle about six feet in diameter. I must’ve
reconstructed the triangle in the middle at least two times, as it was so hard to perfect the figure. Each
point of the triangle touched the circle.Grade 11
1st Place Winner
Superstition, cont’d
According to local legend, this town was blessed with good fortune. There was so much gold,
said the legend, that it significantly depressed the total value of gold nationwide. Anyone who entered
this town in its prime was destined to be fortunate, and that was the very reason I was compelled to
come here. For a few years now, everyone important to me had passed away. My mother, for example,
was involved in a fatal train accident, while my father died by falling from his horse. My aforementioned
aunt perished when she fell down a flight of stairs. It was so upsetting to me that these fatal accidents
would happen to those I loved most, so I became anti-social. Not because I wanted to, but because I
had to. It seemed to be a pattern; anyone who recently talked to me would pass away shortly thereaf-
ter.
Tonight, this would end. At least hopefully it would. A ritual prescribed by the legend would rid
me of my curse so I could have relationships again. The thought made me happy, but the job wasn’t
done yet.
According to the local legend, an object had to be sacrificed depending on the shaman’s astro-
logical sign. Since mine was Pisces, I picked a flower to place in the center of the circle. Then, I took a
match and lit it up, slowly lowering the flame to the flower’s yellowish off-color petals. It burned quickly,
and I stepped back as it did so.
There was a brief calm as the flames devoured the flower like a carnivorous beast. When every
inch of it was consumed, the flames raged. I shielded my face with my arms and stepped back as the
conflagration burned my face. I looked again, alarmed by this abrupt change. Had something gone
wrong? Was the building on fire?
My eyes looked down at the fire, which was completely contained within the circle. It simply re-
fused to move beyond the salt. It was incredible. Surely the fervor of the burn would not be halted by a
few measly grains sprinkled on the floor. But sure enough, like Moses cleaving the Red Sea using
God’s will alone, it was happening. The local legend appeared to be true.
The fire danced with elegance and malice, and then, I saw it: A shadowy figure rising from the
ring of fire. It was slow to ascend, and I couldn’t quite make out a face if it had one. This was probably
not a normal person, after all.
“Hello?” I called out, “who are you?”
I was cut off by a sudden eruption of the flames, proceeded by a slow decline of the fire to the
ground level. It became so small, so quickly, that I could stomp it out if I wanted to.
“Hello?” I repeated my words, but this time I was quieter since I wasn’t talking over the intense
crackling of the fire. There was no response. I was petrified for a moment, but I decided to step forward
to see if something would happen.
“Who are you?” I was within an arm’s reach of the figure, so I threw my hand in it. Oddly, I felt
nothing. It was an empty void.
“If it is an answer you wish for, then there is one condition.”
It spoke for the first time. Its voice was omnipresent. It came from every direction. Its tone was
authoritative and precise. The deep voice spoke slowly so I could hear every word without question. I
felt compelled to do its bidding.
“What? What do you want me to do?” I inquired.
It responded, “bequeath to me the items of the greatest personal value in your possession.”
I wasn’t particularly rich, but if it was personal value he wanted, then I was readily equipped.
I emptied my small blue pouch before the figure. The stones were thrown into what was left of
the fire, one by one.
“Sardonyx…shale…granite…”
I assumed it was reciting the names of each charm. I was shocked by its knowledge; even I
couldn’t name each specimen.Grade 11
1st Place Winner
Superstition, cont’d
I watched closely as the shadow expanded and grabbed the items. It looked like entire planets
were entering a black hole, never to be seen again.
“I am you,” said the shadow, “a physical manifestation of a part of you that is cherished by your-
self. I am your defining characteristic, yet you are blind to the burden of my existence. Others avoid
me, but you allow me to envelope you.”
I was confused and irritated by this proclamation. This wasn’t some game of verbal charades. I
decided to respond, “I don’t understand! The local legend said you can rid me of this curse. If you can,
then please do it! Everyone I know has died. My good luck charms are not enough!”
“Do you not understand?” inquired the shadow, “I am your superstition.”
Once again, I was left confused. But I tried to understand.
“You are a burden?” I asked.
“Yes. Superstition is a burden. You spend every waking hour in isolation from those you love,
instead choosing to turn to the legends and astrology to determine what your future will be. You have
no curse; you are simply upset about a string of unfortunate coincidences.”
I quickly repudiated, “no, I don’t need a lecture. Please help me…”
I trailed off after I realized that there was no negotiating with the shadow; not because it didn’t
want to help me, but because it couldn’t. It could only make me realize that everything- the charms, the
astrological signs, the psychics I regularly visited, the local legend- it all meant nothing.
The shadow must’ve noticed that I was catching up to that fact, “I see you understand. When
you wake up, you know what you must do.”
I opened my eyes, still trying to process what happened. I was in complete disbelief, laying on
my bed. The kind of disbelief that would cause one to question whether or not they were dreaming. But
that was exactly it; my superstitions visited me in my dreams.
When I rose from my bed, I purged my house. The dream catcher, the essential oils, the fortune
cookies, the bag of charms, and the horseshoes were all kicked to the curb by the time I was ready for
breakfast. I even scribbled out the “astrological readings” section of the magazine I was reading. I was
in control; not my irrational thoughts. I would plot my destiny; not some inanimate objects or some arbi-
trary constellations. I would open myself up to the world again even if some superstitious nonsense told
me not to. I would be free.
But how free was I if I was listening to my dreams?
JAKE GILLESPIE
Stephen Decatur High School
Eastern Shore Literacy AssociationGrade 11
2nd Place Winner
The Clock in the Cabin
The door opens with a whining creak, and Jacob sighs deeply, rubbing his hands together as he
shakes the snow from his boots. Even as he steps into the warmed air, the residual chill in his bones
still bites at his nose and nips at his cheeks. The cabin is cozy and warm, and bathed in a soft yellow
light. The clock on the wall is permanently stuck at 4:06. The absence of the constant tick reminds
Jacob that he needs to fix that, soon. He’ll get to it. Probably.
“It’s really coming down out there Hun,” He says as he attempts to regain the feeling in the tips
of his fingers.
“Well, Sweetie, I did tell you that the store could wait!” Comes the reply from down the hall.
Jacob smiles to himself, rolling his eyes.
“I know, I know. I just thought that it might be smart to stock up now, just in case this little flurry
decides to turn into a full-blown blizzard. You remember what happened last time, with the–”
“The toilet paper,” Melissa’s voice is much closer now, and Jacob looks up to see her standing
at the foot of the hallway, leaning against the wall with a grin turning the corners of her mouth. “I re-
member.”
He drops the rest of the bags on the table as he steps towards her. Her hair shines an inky black, falls
onto her shoulders and down her back. She is still smiling, eyes crinkled and head tilted, and it makes
him think of freshly brewed coffee, or the stars, or… something cheesy like that. He wraps his arms
around her and pulls her close, laughing into her hair.
“Yes, the toilet paper.”
Melissa brings her hands up to rest behind his neck as she pulls away, but just slightly. “Well, I’ve got
two mugs of hot chocolate and some old Christmas movie rerun pulled up on the TV. When you’ve fin-
ished with your toilet paper, you can join me.” She’s walking away now, her back to him, yet he can pic-
ture exactly what her smug smile looks like.
He calls after her, “With marshmallows, Hun?”
“With marshmallows.”
“And that’s why I married you.”
He hears her laugh, airy and light and like a bell, coming from the other room. Quickly, Jacob sorts
through the groceries. Cereal, tomatoes, toilet paper, cases of water, cookies. He pulls out a bag of
apples, some paper towels, and then, rope. Rope? That’s strange, why would he…
“Sweetie?”
“Yes!” Jacob shakes his head. What was he thinking about again? Well, it didn’t matter. “Yes,
coming!”
He turns to leave the kitchen, but a brilliant idea strikes him first. He creeps into the study, around piles
of books he has never even opened before, and plucks a record from one of the dusty shelves. Gen-
ius! He thinks, and hurries into the living room. Melissa sits on the couch, feet tucked under herself and
a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She holds a mug, green and chipped and well-loved, in both
hands. She softly blows the curling steam that rises and hangs in the air, like a playful little ghost. She
is so beautiful, Jacob thinks, as he places the record carefully, as to not make a sound.
A warm melody fills the room, Melissa’s eyes snap from her mug, to him.
“Hi,” He breathes. He feels as he did on the day he first laid eyes on her.
“Hi, yourself,” She says, placing her mug on the corner table, unfolding her legs.
“Dance with me?” He holds out a hand, and notices that it is shaking.
She laughs as she takes his hand in her own, letting him spin her once, twice, three times. Laughter
joins the gentle and lilting music. They stumble around the living room pressed close, giggling as they
spin and twirl and dip.
“Jacob,” She says, once things have calmed down, and they sway together, slowly. “This was
our wedding song.”You can also read
