Table of Contents Table of Contents
Previous Page  77 / 145 Next Page
Show Menu
Previous Page 77 / 145 Next Page
Page Background



Amy Hale

Isobelle Carmody Award

For Creative Writing

Winner & School


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,


’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