Writing Contest Winners 2014-2015
Honorable Mention, Grades 6-8
Grade 8, S.T.E.A.M. Academy, Malden
Mrs. Bryant, Teacher
She feels the bright sunlight on her eyelids
Before she hears the alarm clock.
Time to start another day.
She drags herself out of bed, runs a comb through her hair,
Brushes her teeth, and grabs a breakfast bar;
The same routine she's had since eighth grade.
She trudges down the front walk to her car,
Still half asleep, dreaming about weekday traffic in the city.
Once on the road, however, her brain awakens.
Her imagination soars, her heart flutters.
She is going to do the job she loves.
She grins fondly, pondering today's endless possibilities.
At last, she reaches her destination, her second home.
She treads eagerly over the gravel pathway,
Steadily making her way into the familiar building.
She checks in at the front desk, fishing out her lanyard,
Although she doesn't look much like her ID photo anymore.
Finally, her day can really begin.
Who could have known that she would end up here,
At the Wastewater Treatment Plant?
Who would have imagined that her math and science classes
Would lead her here?
Here, amongst the shiny metal machines she knew so well,
Amidst the spotless gauges she has memorized?
She never would have found this job, her dream job,
If her science teacher hadn't interested her and suggested it.
Where would she be now,
Without math for doing the calculations in her head?
She gazes out the dusty window,
Wishing she could be out on the harbor;
Longing to dip her toes into the clean, salty water.
Where would she be without this place?
Where would Boston be without this place?
She thinks back on Boston Harbor's bleak history.
A shudder runs down her spine even at the thought.
The sun shines blindingly on the frothy waves,
Like millions of diamonds floating on the surface.
This place saved her, just as it saved the harbor.
"Where would we be without it?" she thought.
She glances at the sapphire water for one second more,
Before returning to her beloved work.
Boston's skyline is shown in a quivering reflection,
And the image is pure.
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