But this year, Ms. Okonkwo had declared war on the ghosts. “No looking at old annotations,” she’d said on the first day, her voice dry as the Harmattan wind. “You will write your own answers. You will bleed for them.”
Maya stared at the blank lines. Her mind was a dry riverbed. She could feel the old answers pressing against the pages of her memory: Powerful verbs. Personification of the sea. Short sentences for panic. But those weren't her words. They were borrowed ghosts.
She wrote until her hand ached. She didn't mention similes. She didn't list techniques. She wrote about silence and indifference and the weight of being small.
It was too easy. It was cheating.