Come Together: 3,000 Years of Stories and Storytelling was an exhibit exploring how stories shape our world, from myths and legends to personal experiences. Inspired by the exhibition, the Morgan hosted a creative writing contest for teens.
Teens chose from the images below, answering the questions: What stories do they tell? What speaks to you?
Crak! - Roy Lichtenstein
Untitled - Keith Haring
Untitled - Nellie Mae Rowe
2026 Teen Writing Contest at the Morgan Library & Museum Winning Entries
Supriyo C., Stuyvesant High School, Untitled - Keith Haring
Homebody loves his green plywood floor and quilted sky-blue walls. Homebody loves the abstract interior of his externally plain home. The air is visible and the smell is gone. Eyes are streaked with red and orange. The white is outside. In this home of Homebody’s, there’s too much to do. He chooses to draw during his pastime. A long-legged spider with a top hat,a juicy cherry with pickled eyes, a sour incarnation of the solid line separating the sky and Earth. His arm’s ink spills across the intangible canvas - until inertia invades.
Eyes go dark, liberated from the sky and Earth. Paintings give birth to reality. Finally, Homebody meets Somebody. Somebody pulls Homebody into the world, out from his woven domain. Out of Earth’s womb he goes, throwing a fit. His eyes are white, good. The concrete pavement is square and grey; the white house is normal and plain; the asphalt road is oxidized and straight, good. It’s gaudy, distasteful, perfect for our long-winded inaccurate fletcher. This time, he isn’t producing anything.
Homebody can’t feel his body or face, so he stands stiff and still. Somebody wraps his long arms around Homebody and swings him from arm to arm. He has six arms, six different ways of swinging, and Homebody has one way to live. They see this and walk over. They fling their arms up wanting a ride. Somebody is never alone, but he doesn’t have space for more. Six arms isn’t enough for a lively swing, unless it’s Homebody. So leave now, They, you don’t get to participate. It’s just me and somebody, Homebody and Somebody.
Sarah L., Bronx High School of Science, Untitled - Keith Haring
It started with scraped raw ankles and throbbing toes. Crown Princess Saoirse endured her weekly etiquette lesson beneath the watchful gaze of the Marchioness—who insisted that suffering was simply part of the process of becoming the perfect lady. But the way her feet bled in her pretty, new pair of heels, Saoirse begged to differ.
When the Marchioness finally gave in and ended the lesson—pouring fresh juice she always gave Saoirse after thelessons—Saoirse was ready to cry from relief.
She never found out what kind of fruit the juice was made out of. When she would ask, the Marchioness’ thin, bowed lips would pull into a demure smile and insist that it was a secret family recipe.
Her hands trembled from the lesson’s lingering exertion as she lifted the delicate, gold inlaid, porcelain teacup to her lips.Delectable. It tasted like a mildly sweet blend between passion fruit and coconut—if there had been a gauze over her tastebuds.
Saoirse began to adjust her sleeve—remembering that a proper lady shouldn’t have bunched up sleeves.
It had already been smoothed down.
She glanced over at the Marchioness to see if, perhaps, the Marchioness had done it. But the Marchioness was across the gazebo, scrutinizing the lilies. “Marchioness?” The older woman turned. “Yes, dear?”
“Did—did you adjust my sleeve? I didn’t do that.” With those words, the Marchioness’ eyes glinted with feral excitement.“No. However, it has begun.”
Saoirse frowned, cold dread slid down her spine. She stood and before she could smooth down her dress, she stared in disbelief as her hand moved before she even thought about it.
The Marchioness hustled over, fingers digging into her arm, crooning reassurance. “Princess, look—you’re finally perfect.” Her movements were perfect. But none were hers.
She smiled.
Nusaiba N., Harry S. Truman High School, Untitled - Nellie Mae Rowe
“The Garden That Remembers”
Nellie Mae Rowe stands in the garden, not really moving. Just there, like she fits into the space as much as the plants do.
The table in front of her is already set. A teacup, a small bowl, and a chair that hasn’t been used in a long time. Everything looks ready, but no one is coming.
She runs her fingers along the edge of the tablecloth. It used to be her sister’s. Back when things felt louder. Back when the garden didn’t feel this quiet.
There used to be laughter here. The kind that filled the air and made everything feel alive. Her sister would sit in that chair, talking about anything and everything. Stories that didn’t always make sense, but still felt important. Stories about people turning into rivers or birds carrying secrets across the sky.
Now the only sound is the wind moving through the leaves.
Nellie Mae wonders if stories disappear when people do. Or if they stay somewhere, hidden and waiting.
The chair creaks a little, and she freezes. For a second, she thinks about turning around, but she doesn’t. She is not sure what would be worse, seeing nothing or thinking she saw something.
Instead, she picks up the teacup and pretends to pour into it. Then she places it carefully in front of the empty chair. “Tell me something,” she says.
At first, nothing happens.
Then the leaves move, a little louder this time. The flowers shift, and the air feels different. Not full, but not empty either.
For a moment, she almost hears it again. Her sister’s voice. Not clear, not fully there, but enough to make her stay.
After that, Nellie Mae comes back every day. She sets the table the same way, sits in the same place, and listens.
Not because she expects someone to come back, but because she understands something now.
Stories don’t really leave. They just get quieter. And if you wait long enough, they find their way back.
Lulu Y., Bard High School Early College Manhattan, Untitled - Nellie Mae Rowe
Bitter not in spite, but in riches is the soil –such is the lands we all seem cosmically drawn to– it nestles in my shiny shoes between my toes. It seems flesh & soil are destined.
The blue bird twirls pushing the air like mud –hold my breath when the hose water holds strong, wait, forbearingly, to seep into the soil –let it. The ugly bird flies too, its flight off kilter like a paper plane birthed by tremored hands. Side by side, the two in the sky fly. The ugly bird flies too, The weave in the chair, the tablecloth, the rug inside, my shift dress, echoes –universal texture; in every language we find over & under, we conquer the seeds in the soil & still I stay. Stubborn weeds, knotted thread –the woven cloth always expands.
I find beauty in warmth: the sun, the landlocked birds & their feeble brawls. I find it in the cold of the soil; let it heal me, let it get under my fingernails. I find it in thick sticky breath, & sly slitting whispers –no matter form, I cannot escape ether. Inescapable is the dirt in my mouth when the beets bloom. Inescapable, is the colored chorals of epiphany. It is in the grooves of my hands wandering folds unforgettable.
I find it with the birds, find me in the playhouse –with the splinter bestowing planks, with the monstrous ivy gnawing on the battered chain link fence, which warps with weathered rust & succumbs to the winds. I want my palms open, fingers outstretched; no fists, no fight. I’ll be like the chain linked fence. I’ll coil my limbs & I’ll surrender.
Yield, to the current, I try. It flows yellow-orange like the sun, like the pollen, savored & swallowed by the flitzing bugs. It flows cool-blue like the chair, the type with whittled legs and rusted scabs. I’ll follow it: the current, the line, the thread, the accidental path paved by downtrodden dirt.