by Rachel Poulin '21
“Water bottle? Check. Bandana? Check. Headphones? check. Will to potentially risk my life? Double check.”
The sun was nestled along the waterfront horizon. The clouds were soft pastels coddling the last golden rays of the hour. I could hear cars whizzing past me, and waves crashing in the near distance. An evening haze fluttered in the air, and the smell of ocean salt infused the depths of my lungs. Grabbing my busted up skates, I made my way to the edge of the road. Though the sun was past its peak, I still felt the heat of the day sear at my bare back.
With my feet secured in the boot, and my wheels creeping forward, I was desperate to roll. I felt the lyrical chords of song pumping through my soul, and anticipation pulsed through my chest. One more step, and I’d be soaring on asphalt. With one last faithful breath I pushed off my back foot and drifted into the open ocean that was route 210.
Ink Magazine is thrilled to start publishing our first serial novel, Candlelight, with its prologue, "A Candle’s Shadow", by Sophomore Eden Harriman. Her writing will be published as a chapter each month, and readers can follow through the book on this website!
By Eden Harriman ‘23
I’ve always believed that candlelight is the best light for my line of work. It is the perfect balance that my creations need to thrive. Too much light would lead them to shrivel up and become shy. That shyness would cause them to hide from the light’s judgments, afraid of what it might say. But if there was no light, then my creations wouldn’t have anything to keep them in line. They would become egotistical, too full of themselves to think properly. That’s why I choose the dim, yet quiet balance of candlelight. There’s just enough light to keep my creations in check, but not too much that they can’t grow to their full potential.
By Amalia Doughty ‘21
I make eye contact with the driver of the oncoming car, a horrible man, I can’t help but grin at him as I lurch the steering wheel towards the other lane. I pray this doesn't hurt as much as I know it will. Tires screech and the dull thud of bone on glass cuts the air. There's a bowling ball sized crack in the driver's side of the windshield. The driver lays unconscious on the tar with blood gushing from his abdomen and head. The passenger doesn’t look good either with blood streaming out of his nose and running out through his lips, perfect. Sauntering over I check for the driver's pulse, dead. I walk over to the car and check the passengers pulse, dead. Dragging the passenger out of his car and over to mine I sit him roughly inside, grabbing his phone I dial 911.
by Deanna Curit
It was a crisp fall day, perfect for a football game. Jason Cortez and his team stood on the sidelines with their helmet in their left hand and their right hand over their heart. The national anthem boomed from the speakers. It was the state championship game. Jason had been preparing all year with his team for this game. Finally, the day had come. He was so ready for this. His goal all season was to score a touchdown at the state championship game. His team was undefeated, and they were determined to stay that way.
The national anthem ended and they geared back up as if they were getting ready for a war.
by Emma Bernardi
Every story has a hidden side. I have known it, since I was a child. My mum once told me to never trust people completely because everybody just tells stories according to what they want people to know. They usually miss details and my mum used to call that the “hidden part of their story”.
Sometimes the “hidden part” can be the most important one in order to get the right story and sometimes... it’s your story that has a hidden part that you didn’t know about.
I was a seventeen years old girl. I had been living in New York for all my short life. I used to love my life: I was pretty good at school and I had many friends older than me with whom I have always had a lot of fun. My mum had been the most important person in my life since I was born. I used to have a very special relationship with her; she was there for me in every situation and she supported me. We grew up together since my dad’s death. He died in a car accident when I was 4 years old. Sometimes I wonder how my life would have been if he hadn’t died. My mum used to love my dad so much, however, in spite of mourning, we succeeded in being happy again.
by Anna DiMatteo
My eyes are red and wet from crying all day and night. I am sitting in my room, thinking about what happened. “Willow,” my mom says quietly as she opens my door. I look up and give her a heartbreaking look. “Let’s go talk in the living room,” she says, motioning for me to follow her. I slowly get up, walking to the living room. As I enter the room, I see my mom, dad, and brother sitting on the couches. I take a seat and stare blankly at the floor.
“Grandma would’ve been so proud of you,” my mom said. “She would want you to go after your dreams and goals in life.” I smile slightly, walking over to my mom and hugging her.
“We are all proud of you,” my dad says, joining the hug.
My brother walks over to me. “We are here for you,” he says.
by Emma Holley '20
Just one last beautiful day. That’s all I wanted. One last day with my daughter, before the disease that claimed her mother comes back to claim me as well. We were going to get ice cream, go mini golfing, I was going to teach her how to play softball, I was going to do all the things dads are supposed to do with their children. Now, that can’t happen. The rain is coming down too hard. It drops like tiny razors of ice on my hands and face. My daughter holds my hand, her little fingers grasped bravely around mine. Her voice void of any complaints. For someone so young, she is much wiser than most adults, let alone children her age.
by Deanna Ivanov '20
She woke up with the alarm clock screaming repeatedly into her ear. She used her soft, snug pillow to try to shield her ears from the vexatious ringing.
“Get up, Tamera!” her father hollered from the top of the stairs. She recognized her younger brothers hustling and bustling downstairs. Always up, bright and early, as per usual. It’s just going to be another boring and repetitive day, she thought.
“Get up! You’re going to be late!” her father screamed once more. She glanced over at the clock which read 7:47 am. Her eyes shot wide open and she leaped off the bed, gathering her things rapidly, as if a storm was about to approach. She raced downstairs, grabbed a granola bar, and scampered out the door.
“Bye!” she screamed, as she was darting for the school bus. The bus stopped completely just in time and Tamera sprinted up the stairs, and into a seat. She opened her window and gazed out into the cool October sky. The crisp air was blowing beneath her golden brown locks. The delicate leaves were drifting off into the air. The trees were bursting with bold colors of radiant red, golden yellow, and glossy orange. She was especially fond of this month, simply because it was her birthday month. 15 felt like a big year for her. She couldn’t wait to be older and be one step closer to becoming a functioning adult; yet she wanted nothing else more in the world but than to discover her past and the reason for her mother’s mysterious death. The memory of her death was so vivid, that it haunted her, even until to this day.
by Jenna Danler '19
Monsieur Jean Bossuet
5 Rue de l’Homme Armé 24601
My dearest Jean,
How have you been? I must tell you about a night I had this past week which I feel I will remember for many years. It was something of a personal revelation. You’re the one person I have allowed myself to tell, so please indulge me.
The night was dim and silent. The only sound was the dying cinders of the wood stove and a gentle wind pushing against the windows of my apartment. The time was a quarter to eleven, and though usually my family would be home, having heated arguments or doing procrastinated schoolwork, that night I could revel in my own peace. I sat restfully in my pile of cushions, watching the snow fall in the darkness. All day I had been washing the laundry and cleaning, so even though I was exhausted, I cherished a little free time.
by Chantal Biggar '19
You could hear each drop leak from the rusted pipe that hung loosely over the corner of the dim hospital room, where several hundred patients lay almost lifelessly, each covered with a white linen cloth in efforts to conceal and alleviate the amount of suffering seen by passers and the press. From the tiny window in my restricted field of view, I search for the sun, which would never show itself again. Life was shaken from the environment around me. This area became an attraction to tourists all over the world, flashing their cameras in an effort to capture the shock and horror of nuclear aftermath, then to continue on living their lives without a second thought. But for me, this was life now.