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.