Table of Contents
His Smile
Adam Hogan '27
Pen and Ink
Hannah Record '24
Just a Quick Touch-Up
Amelia Benedict '26
Simple
Hannah Record '24
Unbounded Birds
Sierra Skendarian '26
Don't Fear the Storm
Ella Mcmenimen '26
Headphones
Adam Hogan '27
The Hammock
Owen Sinclair '26
COVER ART: The Sun from the Sea
Amelia Benedict '26
Adam Hogan '27
Pen and Ink
Hannah Record '24
Just a Quick Touch-Up
Amelia Benedict '26
Simple
Hannah Record '24
Unbounded Birds
Sierra Skendarian '26
Don't Fear the Storm
Ella Mcmenimen '26
Headphones
Adam Hogan '27
The Hammock
Owen Sinclair '26
COVER ART: The Sun from the Sea
Amelia Benedict '26
His Smile
The cold February wind blows against my face, nipping at my eyes and nose as I struggle to keep them open. It’s really cold up here, but I need to stay focused and try not to land on the snow or god forbid, someone else. None of them seem to notice, it’s nothing like they show you in all those movies, no policemen lined up in the front, barriers up. No spotlights, or a mob of nobodies yelling, “Don’t do it! You have so much to live for!!” which is never true. I wouldn’t be standing up here if that were true.
My parents got divorced when I was seven or eight, it seems so long ago now I don’t even remember. Mummy got custody, she also didn’t care. She worked herself into a breakdown trying to make ends meet, barely able to put food on the table for herself, let alone me after my dad left. After a while, I guess I stopped caring too. Hunger would fade so I never ate much, and became pretty skinny. Friends were there, sure, but they knew nothin’, they always seemed almost distant. Like we lived on different planets, only caring about why I couldn’t play call of duty or Minecraft with them whenever they were online, simply because I didn’t have an Xbox.
I was 13 when I got a job at the Market Basket down by the fish market on west street, boss was a nightmare, and had us on 6-hour shifts. MINIMUM. He yelled, came to work drunk, the whole shebang. Eventually, some cape caught him mugging some woman in an alleyway, trials this Wednesday, I will not be making an appearance.
Now you know why I’m up here, shitty parents, shitty job, just life. I take a deep breath of the crisp Boston air, slowly exhale, and step forward. My weight shifts onto my left leg as it dangles onto the Boston streets. I close my eyes.
Goodbye.
Step.
Step.
“Hey.”
I barely hear him land behind me. The subtle ruffling gives him away, I trip backward somehow and end up on my butt. I open my eyes, and there he is.
Superman.
I get up, ignoring the adonis in front of me, but before I can do anything, he grabs onto my sweater.
“Sit down,” he says “ I want to talk to you.”
He isn’t angry or demanding or anything, like you’d expect from a cape. Not that you’d expect a cape to do this, too busy beating up distant threats somewhere, abandoning the very people they vowed to protect, cause even they’re not so sure we’re worth saving anymore.
“What’s your name, son?” he asks, extending his hand as we sit down on the ledge of the building.
“Jesse,” I say. As I slap his hand away and look away from him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, moving closer to me. His red boots dangle next to my scruffy New balances off the edge of the building as he sits down. I don’t answer, who the hell does this guy think he is? Asking me what’s wrong, he knows damn well what's wrong, the world sucks, that’s what.
“ I get it,” he says, “life’s rough, and yeah, sometimes everything is doom and gloom. But there's always a light at the end of the tunnel, no matter how far away it is.”
“You don’t know shit,” I yell, “You're a cape, you can do ANYTHING YOU WANT! Go fight some alien or something, and just leave me alone!”
For a while, everything is quiet, people are starting to stare now. He breathes in. He waits a few minutes,letting the words stain the air. Then,he speaks to me.
“I was born on the planet krypton, on the earth date April 15th….”
He talks for a long time. He talks about his mother and father over in Smallville, owning and operating a small little farm. He talks about the bus full of children he lifted out of a creek on his way to school. At age 7. He talks about sweet apple pie and all-American hamburgers, about flying for the first time and crashing into a barn. He talks about Metropolis, a city that makes Boston look like New York. He talks about his job, as a reporter for a local newspaper called The Daily Planet. Wait….I read an article in that newspaper once, some guy, I think his name was Clark, wrote it. Now that I think about it….
No.
Clark wore glasses.
He talks about his best friend (well, he calls him his ‘pal’) Jimmy Olson, a little redhead kid with freckles galore who followed him around like a puppy dog.
He tells me about his adventures, with monsters and machines and explosions and laser beams. With big fights and gods of night and superhero teams.
But most of all, he talks about her.
He talks about Lois.
Miss Lois Lane.
You can hear in every breath that he loved her. In every moment he describes her. All the times she’s stayed on the ground with us, while he’s leaped tall buildings in a single bound. Every time she’s fallen,and he caught her, and every time he fell and she caught him.
And he talks about how in the end, the only person he couldn't save was her.
“I may be able to lift a commercial airplane full of people and cargo, but I can’t stop pain, and it took a while to be able to put on this cape again, but I did. I trust you, Jesse, you’re stronger than you think.”
I looked down from the ledge and saw the people looking. When suddenly I realized, I wanted to go home,Not that I knew where home was. I stood up. It wasn’t his words that made me stop, but his smile. It felt like the sun in human form, its light shining for all to see. The tears dripped down my face, one, two, three. I feel his arms come around me, his smile shining brighter than ever before.
He says nothing, I say nothing, and the warm sun starts to melt the frigid February snow.
- Adam Hogan '27
My parents got divorced when I was seven or eight, it seems so long ago now I don’t even remember. Mummy got custody, she also didn’t care. She worked herself into a breakdown trying to make ends meet, barely able to put food on the table for herself, let alone me after my dad left. After a while, I guess I stopped caring too. Hunger would fade so I never ate much, and became pretty skinny. Friends were there, sure, but they knew nothin’, they always seemed almost distant. Like we lived on different planets, only caring about why I couldn’t play call of duty or Minecraft with them whenever they were online, simply because I didn’t have an Xbox.
I was 13 when I got a job at the Market Basket down by the fish market on west street, boss was a nightmare, and had us on 6-hour shifts. MINIMUM. He yelled, came to work drunk, the whole shebang. Eventually, some cape caught him mugging some woman in an alleyway, trials this Wednesday, I will not be making an appearance.
Now you know why I’m up here, shitty parents, shitty job, just life. I take a deep breath of the crisp Boston air, slowly exhale, and step forward. My weight shifts onto my left leg as it dangles onto the Boston streets. I close my eyes.
Goodbye.
Step.
Step.
“Hey.”
I barely hear him land behind me. The subtle ruffling gives him away, I trip backward somehow and end up on my butt. I open my eyes, and there he is.
Superman.
I get up, ignoring the adonis in front of me, but before I can do anything, he grabs onto my sweater.
“Sit down,” he says “ I want to talk to you.”
He isn’t angry or demanding or anything, like you’d expect from a cape. Not that you’d expect a cape to do this, too busy beating up distant threats somewhere, abandoning the very people they vowed to protect, cause even they’re not so sure we’re worth saving anymore.
“What’s your name, son?” he asks, extending his hand as we sit down on the ledge of the building.
“Jesse,” I say. As I slap his hand away and look away from him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, moving closer to me. His red boots dangle next to my scruffy New balances off the edge of the building as he sits down. I don’t answer, who the hell does this guy think he is? Asking me what’s wrong, he knows damn well what's wrong, the world sucks, that’s what.
“ I get it,” he says, “life’s rough, and yeah, sometimes everything is doom and gloom. But there's always a light at the end of the tunnel, no matter how far away it is.”
“You don’t know shit,” I yell, “You're a cape, you can do ANYTHING YOU WANT! Go fight some alien or something, and just leave me alone!”
For a while, everything is quiet, people are starting to stare now. He breathes in. He waits a few minutes,letting the words stain the air. Then,he speaks to me.
“I was born on the planet krypton, on the earth date April 15th….”
He talks for a long time. He talks about his mother and father over in Smallville, owning and operating a small little farm. He talks about the bus full of children he lifted out of a creek on his way to school. At age 7. He talks about sweet apple pie and all-American hamburgers, about flying for the first time and crashing into a barn. He talks about Metropolis, a city that makes Boston look like New York. He talks about his job, as a reporter for a local newspaper called The Daily Planet. Wait….I read an article in that newspaper once, some guy, I think his name was Clark, wrote it. Now that I think about it….
No.
Clark wore glasses.
He talks about his best friend (well, he calls him his ‘pal’) Jimmy Olson, a little redhead kid with freckles galore who followed him around like a puppy dog.
He tells me about his adventures, with monsters and machines and explosions and laser beams. With big fights and gods of night and superhero teams.
But most of all, he talks about her.
He talks about Lois.
Miss Lois Lane.
You can hear in every breath that he loved her. In every moment he describes her. All the times she’s stayed on the ground with us, while he’s leaped tall buildings in a single bound. Every time she’s fallen,and he caught her, and every time he fell and she caught him.
And he talks about how in the end, the only person he couldn't save was her.
“I may be able to lift a commercial airplane full of people and cargo, but I can’t stop pain, and it took a while to be able to put on this cape again, but I did. I trust you, Jesse, you’re stronger than you think.”
I looked down from the ledge and saw the people looking. When suddenly I realized, I wanted to go home,Not that I knew where home was. I stood up. It wasn’t his words that made me stop, but his smile. It felt like the sun in human form, its light shining for all to see. The tears dripped down my face, one, two, three. I feel his arms come around me, his smile shining brighter than ever before.
He says nothing, I say nothing, and the warm sun starts to melt the frigid February snow.
- Adam Hogan '27
Pen and Ink
7:28 AM
Lyra would flip The Pen & Ink Coffee House open sign in two minutes and she could already see a group of teenagers shifting around in the blue light outside. Saturday morning, disgusting. Even more disgusting, October 23rd, the day of her meeting with Heart Publishing. The building that bore into the window from across the street like some kind of stalker. She tightened her chunky white shoes and groaned.
Her coworker Ale, a junior in college who had already published three collections of poetry, was arranging the cartons of plant milk in the refrigerator next to the register. A now empty cappuccino cup dangled from her hand.
She held the cup up in front of Lyras face, her head still plunged into the fridge, “Will you wash this for me?”
“Only if you take their orders,” Lyra pointed to the gaggle of teens.
Lyra took the cup and Ale flicked her hand into a thumbs up. Lyra walked around the counter to flip the open sign and unlock the door. 7:30 AM, Saturday, October 23rd. Just Seven hours until her meeting with the publishing and she could finally stop serving teenagers.
Like an overflowing load of wet laundry the girls flooded in all bright and bubbly. Their Perfumed breeze cleared Lyra’s airways, leaving her open and awake.
“Oh my god this can be our new spot!” One squawked. Every excited, “Yes!” and “Oh definitely!” in response was a jab to Lyra’s stomach.
Lyra crouched over an open binder on the counter. The header Opening Tasks in Ale’s dark handwriting jumped at her. Blood pounded from her head to the pink pen in her hands as she scribbled over the chores.
She looked to Ale, who had begun slinging lavender oat milk lattes like it was some kind of superpower. Lyra had known Ale for about a year; when Robby, their manager, hired her. Her hands were constantly caked in pen ink and she was good with the Ipad on a stand they called a register. The two had bonded about three months ago during a particularly slow closing shift.
The table lamps had painted the inside of the shop with a yellow light that displayed the two in a scene as soft as the cover of a christmas card. A tableau so perfect passersby had to resist the urge to press their noses against the window and watch. They restocked the cookies when the rush died down,and swapped stories along the way.
They also laughed at the way Robby complained about how “The names of the cookies are so unfeeling, they could stand to show some more humanity like the rest of the world,”
So they named each and every cookie after a person in their lives.
“Okay, first is Snickerdoodle,” Lyra folded a notecard and prepped her pen.
“The Aspen, for my first crush. He works in an art store in my home town. I wonder how he is?”
“Maybe the cookie will subconsciously call him to us.” She scribbled down his name on a card. “Alright next is Rosemary Lemon,”
“That’s for you,”
“Umm… okay, Maybe the Tamsen after my mom,”
“Sweet. I know nothing about your mother,”
“Oh, she lives in Oregon now, she's a waitress,”
“Huh, is she an artist too?”
“Yes, well she used to be. A painter, but all her work was stolen and sold before she could put it up anywhere.”
“That’s terrible, I couldn’t imagine,” Ale’s thick eyebrows pressed together.
“Okay next is sugar, I have no clue what-,”
“On the topic of parents, we could do after your dad,”
“Oh we’re not close-”
“Me neither, I wonder if that’s what made us writers?”
They shared a giggle.
“My Pop was cheap,” Ale doodled on the card.
“Mine was quick to sell out,”
“Like a sugar cookie,”
“I mean he was the one who sold all of her paintings,” Lyra said.
“Hmm, let’s name it The Pop then,”
“Lets,”
Since then the girls functioned seamlessly, Ale handled the river newcomers and Lyra handled the mountain regulars. A happy duo, who traded writing tips and life advice until one got sick, or had class or a date or a holiday, and Robby had to help out. On those days Lyra had to take forty-five minute breaks in the walk-in freezer to cry. And what was more human than that?
Lyra stood and began washing Ale’s cup. The hot water splashed up her forearms, her skin tingling in response. She dried the cup and placed it on the hooks with the others.
9:00 AM Four Hours and Thirty Minutes.
“Will you sweep the sidewalk? The leaves are starting to fall.” Ale swirled an iced latte and rang it up on the ipad.
“Of course,” Lyra grabbed the broom and headed for the door.
Outside, the sun cuddled into the horizon, not that Lyra could see much of it over the buildings. The sidewalk bathed in choppy still-bluish light, its cobblestone cracks infested with remnants of oak leaves from the park across the street. She jammed the edge of the bristles into the cracks and began to sweep the leaves into the street. Despite the youth of the morning the city thumped around her. Drumming footsteps and melodious car horns all supported by the constant strum of the underground train system, producing a madrigal for her street sweeping endeavors.
“Good morning Lyra,” A voice behind her spoke, “far too cold this morning to have you sweeping the pavement.”
She turned to see Mrs. Braze, Ale’s writing professor and an author who frequented the coffee shop whenever she wasn’t at the university. A twirl of smoke danced from her cigarette.
“Good morning Mrs. Braze. Ale sent me out here, She knows I’d rather watch the people than speak to them.”
“I never understood why someone would become a barista if they hate people,” Mrs. Braze shifted into her cigarette, “nevermind a writer.”
“I don’t hate people.”
“You will have no story to tell, if nobody tells you their story Lyra,” She flicked her cigarette onto the sidewalk and turned over her shoulder before she slipped through the door, “Be good then be great Lyra,”
Lyra stamped out the cigarette with her foot before taking a deep breath of the sour breeze. She could feel the publishing building smiling over her shoulder. She was good, and if Mrs. Braze was ‘greatness’ then she could stay good for a little while longer.
11:30 AM. Two Hours.
The air in the shop hung low with the scent of burnt almonds and sugar. The tables were scribbled with cups and plates long abandoned by patrons, whose eyes burned into the screens of their laptops. The air held the familiar thickness of burnt pastries and disregarded music. Robby's vintage record player hummed, dull and french, assisted by the clacking of keys and scratching of number two pencils. Lyra breathed in the sounds, her eyes threatening to to well up.
Pen and Ink was sacred. The birthplace of countless writing projects that have changed the world. The place that comforted her when she got rejected by every masters program she applied to. The setting that every author in the shop had created a world to. The building Lyra sat in every day, where she retold beautiful stories to herself. Stories of her and her mother. Solemn recalls of the trailer parks and parking lots she was raised in, far too fragile to share.
“Lyra, can I get another coffee?” Mrs Braze called as she shoved her face into her computer screen.
“Ofcourse,” Lyra poured the coffee into a mug and tossed in the sugar. She set the cup on the table and picked up the empty one.
“You’re meeting with Heart Publishing soon, correct? How’s that manuscript coming along ?” Mrs. Braze raised the mug to her lips.
“Yea, I have a meeting with them in about two hours,”
“Yes, but how is it?”
Lyra looked over her shoulder to the window. The sky was productive now, a deliberate mustard light lapped up the trunks and leaves of the trees across the street. People accumulated on the street. A couple picnicked on the grass, their toddler flopped around. A line of university students swayed to their next class. A group of tourists piled into a taxi.
“It’s my best one yet,” Lyra said to the window.
“Sure, but how is it?”
The taxi drove away.
“It’s good, I think- I think they might pick it up,”
The students filtered into the crowds.
“Lyra, did you complete the edits I sent you?” Mrs. Braze fingers hopped across the keyboard.
“I did,”
“Good then great Lyra, but they won’t pick it up,”
“Excuse me?”
“Well if you have no confidence in the story, they won’t either.”She sipped her coffee once more and pushed her face back to the screen.
Lyra returned to her post behind the counter, rubbing her arms with the palms of her hands. She turned back to the window, the young family then out of sight.
1:00 PM Thirty Minutes.
Lyra scrubbed the counter top. Her rag pulled back and forth and back and forth over the stained wood. Mrs. Braze had left ten minutes before, but her words still cycled endlessly in her head. The shop was empty, except for one old man at the bar by the window.
“You can leave early if you want- “Ale said, her arm stretched deep into the bakery display, “to prep for your meeting or whatever,”
“No, I think I’ll stay. Don’t want to stress about it too much,”
The bell on the door chirped and the air became stiff as the old man left. Lyra looked out the window and made eye contact with the Heart building.
She took a deep breath, “Ale, why are you so… outgoing with your writing?”
“What?” Ale grabbed a croissant.
“What about your writing makes you confident enough to get it published?”
Ale chuckled, “it’s a reflection of the world, why wouldn’t the world want to see that?”
“But, isn’t it scary at all?”
“Of course, it’s terrifying,”
“So then why do it?”
“Lyra what is this about, I thought Heart liked your manuscript?”
“I just- what if they’re my father,”
“What?”
“What if they just wanna sell my art,”
“That’s what they do,”
Lyra groaned.
“They like my manuscript. Mine. But they’re gonna own it, and sell it and-”
“Share it. What is a story if it isn’t told?”
“Mine!”
“No it isn’t” Ale pulled herself up onto the counter. “The minute you write on that page, it doesn’t belong to you, it belongs to the world. It doesn’t matter how good, or bad or life changing.”
“I don’t know what to do,”
“Share your story, let yourself share your story. Be terrified.”
“Be good, then be great?”
“You’re halfway to great Lyra,”
“But I-”
“Why won’t you let yourself be great?”
“My mom was great, she was making deals and planning shows and getting her name out there and the minute her pieces were planned to up they were stolen,”
“Okay, what does this have to do with you?”
Lyra turned to the window. A moving truck blocked her view to the park as the Heart building stretched into the sky.
“This is my ‘pieces going up,’”
“And you’re stealing all of it from yourself. It doesn’t matter how cautious you are, life is gonna happen, which means your story is going to happen,” Ale checked her watch, “You have twenty five minutes to sit in that waiting room. Go be great Lyra,”
1:25 PM Five Minutes.
Lyra stared at the glossy wood door. The whole room smelt like paper and lipstick. She turned to the receptionist whose name tag was covered by her long red hair. She smacked gum as she reapplied lipstick the same fiery red as her hair.
Lyra’s palms sweat onto her second-hand purse. Her eyelashes fluttered as she tried not to look up at the fluorescent lights. Suddenly the door dragged open.
“Lyra Jordan?” A woman in a suit peaked her head out from behind the door.
She turned to the window behind her and saw Ale lock up the coffee shop before she headed off down the street toward the park. Lyra turned back around to the woman.
“That’s me,”
“We’re ready for you,”
“Me too,” Lyra smiled.
- Hannah Record '24
Lyra would flip The Pen & Ink Coffee House open sign in two minutes and she could already see a group of teenagers shifting around in the blue light outside. Saturday morning, disgusting. Even more disgusting, October 23rd, the day of her meeting with Heart Publishing. The building that bore into the window from across the street like some kind of stalker. She tightened her chunky white shoes and groaned.
Her coworker Ale, a junior in college who had already published three collections of poetry, was arranging the cartons of plant milk in the refrigerator next to the register. A now empty cappuccino cup dangled from her hand.
She held the cup up in front of Lyras face, her head still plunged into the fridge, “Will you wash this for me?”
“Only if you take their orders,” Lyra pointed to the gaggle of teens.
Lyra took the cup and Ale flicked her hand into a thumbs up. Lyra walked around the counter to flip the open sign and unlock the door. 7:30 AM, Saturday, October 23rd. Just Seven hours until her meeting with the publishing and she could finally stop serving teenagers.
Like an overflowing load of wet laundry the girls flooded in all bright and bubbly. Their Perfumed breeze cleared Lyra’s airways, leaving her open and awake.
“Oh my god this can be our new spot!” One squawked. Every excited, “Yes!” and “Oh definitely!” in response was a jab to Lyra’s stomach.
Lyra crouched over an open binder on the counter. The header Opening Tasks in Ale’s dark handwriting jumped at her. Blood pounded from her head to the pink pen in her hands as she scribbled over the chores.
She looked to Ale, who had begun slinging lavender oat milk lattes like it was some kind of superpower. Lyra had known Ale for about a year; when Robby, their manager, hired her. Her hands were constantly caked in pen ink and she was good with the Ipad on a stand they called a register. The two had bonded about three months ago during a particularly slow closing shift.
The table lamps had painted the inside of the shop with a yellow light that displayed the two in a scene as soft as the cover of a christmas card. A tableau so perfect passersby had to resist the urge to press their noses against the window and watch. They restocked the cookies when the rush died down,and swapped stories along the way.
They also laughed at the way Robby complained about how “The names of the cookies are so unfeeling, they could stand to show some more humanity like the rest of the world,”
So they named each and every cookie after a person in their lives.
“Okay, first is Snickerdoodle,” Lyra folded a notecard and prepped her pen.
“The Aspen, for my first crush. He works in an art store in my home town. I wonder how he is?”
“Maybe the cookie will subconsciously call him to us.” She scribbled down his name on a card. “Alright next is Rosemary Lemon,”
“That’s for you,”
“Umm… okay, Maybe the Tamsen after my mom,”
“Sweet. I know nothing about your mother,”
“Oh, she lives in Oregon now, she's a waitress,”
“Huh, is she an artist too?”
“Yes, well she used to be. A painter, but all her work was stolen and sold before she could put it up anywhere.”
“That’s terrible, I couldn’t imagine,” Ale’s thick eyebrows pressed together.
“Okay next is sugar, I have no clue what-,”
“On the topic of parents, we could do after your dad,”
“Oh we’re not close-”
“Me neither, I wonder if that’s what made us writers?”
They shared a giggle.
“My Pop was cheap,” Ale doodled on the card.
“Mine was quick to sell out,”
“Like a sugar cookie,”
“I mean he was the one who sold all of her paintings,” Lyra said.
“Hmm, let’s name it The Pop then,”
“Lets,”
Since then the girls functioned seamlessly, Ale handled the river newcomers and Lyra handled the mountain regulars. A happy duo, who traded writing tips and life advice until one got sick, or had class or a date or a holiday, and Robby had to help out. On those days Lyra had to take forty-five minute breaks in the walk-in freezer to cry. And what was more human than that?
Lyra stood and began washing Ale’s cup. The hot water splashed up her forearms, her skin tingling in response. She dried the cup and placed it on the hooks with the others.
9:00 AM Four Hours and Thirty Minutes.
“Will you sweep the sidewalk? The leaves are starting to fall.” Ale swirled an iced latte and rang it up on the ipad.
“Of course,” Lyra grabbed the broom and headed for the door.
Outside, the sun cuddled into the horizon, not that Lyra could see much of it over the buildings. The sidewalk bathed in choppy still-bluish light, its cobblestone cracks infested with remnants of oak leaves from the park across the street. She jammed the edge of the bristles into the cracks and began to sweep the leaves into the street. Despite the youth of the morning the city thumped around her. Drumming footsteps and melodious car horns all supported by the constant strum of the underground train system, producing a madrigal for her street sweeping endeavors.
“Good morning Lyra,” A voice behind her spoke, “far too cold this morning to have you sweeping the pavement.”
She turned to see Mrs. Braze, Ale’s writing professor and an author who frequented the coffee shop whenever she wasn’t at the university. A twirl of smoke danced from her cigarette.
“Good morning Mrs. Braze. Ale sent me out here, She knows I’d rather watch the people than speak to them.”
“I never understood why someone would become a barista if they hate people,” Mrs. Braze shifted into her cigarette, “nevermind a writer.”
“I don’t hate people.”
“You will have no story to tell, if nobody tells you their story Lyra,” She flicked her cigarette onto the sidewalk and turned over her shoulder before she slipped through the door, “Be good then be great Lyra,”
Lyra stamped out the cigarette with her foot before taking a deep breath of the sour breeze. She could feel the publishing building smiling over her shoulder. She was good, and if Mrs. Braze was ‘greatness’ then she could stay good for a little while longer.
11:30 AM. Two Hours.
The air in the shop hung low with the scent of burnt almonds and sugar. The tables were scribbled with cups and plates long abandoned by patrons, whose eyes burned into the screens of their laptops. The air held the familiar thickness of burnt pastries and disregarded music. Robby's vintage record player hummed, dull and french, assisted by the clacking of keys and scratching of number two pencils. Lyra breathed in the sounds, her eyes threatening to to well up.
Pen and Ink was sacred. The birthplace of countless writing projects that have changed the world. The place that comforted her when she got rejected by every masters program she applied to. The setting that every author in the shop had created a world to. The building Lyra sat in every day, where she retold beautiful stories to herself. Stories of her and her mother. Solemn recalls of the trailer parks and parking lots she was raised in, far too fragile to share.
“Lyra, can I get another coffee?” Mrs Braze called as she shoved her face into her computer screen.
“Ofcourse,” Lyra poured the coffee into a mug and tossed in the sugar. She set the cup on the table and picked up the empty one.
“You’re meeting with Heart Publishing soon, correct? How’s that manuscript coming along ?” Mrs. Braze raised the mug to her lips.
“Yea, I have a meeting with them in about two hours,”
“Yes, but how is it?”
Lyra looked over her shoulder to the window. The sky was productive now, a deliberate mustard light lapped up the trunks and leaves of the trees across the street. People accumulated on the street. A couple picnicked on the grass, their toddler flopped around. A line of university students swayed to their next class. A group of tourists piled into a taxi.
“It’s my best one yet,” Lyra said to the window.
“Sure, but how is it?”
The taxi drove away.
“It’s good, I think- I think they might pick it up,”
The students filtered into the crowds.
“Lyra, did you complete the edits I sent you?” Mrs. Braze fingers hopped across the keyboard.
“I did,”
“Good then great Lyra, but they won’t pick it up,”
“Excuse me?”
“Well if you have no confidence in the story, they won’t either.”She sipped her coffee once more and pushed her face back to the screen.
Lyra returned to her post behind the counter, rubbing her arms with the palms of her hands. She turned back to the window, the young family then out of sight.
1:00 PM Thirty Minutes.
Lyra scrubbed the counter top. Her rag pulled back and forth and back and forth over the stained wood. Mrs. Braze had left ten minutes before, but her words still cycled endlessly in her head. The shop was empty, except for one old man at the bar by the window.
“You can leave early if you want- “Ale said, her arm stretched deep into the bakery display, “to prep for your meeting or whatever,”
“No, I think I’ll stay. Don’t want to stress about it too much,”
The bell on the door chirped and the air became stiff as the old man left. Lyra looked out the window and made eye contact with the Heart building.
She took a deep breath, “Ale, why are you so… outgoing with your writing?”
“What?” Ale grabbed a croissant.
“What about your writing makes you confident enough to get it published?”
Ale chuckled, “it’s a reflection of the world, why wouldn’t the world want to see that?”
“But, isn’t it scary at all?”
“Of course, it’s terrifying,”
“So then why do it?”
“Lyra what is this about, I thought Heart liked your manuscript?”
“I just- what if they’re my father,”
“What?”
“What if they just wanna sell my art,”
“That’s what they do,”
Lyra groaned.
“They like my manuscript. Mine. But they’re gonna own it, and sell it and-”
“Share it. What is a story if it isn’t told?”
“Mine!”
“No it isn’t” Ale pulled herself up onto the counter. “The minute you write on that page, it doesn’t belong to you, it belongs to the world. It doesn’t matter how good, or bad or life changing.”
“I don’t know what to do,”
“Share your story, let yourself share your story. Be terrified.”
“Be good, then be great?”
“You’re halfway to great Lyra,”
“But I-”
“Why won’t you let yourself be great?”
“My mom was great, she was making deals and planning shows and getting her name out there and the minute her pieces were planned to up they were stolen,”
“Okay, what does this have to do with you?”
Lyra turned to the window. A moving truck blocked her view to the park as the Heart building stretched into the sky.
“This is my ‘pieces going up,’”
“And you’re stealing all of it from yourself. It doesn’t matter how cautious you are, life is gonna happen, which means your story is going to happen,” Ale checked her watch, “You have twenty five minutes to sit in that waiting room. Go be great Lyra,”
1:25 PM Five Minutes.
Lyra stared at the glossy wood door. The whole room smelt like paper and lipstick. She turned to the receptionist whose name tag was covered by her long red hair. She smacked gum as she reapplied lipstick the same fiery red as her hair.
Lyra’s palms sweat onto her second-hand purse. Her eyelashes fluttered as she tried not to look up at the fluorescent lights. Suddenly the door dragged open.
“Lyra Jordan?” A woman in a suit peaked her head out from behind the door.
She turned to the window behind her and saw Ale lock up the coffee shop before she headed off down the street toward the park. Lyra turned back around to the woman.
“That’s me,”
“We’re ready for you,”
“Me too,” Lyra smiled.
- Hannah Record '24
- Amelia Benedict '26
acrylic on canvas
acrylic on canvas
Simple
Can’t I be simple
Must I always be a question?
Why can’t I-
Must I always be a crooked eyebrow,
Or a bitten lip?
Can’t I be?
What law says I have to be A through D?
What law must I follow?
If I am simple, is the answer to the question simplicity?
If I am simple, then I guess you wouldn't have to ask a question.
But that’s why you’re here
Isn’t it?
Because I’m not simple
I could never be simple?
Ever?
Do you decide that?
Or is my asking questions the reason I’ll never be simple?
Can’t I be who I say I am?
Can’t I be simple?
- Hannah Record '24
Must I always be a question?
Why can’t I-
Must I always be a crooked eyebrow,
Or a bitten lip?
Can’t I be?
What law says I have to be A through D?
What law must I follow?
If I am simple, is the answer to the question simplicity?
If I am simple, then I guess you wouldn't have to ask a question.
But that’s why you’re here
Isn’t it?
Because I’m not simple
I could never be simple?
Ever?
Do you decide that?
Or is my asking questions the reason I’ll never be simple?
Can’t I be who I say I am?
Can’t I be simple?
- Hannah Record '24
Unbounded Birds
They fly around a parking lot,
Usually looking for some food to scrounge.
I watch them as they fly aimlessly,
Landing only to be disappointed by what they found.
I walk towards them,
Fascinated by their existence.
Why would unbounded birds choose this?
They live by the unconfined sea,
A place almost ethereal in the dim moonlight.
They live where the murmurs of the waves encapsulate their exquisiteness.
So why must they live here?
I stand and ponder,
People meander by as I watch the seagulls move.
I grasp at a question, a single thought in that moment,
Why am I here?
They didn’t choose to live in this place,
By a restaurant that feeds them only scraps.
They were born here,
Or guided here by their parents.
And then my thoughts connected,
A question formed in my mind.
Who am I to judge,
If we are the same?
- Sierra Skendarian '26
Usually looking for some food to scrounge.
I watch them as they fly aimlessly,
Landing only to be disappointed by what they found.
I walk towards them,
Fascinated by their existence.
Why would unbounded birds choose this?
They live by the unconfined sea,
A place almost ethereal in the dim moonlight.
They live where the murmurs of the waves encapsulate their exquisiteness.
So why must they live here?
I stand and ponder,
People meander by as I watch the seagulls move.
I grasp at a question, a single thought in that moment,
Why am I here?
They didn’t choose to live in this place,
By a restaurant that feeds them only scraps.
They were born here,
Or guided here by their parents.
And then my thoughts connected,
A question formed in my mind.
Who am I to judge,
If we are the same?
- Sierra Skendarian '26
Don't Fear the Storm
The lightning brightens up the sky
Out of clouds - the rain pours
Onto the street - drops tumble down
Continuing over hours.
The lightning struck a quaint oak tree
It split right down the trunk
Brown bark stripped from its only home
In puddles - branches sunk.
The lightning in the sky
Makes its appearance known
The crackles heard - for miles round
Its melancholy tone.
The wind blows against the windows
It howls in the night
Thunder and lightning - keep striking
But do not fear the storm.
- Ella Mcmenimen '26
Out of clouds - the rain pours
Onto the street - drops tumble down
Continuing over hours.
The lightning struck a quaint oak tree
It split right down the trunk
Brown bark stripped from its only home
In puddles - branches sunk.
The lightning in the sky
Makes its appearance known
The crackles heard - for miles round
Its melancholy tone.
The wind blows against the windows
It howls in the night
Thunder and lightning - keep striking
But do not fear the storm.
- Ella Mcmenimen '26
Headphones
They took away my headphones
While I was doing my homework.
I found out and I screamed and kicked
And acted like a jerk.
I told my mom I hated her
And called my dad a schmuck.
I then got sent to up to my room
And yelled “LIKE I GIVE A FU-” *SLAM*
They took away my headphones
And hid them out of sight
In dark corners of forgotten rooms on Halloween night.
The only reason they’re gone right now is because I used them
So now I’m yelling angrily and blasting Eminem.
They took away my headphones
So they took away my place:
My zen, my calm in the raging storm
My creative space.
So how am I supposed to write
Without my music?
I can’t tune out the bustling sounds
Without rap, pop or blues.
Ick.
They took away my headphones
They’re cold and ruthless hacks.
They took away my headphones
And I want, no, NEED them back.
- Adam Hogan '27
While I was doing my homework.
I found out and I screamed and kicked
And acted like a jerk.
I told my mom I hated her
And called my dad a schmuck.
I then got sent to up to my room
And yelled “LIKE I GIVE A FU-” *SLAM*
They took away my headphones
And hid them out of sight
In dark corners of forgotten rooms on Halloween night.
The only reason they’re gone right now is because I used them
So now I’m yelling angrily and blasting Eminem.
They took away my headphones
So they took away my place:
My zen, my calm in the raging storm
My creative space.
So how am I supposed to write
Without my music?
I can’t tune out the bustling sounds
Without rap, pop or blues.
Ick.
They took away my headphones
They’re cold and ruthless hacks.
They took away my headphones
And I want, no, NEED them back.
- Adam Hogan '27
The Hammock
I snatch my notebook and pen and I take the path to my hammock
Deciding to get away from the world
From the screens, the noise, the walls, the confusion
I step outside, closing the door softly
The cool autumn night air
Whipping through my skin and hair
I grab my notebook and pen and I go to my hammock
Buried deep in the thick woodland behind my house
I shuffle through piles of leaves and broken branches
Past an abandoned shed and some small streams
The water flowing so rhythmically, so steadily
I walk until I reach the old campsite
With the same brown hammock
Still tied to the same two trees
Get my notebook and pen, go to my hammock
I listen to the owls hooting and the rustling of the leaves
The soft rustle of acorns and pinecones
Making contact with the dewy grass
I smell pumpkins and maple trees, the fresh scents of fall
My notebook, my pen, my hammock
I jot, I sketch, I write, I create
New worlds, new destinations, new fantasies
The words and pictures form themselves on the page
Condensing into breathtaking stories
I am simply a gateway between reality and imagination
Notebook, pen, hammock
I stare up at the sky full of stars
Gleaming, twinkling pinpoints of ecstasy
- Owen Sinclair '26