"The Pink Pen" by Sabine D'Aran (York County Winner)
When the sun is out, it beams down on the pavement and makes the world smell like summer: chlorine and freedom. Chalk drawings sprawl throughout the cul-de-sac, greeting every visitor with misshapen hearts and disproportionately drawn people, both us and the drawings in gleeful unconsciousness that one day of rain would wash it all away. I haven’t smelled summer in a while, though. The first time I really noticed this change was when Penelope died.
She broke into two. Not pieces, not portions, but remnants of what she once was. More importantly, what she was to me. I didn’t understand how the people around me didn’t care. Didn’t they know me? Didn’t they know her? I sat there in math class with a slice of my heart in each hand. I lost my pen, my pink pen.
The first time I met Penelope, it was in Staples, on aisle three. She was on clearance, her sparkling shade of rose parting the crowd of black, dark blue, and gray counterparts. I was five years old, barely even able to write, but I knew that when I did, it would be with her. Right away, cradled in my arms, I named her Penelope. I thought I was extremely clever for this, explaining it to everyone I knew: “Do you get it? Penelope. Pen…elope.” Other pens were blunt with their emotions, even harsh. They spoke in bold, jet-black statements. Not Penelope. She was shy, blushing when she showed her ink. I knew her like the back of my hand (on which she often drew on). I used her on every homework assignment, every quiz, every yearbook signature, and every diary entry to remind my future self of the past. Penelope was in my life as soon as I found her. She was simple, her shade the only thing I needed.
I stood back to head to the bathroom while everyone was going to lunch, a salmon heading upstream during a strong current. A salmon with another salmon’s corpse in her hands. Everyone was staring at me, lacking sympathy, as I squeezed by them, which I thought was strange. People didn’t use to stare at others, did they? Why doesn’t anyone care dearly for glittery pens anymore? Once at the bathroom mirror, I had to decide what to do with Penelope. There was no use piecing her back together, her ink was all dried out. Accepting Penelope's and my fate, I grabbed a paper towel and made the best impromptu pen coffin I could. I wished I could have kept the sparkly ink on me forever, but as soon as I dipped my hands under the faucet, it faded into nothingness. Gone in the blink of an eye. The future was bleak, lacking the glitter I had known.
Rain makes an unexpected visit after school. I thought that the chalk drawings could last forever. I wonder if they thought that too. A feeling I wasn’t expecting creeps up on me, setting in the notion that whoever sent this rain was responsible for breaking Penelope. Anger. Maybe I could have stayed in summer today, maybe even forever. A day without broken pens and faded chalk would have been. But no, the rain tells me, as it whispers soft pitter patters against my ears. The rain tells me, “It is spring today and winter tomorrow.”
Sabine D’Aran, of South Berwick, is a freshman at Marshwood High School. An avid writer, she tells stories that others can relate to, which is where she got the idea for “The Pink Pen.” Sabine enjoys reading, being with her chihuahuas, and can be found backstage to help manage school productions. She hopes you find intrigue in not only her work but also in the works of her talented peers.