One of the most joyful things about the Spill Some Ink Write-a-Thon is that it brings writers together across generations.

Some participants are tapping into and sharing their voices in new ways. Others have been writing, reflecting, and observing the world for decades. When they write side by side, the interplay of their voices illuminates something important: creativity is a shared language.

Today we’re delighted to feature two writers from our Write-a-Thon community whose ages span nearly six decades.

First, we’re sharing a scene from Makena M., age 12, whose imaginative writing invites us into a mysterious moment when a simple spill of ink transforms reality itself.

Then we’re featuring an excerpt from Don D., age 71, Vice Chair of the Society of Young Inklings Board, who reflects on the winding paths of life and the importance of using experience to guide and support others.

They’re writing from different stages of life, and offering the gift of different kinds of wisdom. They share the same creative impulse to shape meaningful words on the page.

We hope you enjoy these two voices from the Write-a-Thon.

Writer Spotlight

Makena M., age 12

The ink spilled like midnight given weight. It sluiced over the desk in slow ribbons, thick as syrup, alive as breath. Ari froze with the quill still hovering, ink clinging to its tip like hesitation given shape.

The world held its inhale.

He hadn’t meant to tip it—the bottle had leaned as though gravity itself had been waiting for a sign from him, as though every small accident wanted to be an omen. The ink spread and glistened, edging toward the wood’s lip; but before it could fall, it shivered—no, truly shivered, like muscle under skin—and began to move of its own will.

With a slick, deliberate slither, the liquid curled back toward itself, spelling out letters Ari didn’t know how to pronounce. Each curve felt alive, each bend humming faintly. Language like vines twisting in moonlight. Something at the edge of memory whispered he should understand. He leaned closer until the scent reached him—metallic and earthen, ink and ozone, the moment before rain breaks.

Then the air split with thunder.

A single crack, near enough to rattle the pane, and yet the sky beyond the window remained unmarred blue. The quill rolled slowly from his hand, clattering once, small and real. And then—it began.

Rain.

But not from the ceiling. The droplets simply appeared, midair, as though falling from an unseen sky between realities. They gathered softly around him, pattering against the desk, tracing cold paths along his wrists. The room blurred in its own weather: shelves swallowed by mist, the lamp’s halo diffused into trembling gold. His socks drank in the chill as puddles gathered on the floorboards.

Outside, sunlight streamed clean and golden through cloudless air. Inside, the rain whispered its fine percussion—and still the ink wrote.

The script swam beneath the watery veil, rearranging in slow motion. The meaning coalesced like breath on glass:

Every storm begins with a small spill.

Ari let out a low laugh that didn’t sound like his own. Not mad, not afraid—just… suspended. The sort of laugh that comes when possibility presses too close to breathe.

Around him, the world stuttered. The lamp wavered between light and shadow, his half-finished sketches blurring into watercolor versions of themselves—fluid, ghosted echoes. In one of them, he saw himself staring back from the page, caught between paintstroke and pulse.

“Am I… drawing or being drawn?” the thought came uninvited, and when he turned, even his shadow rippled like water disturbed.

Somewhere outside—no, above—a flock of clouds gathered where none had been. The sunlight cooled. The air shifted, as if another version of the day breathed just beyond reach.

A gust threaded through the walls, unseen but heavy enough to tip the candle beside him. It fell against the table edge, pooling soft wax into ink and shadow. The two substances hissed at contact, steam coiling upward in a white, trembling ribbon.

From that breath of vapor, form began to rise.

At first, only the outline—a sketch, then a shimmer, then something almost human. The figure’s surface flexed like the reflection of a person on disturbed water. Its eyes caught every world at once: glowing storms, gray dawns, galaxies in miniature.

When it spoke, the sound was a harmony of rainlight and thunder, music translated from weather itself.
“Which world,” it asked softly, “do you wish this to be?”

Ari parted his lips, but his voice dissolved into the air. The rain no longer fell downward—it lifted, droplets reversing midspace, climbing toward the ceiling like a film rewound.

The desk gleamed black and new, dry as if nothing had begun at all.

Only the faintest trace of ozone lingered, and in it, the echo of his almost-answer.

Writer Spotlight

Don D., age 71

A Letter Forward

Dear Friend,

If you are reading this, it means you are probably asking a familiar question: what comes next, and how do I choose it well?

I have learned that careers are rarely straight lines. They are collections of permissions granted, risks taken, and relationships honored over time. Titles come and go. What remains is whether you used what you learned to help others navigate uncertainty with a little more clarity.

I am at a point in my life where time matters more than the volume of opportunities. I want to put experience on a platform where it can be useful, humane, and sustainable. I want to mentor without fragmenting my days. I want to serve on boards where governance is not ceremonial, but consequential. I want to build businesses that understand both technology and people.

Most of all, I want to remain present. For my wife, who has been my equal partner since a chance introduction in 1978. For my children, who live close enough to walk to. For my grandchildren, who remind me daily that motion and joy are the same thing.

If there is a throughline in my life, it is this: say yes to work that scares you a little, and no to anything that asks you to abandon who you are becoming.

I am still becoming.

Warmly,
Don

The Inklings Write-a-Thon reminds us that every voice is singular, a vibrant expression. What does it mean to be human, to be you, at this exact moment in time?

At Society of Young Inklings, we believe that when you tune into your voice, you can live a coherent story. And when you share your story, imagination, empathy, and hope grow.

Sometimes, all it takes to begin is a small spill of ink.