The Squirrel

I thought the squirrel had died inside the tree so I poked at it
with a stick. It didn’t move, so I poked inside the hollow
I thought it was trapped in, poked it again. Something grabbed my stick
tugged it with teeth and tiny hands, and so I pulled
the stick back out. Weeks later

three tiny tails snaked out of the hole next to the first squirrel’s
twisted and wrapped around their mother’s tail as though
they had to cling to her even out here. I never saw
their little faces, never saw anything but the tails
growing thicker and redder and fluffier with each day.
The mother would only come out at night
to gather food for them, I never saw her leave her post.
I spread crackers with peanut butter for her in the kitchen
carefully placing them just below her nest as an offering
a plea for forgiveness.

One morning, all four tails were gone. The hollow
gaped at me, abandoned, from my old birch tree.
I put more crackers in the garden, put them in the branches
near the hollow, chased stray cats from my yard and
kept the dog inside, but I never got to see those little squirrel children
never got to see who had made their first home in my yard.

The Mouse

My husband calls me into the kitchen to show me the mouse
that has fallen into the sink during the night. “I think it’s dead,” he says
just as it begins paddling half-heartedly in the water once more
one last, futile effort to find some purchase on the slick porcelain basin
one impossible final effort. Its eyes are dull, flat, black
minutes from the end. I reach down into the water,
pull the little creature up by its tail
take it outside. “Make sure it’s dead,” calls my husband from the house

not wanting to be a part of whatever I have planned. The mouse
struggles feebly in my hand. Its eyes don’t see me. I have never
seen eyes like that before, half goggled, oblivious
like two dull nail heads jammed into its face.
I carefully set it down in the garden, place its feet on the dirt
let go of its tail. “Please don’t come back,” I whisper
as it struggles for life, for balance
before springing off into the undergrowth.

“Please don’t come back.”

The Myth of Correspondence

To fully understand the pictures I have sent you
first, fill a bathtub with water and ice
get into the tub with all of your clothes on.
Only then should you shake these photographs out
of this careful assemblage of paper.

This is the only way you’ll be able to understand
the shades of weather that separate us, the only way
to separate yourself from your envelope
of tropical breezes and permanent sunshine.
I will speak to you through the ice bruising your skin
a frigid wraith clinging to you from too far away.

Tuesday

On a perfect day, I would be able to open my back door
find nothing but jungle waiting for me, sunshine filtered in through the leaves
of trees I’d never seen before, the calls of unfamiliar birds coming at me from all angles.
On a perfect day, I would hear snakes in the undergrowth,
monsters rustling just out of sight
hear the low rumble of a tiger or a jaguar breathing a warning shot
close by, perhaps as close as the cooling shade beneath my back porch.

But this is not a perfect day, and I have not been transported
to a random scene from a Kipling novel, have not been transported back in time
to march with Herodotus or Alexander through lush jungles untouched by civil war
am not looking for new species of birds with Audubon
or stumbling into and through the ruins of Machu Picchu with Bingham.
I am just digging holes in my own back yard for tulips and daffodils
wishing I could be anyone but me.

Mouse Trap

The little mice watch me from their prison of tin and plexiglass
inside the live mouse trap I baited the night before. Four little mice
with pointed noses and trembling whiskers
eyes black and bulging against their dark brown fur.
I wonder how I must appear to them, this giant thing
that they spend their days avoiding, rushing from one dark corner
to another at the sound of my footsteps, and now
there’s nowhere left to go, they wandered into this baited box
and now I have them in my curious grasp.

I tap on the little plexiglass window and they
rush to the corners of the box,
cram themselves into the entrance chute, their thin black tails
twitching and curling, hanging out in the open. I imagine
what it would be like to keep them as pets, these stinky little mice
what it would be like to train these wild mice to live in a cage
to eat only when food is offered, and only what I alone offer them
if eventually, they would learn to anticipate my arrival
at the door of their cage with joy, or if
they would always be just as terrified of me as this?

Holly Day’s writing has recently appeared in Analog SF, Talking River, and New Plains Review, and her published books include Music Theory for Dummies and Music Composition for Dummies. She currently teaches classes at The Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, Hugo House in Washington, and the Indiana Writers Center.

You can find more of Holly’s work here on Ink Pantry.

unchanged

it never really changes

that scratchy transistor
still sounds the same
to the ears of the past
hidden under the cover
of a late night wish

and you refuse to believe
that the cornstalks
are any shorter
that the dirt is drier
than it was last summer

and meanwhile the snow piles up
and regardless of month
you remember peering out the windshield
from your backseat vantage
listening to your mother swerve the wheel
cussing the march and the gravel

and all of this is the same
as yesterday
as tomorrow
when you believed the last gasp
was the ending word

but now that frozen moment
is less than a footnote
on your approaching obsolescence
or so it would seem
as you sit here
refusing to recognize the moment
for all it is

Timeline

We were told
all of this before
as we reveled in the
static existence that
permeated the pavement,
and every day
meant something,
except for the ones
left in the background;
signposts that always said:
Try Again,
and we did,
because what else
is there to do
when all you’ve got
is everything,
but all you see
is nothing?

We were told
all of this before,
but things like that
rarely matter
when today is
the only day,
and what has changed
but a dented perspective,
and you had this pocketknife,
and that was enough
in the hazy moment.

We were told
all of this before,
crunching earth that advised
walk slowly, walk steady,
so we ran,
and one day
we’ll rest.

Retrospect on the Wind

There were late night moments
of ritualistic abandon,
throwing everything to the fire;
caution being the first to go.

We’d see the twinkling darkened windows
from a vantage of impossible distance,
never knowing what was
on the other side of that black glass,
only that it had to be something grander
than the place from which we came.

Things would burn down,
ashes collecting at the bottom
of a rusted-out fifty-five-gallon drum,
and all within a radius breathed in
the noxious odour of something
that never should have been.

A single struggling streetlight
told the shadowy tale of
every other busted out arc sodium dream,
and we believed all those soundless words
with an innocent fervor never to be matched.

Sometimes in the still midnight of now,
you can hear a wind shoot through trees,
even a lone coyote calling to the gathering,
but just beneath all of that,
you might hear all the things
we never said.

At the Core

There’s a quiet spot
deep inside of nothing,
underneath everything,

hiding, waiting to be found;
a centre to be exhumed,
but only from within,

and that’s the trick, isn’t it?:
to dig out the intention
from underneath the extensions,

to explode from a
position of implosion.
There is a quiet spot,

and it’s there, breathing, waiting,
knowing that time is irrelevant,
that the wind never fails;

believing that calm will come,
and it’s only to be found
beyond the next breath.

how it is

to all extant
you see a sideways world
turning in some
unimaginable cycle
unpredictable and disturbing

you watch from your
suspiciously rounded corner
an acknowledgement of nothing
a promise of everything

and yet
the circles swirl
the world knows
and you’ll remain in the dark
seeing through pinholes
and pretending they’re stars

your perception an image
from a coffee can camera
of yesterday’s embellishment
undulating and roiling and nauseous

but that’s only what happened
yesterday
and tomorrow is less than a dream
and today’s already half in a book
that’s already begun
to smoulder in the wet flames
of anything that ever
seemed to make sense

James Benger is the author of several books of poetry and prose. He serves on the Board of Directors of the Writers Place, and on the Riverfront Readings Committee, and is the founder of the 365 Poems in 365 Days online workshop. He lives in Kansas City with his wife and children.

Frequencies
for Mary Walker Graham

I.

“We’re at our most bestial when threatened not
with hatred but indifference; what our blood wants
is reaction of some kind.” New Hampshire night,
our own reaction, you pliant, penetrable, laid out beneath me as
flies fidgeted our room, pirouetted moist air. Yet
we sank beneath bestiality to do just what indifferently
we wanted, beneath our glut of blood, so the summoned
beasts might react with this: ripped limb from limb,
buried in low-lying Virginia swamp marsh, given what
aphorism is only got in extinction, darling, as I quote
what you said at the bar before. In other words, they
hated us. The one-night stand wouldn’t matter if your
brain didn’t have the right words in it: stories, sequences,
slammed-down metaphors of a singed self. Frequencies.

II.

As the world between her legs tightened around
her, what she saw in bed with me was stark: okra,
stamens, roots, all that in nature coalesces in erect
growth; and a shadow father bent, then erect, then
bent again, perverse from amassing wealth in a world
whose submissiveness poisons him. Beneath the sultry,
wooded surface, what I saw was a semi-frightened
animal, along for an all-night ride (gruesomeness of
4 a.m. New Hampshire sun), knife thusly thrusting
into the backs of everyone around her, managing
to have stamina enough against constraint to take
what she was taking. The mattress thumped: above,
an angel was unable to conceal laughter, understanding
it was all in the script, including the garish sun’s leer.

Adam Fieled is a writer based in Philadelphia. His books include Opera Bufa, Beams, Equations, Apparition Poems, and the manuscript-in-progress Something Solid. A magna cum laude Penn grad, he edits P.F.S. Post.

You can find more of Adam’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Apple Juice Love

Aging brings loss, but sweetness persists
Love is pressed from what endures

Life, a ripe apple—
Red Delicious,
rumour of hell,
bittersweet to the core.
If you can taste it with
& chew it with false teeth.
Most friends have vanished—
ghosts slipping beyond
shadowed, silent doors.
That parlour where no returns.
It’s only a rumour.
Yet, I wander the garden,
fields stripped of grace,
grapes foot pressed into concord—
faith fermenting in the barrel
of hidden old gospel & songs.
Kneeling in this season of loss.
Lies the tartness of redemption.
While others (wheeled) wield the devil’s
fork in the heat of their own fires.
So, squeeze what sweetness remains,
press me—
last sweetness.
In your apple juice jar of love.

I Conceal My Craft

An armadillo symbolizes guarded creativity
This poem contrasts self-protection with vulnerability

I conceal my craft beneath my shell.
Mine of an armadillo, snug in its embrace,
nestled near its warmth,
as insects buzz under the midday sun,
where stories collide with struggles,
and words fester like unresolved thoughts,
distant from the critics’ needle pen hearts.
Their relentless demands, cold cash,
and hollow praise layered thick with honey
on pages between verses, where every line
holds a lingering scent or memory.
I gaze up at the vast sky and chuckle.
Speaking in tongues nervously out of mind
shining chimes waiting for the next critic
to declare my thoughts don’t flow,
out of character, my rhythm’s a misstep.
I tally each word, joy, and sorrow.
One poem, one collection of verses for me;
One poem, one collection, a poetry book against me.
Breathe shallow, breathe hard for the heart with age.
I conceal my craft under the armour of the armadillo.

Dove Bar Poem

In this short poem relationship differences
create distance and longing

An ex-lover told me she loved
Dove dark chocolate bars.
Dove bars were suitable for lovers.
She ate dark Dove bars.
I ate light Dove milk chocolate.
She was healthy; I was sad.
We often got into fights over this.
She was manic, and I was depressive.
Sex was a bouncing basketball affair.
She was healthy, not knowing her disease.
I was sad, stealing apples.
Swiped from Farmer John’s orchard.
Sleeping wherever
I found a pillow.
A pillow wherever found.

Tonight, Tonight

This poem embraces solace in moonlight
trusting dawn’s gentle promise

Tonight, I am the moon’s envoy,
bare feet awash in silver.
Longing settles in me—
spark or ember, I remain.
Thunder soft as cat paws,
storms now gentle memory.
I flutter, no longer afraid,
teaching darkness to move gently.
Tonight, I find comfort
in the moon’s borrowed light,
trusting dawn will come.

Michael Lee Johnson lived in Canada for ten years during the Vietnam era. Today, he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 418-plus YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 47 countries, a song lyricist with several published poetry books, and a nominee for 8 Pushcart Prize awards and 8 Best of the Net nominations. He has over 710 published poems. He is the editor-in-chief of three poetry anthologies, all of which are available on Amazon, and has authored several poetry books and chapbooks. Michael has administered and created 6 Facebook poetry groups. Member of the Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/ and Poets & Writers: https://www.pw.org/.  His poems have been translated into several foreign languages. Awards/Contests: International Award of Excellence ‘Citta’ Del Galateo-Antonio De Ferrariis XI Edition 2024 Milan, Italy-Poetry. Poem, Michael Lee Johnson, “If I Were Young Again.”  Please consider me for a Best of the Net or Pushcart nomination.

You can find more of Michael’s work here on Ink Pantry.

In the murmurs of beating hearts,
Love ignites a quiet flame—
Not in thunder or in triumph,
But recalling one soft name.

It does not rush like tempests,
Nor blaze like summer’s sun,
But whispers through the stillness
When all the cacophony is calm.

Beneath the moon’s slow rising,
Beside a flowing stream,
It walks in step with silence,
And breathes within an apocalyptic dream.

In the serenity of mountains,
Where moss gathered on stone,
Wind blows gently like-
Love flows in whispering tone.
Love exists in silence
Its the source of inspiration,
Its wrapped in stillness
With a journey in meditation.

Diya Baral completed her Master’s in English Language and Literature in 2025 and is now pursuing a second Master’s in English Language Teaching, driven by her love for pedagogy. A passionate writer, she crafts poems and articles, with pieces appearing in Setu Bilingual Magazine (Sept 2022, June 2024 –“Blooms in the Green Yards”), Ode To A Poetess (July 2023, Apr 2024), “Poetry Unites: An Anthology of Verse” (Feb 2022), “Youthful Elegies: Echoes of a New Generation” (Nov 24 2023, Nov 30 2024), and Spillwords Press (Aug 2025). She also presents papers and publishes articles in journals like “The Lakeside Review” and “Lekhamanjari”, blending academia with creativity.

Writing Poetry on the Shore

Listening to the seagulls fly
With white wings spelling angels talk
Hearing the waves clearing me
With a calming effect
Warm sand
Giving us land
With my chair and air
Umbrella for a cool moments
Tender days to sandy stars
Under my feet and swimming cars.

Near the Brook

Near the Brook, time loosens it’s rough grip.
Water slides over smooth stones
Like ancient secrets, catching the glow and breaking it into silver laughter. The air is cooler here, washed clean by the steady breath of the stream, every ripple gleams to carry a quiver a promise of rest. Leaves drift past like unhurried thoughts and dreams.

JoyAnne O’Donnell is an author of Winds of Time, first book, Spring & Summer’s Veil by Kelsey books and Palace of Enchanted Day and Night by Cyberwit, Heavens Medal, Summer In The Breeze.

You can find more of JoyAnne’s work here on Ink Pantry.

The Fault That Was Not Mine To Take

Disaster in her face remains as my guilt
But I remember how we knew of the chance
I watch as the old man across the street smokes a cigar, its flame flickering like lost hope
He glances at his watch, watches as it ticks on by
Nowhere to go, his eyes seem lost as he stares into the distance, his dusty glasses perched
loosely across his face
His thumb traces the worn leather of his bible, and he turns a page
A little boy scampers towards the vending machine
In his hurry, piles of silver coins drop one by one
Kneeling, he picks them up clumsily, eyes strained with tears as one falls into a sewer
His mother, panting, reaches up with a yellow handkerchief, wiping away his sorrow
She offers him a lollipop, the strawberry flavored red one, and she smiles in relief as he takes it
There’s lines across her face, but her eyes continue to shine
A woman wearing a tailored suit walks on by
The click of her heels click at a furious pace
Her hair is tied into a neat bun, but a loose strand manages to stray

An Old Friend of Ours, Older Than I

I still remember it
Time had battered its soul
The faint whiff of my cat’s urine
The beeping sound it used to make
Crevices and grooves mark its skin
The claw marks on the left side of its arm
The peeling leather depicts a story of its life
Somehow, it still tries, whirring back to life, determined

Made of black leather
An old friend of ours, older than I
Sometimes, I’d sit back and allow sleep to take me away
Sometimes, I’d just sit down and do nothing at all
All of the moments, big and small, had healed my soul
Growing up, it had always been a source of comfort
Even now, there are traces of its massive body in the dust

Changes had been made through the years
How long has it been since the last time you held me?

Coated in Layers of Metal and Paint

Carved into my body are intricate shapes
Edges coated in liquid gold
Beauty caused by a single blade

Two faces, one hidden against the wall
There will always be an angle you choose to hide from
In another lifetime, another life will see me
What they see, a face they wear daily
Coated in layers of metal and paint
Disguised as a tool to show your face
The world I see will never depict reality
A reflecting surface seems to shine from below
Cold as the sheets of ice, it shows the world in a different view
Small and insignificant, it stands tall and proud
“Mirror mirror on the wall,” they say, but all I see is insecurity
One day you’ll stand in front of me, demanding what I see
But can’t you see?
The world I see will never depict reality

Siha Park is a high school student and currently lives in the United States. Siha’s writing focuses on observation, memory, and moments from everyday life. Siha is interested in how attention changes meaning, and how poems can hold what might otherwise be forgotten.

in which war is always invading

die as something, maybe. like a dog. why won’t i have that?
because the stove doesn’t have wrinkles, and a thing like that
won’t get far. i’m not at home anymore but forget me for a
minute. all i remember is lash, burn, trench. unsightly, unseeing. 
eyes eyes eyes. i await your order. what’s up with me? it’s like i 
believe it’ll back off if i run, trim the talking eyelids. it burns.
i finish my circles and then return to the cycle. i exhale the
sunlight. tear it into tiny chunks and swallow. inhale the boiling 
trench. please god i’m sick and i don’t trust sorry. was that
it god? should it? i gotta make a life. i want light, i want
the day. god is a watchdog. i watch the dark. two sore breaths.
it walls me in. i hate the stove. the ticking and the burst
of fire, like it’s calling me. i wonder if god has a dog too.

amazon

the door dings. slipped beneath is a plastic
package. a thin layer of film stretches around fabric,
sealed at the edges as if pressed with an iron. 
you will press the cloth inside with an iron, 
heat hissing as it seeps inside stitches. the fabric 
sighs, wilts, and sucuumbs at last. it melds with 
your fingers, molting as if you are shedding flesh. 
the neck of the shirt swallows you, fabric rippling 
around your torso as you move. and you move, 
because you need the iron now. you need to iron 
your shirt-skin. you hold the iron in your hand,
smoke wheezing into your eyes, and you click-
click-click and wait, coughing, until you hear
the door ding again. and slipped beneath it is a
plastic package. a handprint seared into the iron.
alternatively, the iron imprinted into your hand.
you tear the plastic away like an animal might
to a carcass. the door dings and dings and dings.
you are starving.

train ride

Shut up, the woman says. her cheeks are berry flushed. i can imagine
her manicured fingers plucking out the seeds in her pores. Shut up shut up shut up.
the man cradles his head like it is a fragile thing, constantly slipping from his
slick grip. I, he tries. No, he begins. his nails curl around an armrest. then,
Shut up! he flushes berry red. i straighten my magazine page with a flap. the two
glance at me, anywhere but each other. mom takes the paper from me. I can’t
believe they’re being so loud on a train, she complains. quietly, at least. Mom, shut up,
i whisper. They’ll hear you. mom shrugs, rolls the magazine away and turns
to the couple. It’s a public space, mom says, not so quiet this time, and the woman 
blushes even darker, because she is always the picture of dignity and she has
never been heartbroken before. the man’s nails dig into his scalp, as if its on the verge
of breaking. he is terribly good at breaking things, perhaps. i avert my eyes. it’s like
watching a train wreck. metal sparking like fireworks and butterflies. mom doesn’t
look away. the man’s watch is slow, he hasn’t had time to replace it, probably.
he’s been sick with a cold for a week and he’s too tired of chicken soup to
keep it down. he needs tylenol and ice. the woman sighs. the train’s exhaust fumes
sigh. mom grabs my hand and leads me to the doors, slinging a backpack over
her shoulder. And don’t tell me to shut up, she says, the couple’s eyes
watching our backs as we slip outside.

Haeun (Regina) Kim is a student writer from Seoul, South Korea. An alumna of the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship, the Sewanee Young Writers’ Conference, and the Sunhouse Summer Writing Mentorship, she has been recognized by Bennington College, the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers, River of Words, and more. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, Stone Soup, and The Galway Review, among others. An editor at Polyphony Lit, she serves as the founder of MISO-JIEUM. When not writing, she can be found painting in an art studio or struggling through amateur ballet.

Middle of Somewhere

Vaguely behind every winter of ambition 
Their eyes warm, and cookies sleep deeply through problems 
Hard-boiled eggs and children stretching 
And the days try not to half 

Playing football in a science school
You try to fit in a cool shirt, overdressed, overqualified
Youth cooled down while you put your tie—around your neck—red 
Spring cheats with a smile where passion left

Spotted beard pretends to know
Wake up to midlife 
Crisis baked and served
Problems with morning cereal

Laundry worn too many times 
White lies
Small sigh of relief or reminisce

Errant Minutes

This morning lasted four seconds—
long enough for light to change its mind, 
for the pot to think of boiling, 
and forget. 

Steam from the mug hadn’t even reached its curve
before light slipped from the table 
and onto the wall,
then off again. 

Voice folded into the air,
before the phone could ring its tune.
It waited there—
certain, I would need it later. 

As light finally held still, 
and my reflection—
breathing where I’d left it.

The air stiffened
and across that pause, 
something small and weightless unfolded in my hands—
not sound,
but just the quiet after it.

Press to Play 

Light spills across my face, 
portraits of other lives glowing brighter than mine. 
Smiles freeze in rectangles, 
perfect mornings that never end. 
I scroll until faces blur into one long pulse of brightness,
casting a shadow behind me of everything I’m not.

An afterimage hums behind my eyes,
light submerges into darkness 
until I only see sounds.
Footsteps cross the ceiling like timpani,
each one tracking the same path
as the neighbours pace through my dream. 

The alarm rings.
I press the same button, 
promise the same five more minutes. 
Light seeps through the curtain seam, 
thin as a paper cut. 
I move between bells, 
each hallway reflecting the last.

I return to the room that remembers my shape—
the sunset dyes the linen orange. 
Light seeps through to print a shadow
of everything I am.

The same blur of blue waiting, 
soft, faithful as breath.

Sally Lee is a student at an international school in Seoul, South Korea. Immersed in a multicultural environment, she draws inspiration from the diverse cultures and experiences around her. She is currently working on her writing portfolio.

You can find more of Sally’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Not To Dream

Drink a cup or two of heavy caffeine
          I suppress my own urge to spit the bitterness out
Lean uncomfortably on your stiff back
          I feel the cold wooden chair pressing on my spine
Keep the hands busy, although it may be pointless
          I crack my fingers to break the silence
Make sure the eyes are wide open
          I bear the weighty lashes, constantly blinking
Do not lose the tension on the shoulders
          I keep my elbows away from the armrest of the chair
Avoid the pleasure of the warmth
          I enjoy the shiver as much as I wish
Desire not to dream
          I keep myself out of the swift absurdity leading to obnoxiousness
Keep the space bright and artificial
          The unceasing LED lights blur my exhausted vision
Plead with the sun not to rise
          The closed shades should protect me from the new day

As I Lay

The flashing light brightens the room
In strobes of color
A plant’s shadow projected on the white wall
The blurred outlines, a tint of purple
In the darkness, the air still shimmers
The remanence of objects flickering 
As if it is still there

The ladybug crashing to the ceiling light
Irritates the atmosphere
Failing to resist the temptation of the bright warmth
The wings flap and twitch
The legs are fragile and pendulous
It moves and vibrates simultaneously
until it is abruptly compressed by a tissue box
marking a two-dimensional print on the wall

The wind blows the light into the room
Filling it with the lustrous gleam
soon cancelled out by the winter breeze
Each blow pushes against the shade
The wooden handle tapping the windowsill
Bouncing back into the room,
Its movement is ceased by gravity
The window is locked
And air pressure is now behind firm glass

I Almost Said It 

The cracks in the paint 
on the ceiling
was partially scraped off
Revealing the bare grey concrete

I almost asked for help

My finger dialed a familiar number
That has been lingering in my head
Since the day you disappeared
I hovered above the green button

The room was empty
the disgusting solitary
Reminded the warmth
Once pressed upon the shoulder 
by the weight of your head  

The walls seemed too white
once shaded
with two orange shadows
at sunset

The water in the glass
remained still and untouched
Subtly reflecting my face
Too colourless to be shown

Lauren Kim is a high school student with a fervent love for both poetry and visual art. Her work delves into the intricacies of identity, the nuances of nature, and the emotional currents of teenage life. Through her poems and mixed media artwork, Lauren seeks to capture and convey the beauty in moments of introspection and everyday experiences. When she’s not writing or creating art, she enjoys exploring the outdoors, reading contemporary poetry, and experimenting with new artistic techniques. Lauren’s work has been influenced by her diverse cultural background and her deep connection to the natural world. She aspires to continue growing as an artist and a writer, sharing her unique perspective with others.

You can find more of Lauren’s work here on Ink Pantry.