Pen & Paper - Volume 13 - 2022-2023

How We Produce Pen & Paper

Pen & Paper, The Unquowa School’s literary and art magazine, is published annually and ofers an outlet for students to share their literary and artistic talent. Students in grades 5-8 submit writing, photography, art, and poetry throughout the year for consideration.

The magazine embraces the original mission of its founders (Page 4) while continually incorporating new ideas. The editorial, art, and production staf meet weekly after school to write, edit, and eventually, produce the magazine. The literary and art sections of Pen & Paper are determined by accepted student submissions. The placement of student work is determined by overall ft within the magazine’s thematic sections and the editorial staf’s standards of excellence.

The editorial staf, invited to Pen & Paper by their teachers, focuses on writing their own work, selecting pieces for publication, and providing feedback for submissions. All pieces, writing and art, are made anonymous to the editorial committee, keeping the review process as objective as possible. Editorial committee members review selections to fnalize submissions. Editors then organize print submissions for review and inviting peers to submit work for publication. The art staf links writing to illustration, pursues individual art projects, and selects the cover photo. Lastly, the production staf is charged with the fnal layout of the magazine and make fnal edits and adjustments before going to print.

Cover Art

Emily Toolan

New Horizons

Digital photograph

Grade 7

2023 Pen & Paper Staf

The mission of Pen & Paper is to provide opportunities for students to embrace wonder and challenge themselves to freely express their imagination and passion for art and writing.

Editorial Board

Matteo Brebbia ‘24 Editor

Tanyse Floyd ‘23 Editor

Piper Carillo-Foote ‘24 Editor

Bryael Gonzalez ‘24 Editor

Ethan Kirk ‘23 Editor

Sarah Maximin ‘24 Editor

Virginia Murphy ‘24 Editor

Mateo Rojas ‘23 Editor

Raleigh Simmonds ‘23 Editor

Emily Toolan Editor

Michael Toolan Editor

Ebba Werring Editor

Eloise Young Editor

Mr. Eric Snow Adviser

Mrs. Krissy Ponden Art Consultant

Coco Thomson ‘24 Editor

Noah Kurzenberger Editor-in-Chief

Dedication

This year’s edition of Pen & Paper is dedicated to our beloved science teacher, the late Craig Knebel. Mr. Knebel died unexpectedly last summer and we have all felt the heavy weight of his loss throughout this frst year without him. Mr. Knebel was an outstanding person, and a fantastic teacher who was loved by every student he taught. He inspired each of us through his love of science, and he was always quick and ready with jokes and a bright smile. Student excitement and enjoyment were his top priorities, and we miss his presence in our lives. Mr. Knebel supported each and every one of the students in his class in so many different ways, and his ingenuity, kindness, attentiveness, and love will forever be remembered by the Unquowa school. Mr. Knebel nurtured passion for the natural world in students, and we hope you can see some of that refected in the pieces of this year’s edition. Rest in peace and power, Mr. K.

Dear Reader,

I am more than proud to announce our thirteenth edition of Pen & Paper: “New Horizons.” As Editor-in-Chief, this edition holds a special place in my heart because of the memories our staf has made as we worked tirelessly to put this publication together. My ultimate goal for this issue was to make something meaningful: a magazine worth reading, and. I think we were able to create something even more than that: a magazine worth coming back to again and again to glean wisdom from these young poets, writers, and artists.

I hope the creative hours we spent show through our words and images, making it just as special to you as it is to us. Through the unique thoughts of its contributors, this year’s edition shines a spotlight on the concept of reminisce, refection, and remembrance. The issue takes a deep dive inside the diverse minds of those at our school, melding together into our own beautiful horizon as many of us get ready to leave our beloved school and branch out into high school. “New Horizons” could not have been created without the cooperation and collaboration of our team, ranging from Grades 5 through 8. Despite our difference in age, we came together to share our creations with one another, and glean the best of the best from them for publication. This year as Editor-in-Chief was a remarkable one for me, a wonderful way to end my time at Unquowa.

This edition of Pen & Paper could not have been possible without all of this in the Upper School. Thank you for your submissions and support.

We hope you enjoy!

Thank You, Noah Kurzenberger Editor and Chief

(Bold denotes artwork)

A Song of Sand and Fire

by Alegria Rojas ‘25

Wild Thing

Yes!

by Eloise Young ‘23

by Eloise Young ‘23

Creation of A by Alegria Rojas ‘25

Little Tree by Vivian Winkelmann ‘25

Albatross by Alegria Rojas ‘25

Me, Myself, and I by Chipili Dumbwizi ‘24

Birthday by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25

Serenity by Ebba Werring ‘23

Purple Mountain Majesties by Sarah Maximin ‘24

The Inevitable Sunlight by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25

Standing In by Virginia Murphy ‘24

Scattered

by Alegria Rojas ‘25

Daisy, Daisy by Coco Thomson ‘24

summertime sorrow by Noah Kurzenberger ‘23

Cloud Islands by Alegria Rojas ‘25

Gloria by Alegria Rojas ‘25

NYCraft by Virginia Murphy ‘24

by Adrian Omisore ‘24

‘24

by Ebba Werring ‘24

33 Memories by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25

From Up Afar by Michael Toolan ‘24

36

37 Clipped Wing by Virginia Murphy ‘24

38 Pair of Wings, Never Used by Eliza Raben ‘23

40 Walking in the Dark by Raleigh Simmonds ‘23

41 Desert Sunset by Matteo Brebbia ‘24

42 Ojo Kleki

by Eliza Raben ‘23

Stopping by Woods by Sylvia

Barbuto ‘25

The Snowfakes

by Emily Toolan ‘24

Avian Quartert by Eliza

Raben ‘23

Windows 2023

by Alegria Rojas ‘25

The Empty Page by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25

Rainbow Bridge by Alegria Rojas ‘25 54

The Wind Blows Free by Alegria Rojas ‘25

Where All the Other Trees Did Fall by Matteo Brebbia ‘24 Grasp by Eliza

Raben ‘23

The Fey Court by Coco Thomson

‘24

The Great V by Virginia Murphy

‘24

The Sun Dips Behind by Matteo Brebbia ‘24

Fruit of the Vine by Virginia Murphy

‘24

Frond of Beauty

by Chipili Dumbwizi ‘24

River Mountains

by Alegria Rojas ‘25

The Winter of Our Thirteenth Birthday by Oola

Breen-Ryan ‘25

by Bryael Gonzalez ‘24

Skelly by Wil Falk ‘23

Untrodden Snow

by Eliza Raben ‘23

Shooting Palm Tree

by Matteo Brebbia ‘24

Much Much More by Oola

Breen-Ryan ‘25

Cronch

by Matteo Brebbia ‘24

Ode to the Murkey Water on Weston Street by Coco Thomson ‘24

Moonglow by Raleigh Simmonds ‘23

Running by Virginia Murphy ‘24

by Noah Kurzenberger ‘23

by Raleigh Simmonds ‘23

Actress with a Malleable Face by Eddie Musser

‘23 mirror by Noah Kurzenberger ‘23

by Ethan Kirk ‘23

by

by Matteo Brebbia ‘24

A Song of Sand and Fire

Digital photograph

Grade 6

Alegria Rojas

Eloise Young

Wild Thing

Mixed media

Grade 8

Eloise Young Yes! Mixed media

Grade 8

Alegria Rojas

The Creation of A Digital photograph

Grade 6

Little Tree

Vivian Winkelmann

Grade 6

Snow falls, tracks form

The little hare races home before the storm Trees cut, dragged to their home

Decorated with lights

Pictures recorded on phones

Presents dropped under each limb

Little weights strung on him

Diferent sculptures each time Then its nailed to the wall

Sitting there near some twine, it hasn’t been watered But the homeowners claim its fne

“Little tree! Oh little tree!?

Friends yell from next door. They lean on each other through the window Till there life fades away.

Alegria Rojas

Albatross

Digital photograph

Grade 6

Me, Myself, and I Chipili Dumbwizi Grade

7

The din of gossiping flls the air

The voices spinning round and round, but I just don’t seem to care.

Everyone getting into groups of pairs or threes

While I’m there alone like the crooked oak tree

Standing there all alone

Wishing for someone to help me fght this feeling

Of the unknown.

Can’t help but think…

What would happen if I was gone in a blink?

Would anyone care?

Would anyone dare to think of me? No.

Because it’s just me, myself, and I.

But would I have to die for someone, For anyone, to care?

To talk about the curls that run thoroughly through my hair, Or think about the way I said specifc words, That would fall of my lips like petals, Hitting the ground with no meaning . No.

Because it me, myself, and I .

Birthday

Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 6

My life ended on my birthday. How ironic. The cake had neon green letters spelling out “Happy Birthday Ella” on the top. I’d broken of a piece of the letter “a”, so it just said “Hppy”. The letters tasted like sawdust.

The letters had returned in the mail as I was opening my gifts. Only Dad was there, because Mom had left a week earlier. Maybe she would come back, though, once I had gotten into an Ivy League university and she had a reason to be proud of me.

I knew almost immediately that I hadn’t gotten into Yale, Columbia, or Dartmouth. The envelopes were tiny, but I opened them anyway. “We regret to inform you” was the frst line of each.

I wiped away my tears and glanced at the envelope for Harvard. It was larger than the others. My heart sped up.

Addressed incorrectly. My address, 99 Poplin Lane, had been confused with 99 Pansy Lane. I held back my tears until the inside of my mouth bled. I hadn’t even realized that I was biting it until the metallic taste swarmed around my tongue.

Sarah Maximin

Purple Mountain Majesties

Digital Photograph

Grade 7

The Inevitable Sunlight

Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 6

Many miles away from here, it’s a perfectly normal, sunny day. But where we are, it’s thirteen degrees outside, below freezing. The trees rustle in the wind. No, they don’t rustle—they fuctuate, they wave, they snap, they fall like dominoes.

The rain pours down, lives are lost, the hurricane rages on, and yet—

somewhere in the world, sunlight is beaming down, as if nothing is wrong, as if everything is perfect.

What defnes “perfect”?

Anywhere but here, right now, in this moment.

My umbrella, a yellow splash in the dark and depressing torrent of rain, rolls away like the inevitable sunlight, far away from this corner of the world.

Standing In

Virginia Murphy Grade 7

I step outside and feel the cold chill down my spine

A harsh breeze blows over

I know it is coming

My toes go numb and I feel my nose start to run

The ice on the road makes it feel like an ice rink

Slipping and sliding all over

I smell its fresh sent

And I know its coming

I feel an excited jolt rush through my body

And then at that moment I feel it

Its soft touch

Its frigid chill on my skin as it melts

It reminds me of the holidays

The warmth of the fre

The laughter of family and friends

All I know is that this is where I want to be Standing in the snow

Alegria Rojas Scattered

Digital photograph

Coco Thomson

Daisy, Daisy

Digital photograph

Grade 7

summertime sorrow

Noah Kurzenberger

Grade 8

our fowers had bloomed swinging through the meadow lacking ease your eyes sparkled in the sunlight rays shining high up above it seemed as if nothing could take us resting there forever sentenced to a life of pure joy along with no cure

you were there to stay our bothers deemed irrelevant the sun gleaming on my skin

your hands in my hands your eyes on mine a smile was once formed for the very last time

the cheer will falter the pleasure once dissolves and once we’ve reached our end i see you never cared not one ounce at all

Alegria Rojas

Cloud Islands

Digital photograph

Grade 6

Alegria Rojas

Gloria Digital photograph

Grade 6

Matteo Brebbia

Virginia Murphy

Hands

NYCraft

Digital photograph

Digital photograph

Grade 6

Grade 7

Partition Plan

Adrian Omisore

Grade 7

Why do you come here to steal our land?

Did you think we wouldn’t take a stand?

There you are, standing for us to glare;

Hate us breathing Indian air.

Why don’t you leave us alone?

Can’t live in peace;

Intruders in our home.

Break in and steal our own.

Nothing to do, Nothing to say,

We just want someone to send them away.

Waiting for the color red to drop;

Scared for our lives;

It needs to stop.

The Raindrop

Matteo Brebbia Grade 7

It starts with one

Just one

One. little. drop.

One drop descending from the heavens

Like angel with a halo of rainbow light

Refracted through the sunbeams that pierce its glassy shell

One drop before millions of others follow in its wake

Like fsh following food

A cult blindly following its leader

And all of the miniscule little droplets

Causing pinpricks of moisture on a hunched man

Walking down a damp dark alleyway

Its walls closing in like a trash compactor

All of the drops felt but not acknowledged

Seen but not cared about

They are just drops of water

lakes shrunken down to a miniscule beads

Like the soul of someone not paid attention to

Not acknowledged

Seen but not cared about

All of these drops are so small but can mean so much

Just like the soul of someone not paid attention to

The water can cool a village

Quench the thirst of a poor animal

Feed the roots of a plant sufering from draught

Just like a soul can have so many good ideas

So many things to say

Opinions to express

But these things

The rain

The soul

Can be smothered

Smothered by unrecognition

By not being acknowledged

But once it is

Once someone asks

Someone cares

Amazing things start to happen

Chipili Dumbwizi

Edifce

Digital photograph Grade 7

Ebba Werring

Photographic Memory

Digital illustration

Grade 8

Memories

Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 6

Mia: I’m going to miss her.

I can understand, Mia. Losing your daughter like that must have been hard.

Mia: It was just so sudden, you know?

Can you tell me about your favorite memory of her?

Mia: Yeah, let’s see…when she was in ffth grade, we were going for a walk and she found a baby bird just lying in the middle of the road. I wanted to let it be, but she picked it up and put it back in its nest. It sounds weird, I know, but I’ll always just think of her in that moment. It was just so startling for me—for all of us—when she passed away. She had always been this kind fgure in our lives, and then she was gone.

Wow, Mia! Thank you for sharing that.

Mia: You remind me so much of her, and not just in the name. I remember she wanted to name you Emiline, but I thought that it was strange for kids to be named after their parents. She was determined, though, so she hid the birth certifcate from me for the frst three years of your life. She convinced me that your name was Ella.

I’m going to miss her, too.

Mia: Now that she’s just a memory, all of the small little details about her life that didn’t seem important before are now the most signifcant things in the world.

She really was an amazing person.

Mia: She was. She really, really was.

Lennie: Oh, hello, Emiline—it’s a bit late to be checking out books from the library.

I’m not here to read. I have a few questions. Do you mind?

Lennie: No, not at all.

Okay. What do you think your favorite memory is of her?

Lennie: I didn’t know her very well…she just came into this library quite a lot when she was younger.

What was her favorite book?

Lennie: She absolutely loved “From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler”. She had read it so many times, the covers were practically falling of. One time, another kid tried to take it out, and she pulled the fre alarm just to keep him from reading it. She was never afraid to express her opinion, I remember, and she would always do the right thing—aside from the fre alarm incident.

Ha, that’s funny.

Lennie: The library will feel empty without her, but her memory will live on.

Hi. I just wanted to talk to you a little bit about her. I hope this doesn’t seem intrusive.

Mr. Haroldson: Of course not, Em. Ask away.

Um, okay. What was your favorite memory of her?

Mr. Haroldson: Hmmm, there were so many. I’ll always remember the day that I proposed to her. I took her out to dinner at a fancy restaurant, where I had coordinated a musical arrangement with the band playing. Anyway, right as the song was about to begin, she got up and walked away. When the band started playing, I panicked, followed her, and ended up proposing to her in a bathroom stall. When I asked if she would marry me, though, she laughed. And I thought, Oh no, is this too soon? So I told her that she didn’t have to say yes if she didn’t want to. She started cracking up. Then guess what she said.

What?

Mr. Haroldson: She had intentionally led me to the bathroom stall so there wouldn’t be so many people watching us. (*Laughs*). How she found out that I was planning on proposing, I don’t know, but she said yes and that’s all that matters. Your mother certainly was a unique woman.

That’s sweet, Dad.

Emiline: I think the thing that I’ll remember most about her was the way she was always the kindest person in the room.

She was an extrovert, and she was nice, and she was caring for everyone.

I wish she was more than just a memory.

Are people ever really just memories?

From Up Afar

Michael Toolan Grade

7

It begins with restlessness

And then a calm voice lets us all know

To buckle our seatbelts

And we’ll be of But waiting still feels like forever

Then all of a sudden

Without warning, it starts

The wheels of the plane turning

Everything seems to be shaking

And then we’re of the ground

Out the window land is shrinking

Through a cloud, everything covered

Blinded, nothing can be seen

It feels calm, serene, peaceful Like everything is okay

Until all is clear again

And reality is back

Slowly revealing itself

Then clouds just drift by I ponder and dream

The world seems a little smaller

From up afar

Virgina

Pair of Wings, Never Used

Eliza Raben

Grade 8

I saw an advertisement in the paper yesterday.

It read “Pair of Wings, Never Used.”

There was a photo and it was a pair of wings. It was hard to tell the scale but they looked big.

They were the color of something you saw in a dream once, where you wake up and you can’t quite pin down what it looked like.

I tried to recount my dream to a friend and she said

It sounds like you don’t remember much.

I know, I said,

But I thought I did.

Pair of Wings, never used.

The feathers remind me of coins falling through fountain waters.

I wonder what kind of bird they came from. The number in the advertisement is out of order, but I try twice and on the second ring someone picks up.

You can keep the wings, She says.

I got them from an angel, but they don’t go with my wall decor.

I give her fve dollars for those wings. They arrive on my doorstep before the moon rises.

The feathers are very soft beneath my hands.

When I hold the wings up to the ceiling light, they drip translucent like hot wax.

I set them on the mantelpiece and they fash like coins in the ceiling light.

They look beautiful. They look wilted.

They look like something old and past its prime that you see in your dead grandmother’s house when they come to collect her things.

They look like something bequeathed in the will that you don’t quite know what to do with.

They look beautiful.

I don’t think I should have seen them.

When I go to bed, I dream of overhearing half of a conversation in the airport.

Someone is talking on her phone. I don’t know what she’s saying, but I know that I shouldn’t’ve heard it.

I think the plane crashed but I don’t really remember.

There were birds singing outside the little square window.

I wake up.

I don’t talk about my dream.

I don’t look up,

Because what if the ceiling is made of wax?

The wings watch (over?) me when I pass.

They were never used.

Walking in the Dark

Raleigh Simmonds

Grade 7

Walking in the dark, with the blanket of night

When out of the blue, comes a shimmer of light

A small little street lamp, hidden in a grove

Standing alone, on a road named “Clove”

The stalk a dark green, and the light a bright white

Resembling a fower, which blooms only at night.

Matteo Brebbia

Desert Sunset

Digital photograph

Grade 7

Eliza Raben

Ojo Kleki

Digital illustration

Grade 8

Sylvia Barbuto

Stopping by Woods

Digital photograph

Grade 6

The Snowfakes

Emily Toolan

Grade 7

I look out the window in my room

The frost glazes the glass

And I feel a rush of excitement

As I watch the snowfakes slowly fall

All diferent shapes

All diferent sizes

Like beautiful prizes

There are Hundreds Thousands

Falling gracefully

Like dancing ballerinas

I rush down the stairs

Putting on my winter boots

I walk outside

Making imprints in the white fufy snow

My footprints trailing behind me

A cold gust of wind passes by me

Sending shivers down my spine

Kids are playing in the yards

Laughing

Making snowmen

Throwing snowballs

But my mind is the snowfakes

Looking down on my hand

I see each snowfake falling onto it

Melting

They are so small

So unique

Like this chilly winter day

Never to be repeated again

Avian Quartet

Digital photographs

Grade 8

Eliza Raben

Alegria Rojas

Windows 2023

Digital photograph

Grade 6

The Empty Page

Oola-Breen Ryan Grade 6

The girl was taking part in a staring contest with her piece of paper.

Just come up with something, she thought. Come on. It’s not hard.

But she couldn’t. She thought and thought, but her brain was completely blank—much like the faded lined paper sitting solemnly on her desk. The submissions closed in two days, and she was desperate to submit something, anything. She didn’t care if, by the time she was done writing, the only thing to show for it was an un-edited limerick about potatoes. She would still submit it. But if her mind was usually an inkwell, today it was an empty glass, flled with nothing but air. The girl grit her teeth and pressed her pencil so hard against the paper, the tip broke of. She would fnd inspiration. She would write an amazing story that would blow the editors away.

But what, exactly, would that story be?

An hour later, the girl had succeeded in solving the Rubik’s cube on her desk. Her pencils were lined up in order of their size, each sharpened to a thin point. The bowl of chocolate chips that she had brought in as a snack had been reflled

twice and, at this point, was only a memory. But her page remained empty. Her mind hurt from all of the not-thinking. And, slowly, she began to cry. The paper became wet with tears. The girl sobbed, not quite sure why she was crying. Was it frustration, slowly building up in her? Did she accidentally and unknowingly stab herself with the sharp pencils?

The girl cried until she thought she couldn’t cry any more. She felt dizzy and disconnected from her body. She collapsed on her desk, feeling hopeless.

But then the ideas began to trickle in. Slowly, at frst. They dripped in like molasses, slow and steady. Soon they began to speed up, entering at a brisk pace, then jumping, leaping, spinning around her mind. They came in like a food, as fast and emotional as her tears. She rushed to jot them down, but they were too fast. They removed any doubt she’d had about her skills as a writer. Soon, her page was flled with scribbled notes. She took it all in.

Then she smiled, took a fresh piece of paper, and, after hours of doing absolutely nothing, started to write.

Alegria Rojas

Rainbow Bridge

Digital photograph

Grade 6

Alegria Rojas

The Wind Blows Free

Digital photograph

Grade 6

Where All the Other Trees Did Fall

Matteo Brebbia Grade 7

I’m walking down a moonlit path

This forest in the aftermath

Of a storm so strong it brought down trees once standing tall

With squall after squall after squall after squall

Suddenly my path is disturbed

And suddenly, I’m quite perturbed

For there is one tree, standing tall

Where all the other trees did fall

It is such a lonely tree

It leaves swishing in the midnight breeze

The moon refects of its shining foliage

The bodies of its fallen comrades

Are on the ground, the storm got them pretty bad

But this tree still stands tall

Where all all the other trees did fall

I wonder to myself

Why does this tree stand all by itself?

With no fellow trees it can call its friends

Standing with it until the end

The storm has separated them all

And though it may just be the wind through the breeze

I swear I hear a sorrowful call

A call of remorse and unease

A call of a tree still standing tall

Where all the other trees did fall

Where all the other trees did fall

Grasp

Digital illustration

Grade 8

Eliza Raben

Coco Thomson

The Fey Court

Digital photograph

Grade 7

Virginia Murphy

The Great V

Digital photograph

Grade 7

The Sun Dips Behind

Matteo Brebbia

Grade 7

The sun dips behind the river

Behind the river of mountains

Its rays diminished to slivers of light

Behind the river of mountains

They dip

They fow

One after another they rise

They outline the reds of the skies

The sun setting further now

Its horizon dimmer and dimmer

The mountains more beautiful than ever somehow

The shrubs are the swimmers

In the river of mountains

The clouds a faint pink

Dimmer and dimmer

And to myself I think

I wish I could be the swimmer

In the river of mountains

I would trek the trails

Up and up I’d walk

Slowly the sky would unveil

Until fnally I’d reached the top

Then I would see

Right in front of me

I would see a majestic river of mountains

Dipping

Flowing

Into the slowly setting sun

Coco Thomson

Fruit of the Vine

Digital photograph

Grade 7

Frond of Beauty

Chipili Dumbwizi

Grade 7

Wind blows and takes your graciousness within Your beauty come in all diferent ways to express feeling for another

Helping the fowers get it’s desired needs

Swaying through the music of the wind

Flying with the birds

Showing your elegant beauty that I desire

One day, rich with bliss

Another day, old and complete

All around the world

Helping tree to tree fulfll their wishes

To be beautiful and young again

You give beauty to the fowers in lawns Or even backyards

You cast your beauty at schools and parks

That children try to get you because of your elegance and charm

All your perfections in one

That not a single thing could be undone

Bless me with your beauty

Then I would be in one

Alegria Rojas

River Mountains

Digital photograph

Grade 6

Twilight

The Winter of Our Thirteenth Birthday

Oola Breen-Ryan

Grade 6

In the winter of our thirteenth birthday, it was summer. November had come and gone, and we were halfway through December, but it hadn’t snowed once, and we were starting to get nervous. 75º in the winter wasn’t to be laughed at. The weather clearly wanted to be taken seriously, and nobody dared question her. But we questioned it anyway, and the question gnawed at our minds and our hearts until we were scared it would just destroy us from the inside out, so we tried to forget it, but nobody really did. We just pretended to, so we could act like everything was normal even though it wasn’t, even though not once had it snowed since last February, even though we had been waiting for a month for the cold to come and swirl around us and make us feel like, maybe, it was winter, not this neverending, confused summer.

In the winter of our thirteenth birthday, the frst cold front came twenty two days into December, twenty two days longer than we’d hoped and wished for. The weather let her guard down, and all of our praying convinced the cold to come, and it came, in the dead of night, when nobody was awake, and the cold rustled through the rooms and the blankets. When we woke up, the ground was cold, and the air around us was like a knife when we snuck outside, still in our

pajamas, wondering if this was the cold that we had been waiting for, and it was, and it wound around us and made us shiver, and for a minute, we hated it so much we forgot it was what we had wanted for so long for. Then we ran inside, and grabbed books and blankets, and fully embraced the delayed winter. We wished it would last forever, but we knew it would only be here for so long, so we made hot chocolate and spice cookies and just spent hours staring out of the frosted glass.

In the winter of our thirteenth birthday, it began to snow at exactly six-o-clock, just late enough that you would have to squint to see the snow, but it was there, and it quickly covered the ground, painted the world, dusted houses with powder, cast long, dark shadows into the night.

In the winter of our thirteenth birthday, we smiled, and laughed, and you leaned out the window to try and catch snowfakes on your tongue, and, for a moment, everything seemed so perfectly cliche, the icy window, the cold seeping into the room, the crackling fre, and the snowfakes steadily falling outside.

Ode to Blood

Bryael Gonzalez

Grade 7

The slip of the paper

The faring piece of skin

Then comes out the drips

One by one

The deep scarlet colored liquid

Flowing from tip of your skin

In the air

Then onto the cold hard foor

In shock

The special liquid

still falling from the skin

disconnected from its body

Blood fowing from inside

Attracts the dead

A horror no one wants to appear

The paper the one responsible

For this dreaded “accident”

Or was it...

Wil Falk

Skelly

Digital photograph Grade 8

Untrodden Snow

Eliza Raben Grade

8

Death is not a skeleton with scythe and robe, nor is it a lady in white or an endless tunnel or simple void. Death is a small child, all bundled up, hesitating on the front step.

Their eyes scrunch up against the cold and bright, but stay open, because the snow is untrodden and it is beautiful. Can the child fnd it in them to take that frst step, feel the snow give beneath their boot? Because once they fnally do, they can’t go back, because there is a hole in the untrodden snow with commercial-brand boot treads at the bottom and a nimbus of kicked-up snow around it. So the child takes another step, slowly, forcing what should be muscle memory, and then it gets easier and they take another.

What’s the metaphor, your teacher asks. Is it killing at war? Is it choosing to let the snow take you without struggle? Pick from the list or make it up, whatever gets you an A.

No matter how carefully they tread, the child will leave a little mountain range behind them. Hills of snow clumps; footprint valleys. Is the child Death like the grim reaper is Death, or are they one of the reaped? Does it matter? For they are deep in the

snow now. And maybe the snow is Death, too.

It may seem feeting in the slush and buds of March, distant in the splashing cerulean swimming pools of July, tantalizing in the dense oven air of August. But (or is it so?) the snow comes back. Delicately burning on your fngertips when you wait for your car after school, cradling you softly when you lie down and spread your arms to become an angel. Your lips turn blue. Light refracts of crystals too small for the eye to see properly. Bare trees creak.

The human footprint moves slow and heavy and it crushes the untrodden snow. The blizzard flls it back in. The blizzard downs a power line.

Frostbite turns the skin white before it turns it black, did you know that?

Snow wafts in from under the door. A mother hands her child a coat and tells them to play outside. The child hesitates on the front step.

Death is not as grand as the ministers and imams and rabbis say.

Death is a child and a backyard of untrodden snow.

Matteo Brebbia

Shooting Palm Tree

Digital photograph

Grade 7

Much Much More

Oola Breen-Ryan

Grade 6

Memories aren’t just memories.

They’re glimpses into other people’s lives, hopes, dreams.

They’re things to laugh about, cringe about, cry about.

They’re moments that some would like to forget.

They’re moments that others take pride in.

They’re easy to bend, fracture, alter.

They’re diferent from everyone’s perspective, as malleable as modeling clay.

Memories aren’t just memories. They’re much, much more than that.

Cronch

Matteo Brebbia

Grade 7

Crunch

The sound of snow under my feet

Each fake slowly compressed, Leaving an imprint like no other

Each step I take, Chills run up and down my body

From my head to my feet

Numbing my toes, Making me shiver

Like a leaf in a light breeze

Plonk

Plonk

The clatter of rocks across a frozen pond

Sending spiderwebs of cracks racing across the smooth, icy surface

Irreplaceably transforming it into Something new

Something broken

But stronger

And more fascinating than ever

Drip Drip Drip

The symphony of tiny drops of water

Dangling from icicles

Holding on

Until fnally their strength gives out

And they fall

Plopping onto the rocks below But freezing back up Into an icy river

Flowing down the rocks

But never moving

Transformed from one wonderful thing To another

Each round in this season

The Crunching

The Plonking

The Dripping

The Plopping

So diferent, so unique Like snowfakes

Like people

Each with their own story to tell Something twisted and gnarled, But beautiful and intricate at the same time This is winter

A wonderland of blurring white

A unique, frozen, frosty expanse of freedom. Each piece forming a complex mosaic of sounds

Sights

Sensations and most importantly, Stories.

Ode to the Murkey Water on Weston Street

Coco Thomson

Grade 7

I fnd you when I needed you

Perfectly black

Like the dark sky at midnight

I dragged her into the water

Her body pale as the moon

Her skin becoming pink from the cold

My Nike sneakers soaked

Your water curdling my skin with its icy embrace

But she is perfectly preserved

I grab the rope out of my truck

And a stone from your prized collection

And wrap it around her frail body

I watch as you devour her

And sink into her perfect skin

Leaving me in tears

You collect them and drown them out

Leaving me happy

As she resurfaces

I see the claw marks and cuts

I tie my shoes and leave you

My truck doesn’t start

So I crawl back to you

Red and blue lights fashing behind me

And I to sink slowly into your grasp

My love and I never apart

Running

Virginia Murphy Grade 7

I’m running, running as fast as I can but it keeps getting closer and closer. I feel a cold sharp pain in my throat, making it harder to breathe every step of the way. They are not going to stop. My legs ache but I still fnd myself running across the bridge and over the hill. Then there is the house. I feel my body moving towards it. My heart is pounding out of my chest as I back into the wall. and then there it is, every step getting closer and closer.

“Sweetie, wake up,” I hear my mom holler.

As I sit up in bed, I replay the nightmare I just had. It was so strange and so real. I walk over to open the window and open it, welcoming the aroma of pumpkins and apple cider. I stick my head out the window to see if my best friend, Katie, is awake yet.

“Katie!”

I stand there for a moment waiting for her to reply. Nothing. Strange. I look down the street to see if she is on a walk. I feel a harsh breeze past my face then I see someone walking down the road. They are pacing back and forth back and forth. It seems like they know I was looking at them because they stop and look up. As they look up I feel my heart begin to race so I sprint down stairs yelling my moms name!

“MOM! MOM! THERE IS SOMEONE ON THE STREET WATCHING ME!”

“Sweetie, calm down. Let’s go and look,” she says calmly. While we walk outside I hide behind my mom, grabbing her sweater every step of the way. I point to where the person was but no one is there.

“Wait, but they were right there...” I say as I look down the street. But still there is no one in sight.

“I told you to stop watching those scary movies, Lola! Now you are imagining things!” she scolds.

“I swear there was someone there! Please believe me!”

As my mom walks back inside, I sit outside for a minute thinking about what I saw and how it disappeared as soon as we came outside. I turn around to walk back inside when I hear a loud bang. I spin around as fast as I can and I see the door is wide open.

Weird. I remember closing that.

I walk inside, trying to forget what just happened. All day I await a call from Katie but it never comes. After two hours of waiting I decide that I’m just going to walk over and see if she can hangout. As I walk over I feel someone’s eyes watching me. Trying to not look suspicious, I begin to run. As soon as I get to Katie’s doorstep I press the doorbell. No response. I try knocking, no response. Then fnally after 5 minutes of waiting I see someone walking in my direction, Katie’s mom.

“Hi!” I say “Is Katie here?”

“She is no longer here,” she says, her eyes looking out into the distance with a sharp, knife-like, stare. I turn around trying to see what she is looking at but no one is there. While turning back around the sky gets dark and a large, dark, cloud

consumes the sky.

I look back at Katie’s mom, but she is gone.

Maybe she went inside, I tell myself. But then I feel a cold wind.

I turn and see that they are there. Standing. Waiting. I stife the scream bubbling up in my throat as I begin to run. They are right behind me.

I run.

I run for miles.

At one point, a runner’s stitch forming in my side, I look behind me, sure that they must be gone by now. But then there they are. Gaining on me. Relentless.

I swallow the pain and continue running, running as fast as I can. But they keep getting closer. Closer.

I feel a sharp burn in my throat, a metallic taste in my mouth. With every step I take, it is harder and harder to breathe. But I keep going because they are not going to stop.

As I run across a bridge, the continue to gain ground on me. Closer. Closer.

I see a house and run inside, throwing the door shut behind me and trying to catch my breath. I look around, searching for something to bar the door.

As I do, I notice that somehow this house feels familiar. So familiar, like I have been there before. But before I can complete that thought, pull the memory to the forefront of my mind, the handle of the door turns and long fngers curl around the door, reaching in, reaching towards me.

Closer.

And closer.

thoughts

Noah Kurzenberger Grade 8

maybe it was the way i smiled the way i always seem to cover my mouth all when laughter breaks free

maybe it’s my style the baggy clothes i pile on my fgure covering up everything i don’t want to see

maybe it’s the way my mouth zips shut if i speak the thoughts i’ll never put into words may they one day come out if i ever try

maybe it was the way you looked at me the way your eyes lit up when i ran past or maybe it was just my imagination a tool far too grand

maybe it was her or maybe nothing we see but what if it was possible to be content being me?

Moving On

Kaitlyn Mesiya Grade 5

The trees frozen and unmoving as their tears fall one by one from the branches

All the feelings frozen in time until the frst glimpse of sun warms them

The ice melting and falling into the bare ground

Days and weeks go by with the slow falling of icy tears

Until fnally,

The sun emerges through the gray sky warming the earth

Single blades of green grass,

The frst signs of spring appear

In weeks the stems of fowers will force themselves to push through the frozen ground

Once they can see the sun’s bright light

Blossoming, growing, blooming

The fragile petals open cautiously to reveal their inner beauty. The joys of spring will return once again.

Matteo Brebbia

Phantom Stranger

Digital photograph

Grade 7

Alone

Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 6

October 13th, 8:00 AM, 1993

Janet woke with a start. She had a pounding headache, and absolutely no recollection of where or who she was.

She’d been having a gymnastics dream. She was about to land her front handspring, but her body twisted at the wrong moment and she came crashing down.

An advil, along with a glass of water, sat on her bedside table. She gratefully took it, cringing in pain.

She walked down the stairs. “Mom?” she called out. No answer, but Janet wasn’t worried. Her parents slept in all the time.

Janet groggily opened the fridge and reached for the milk. Her hand closed around empty air. Sighing, she headed upstairs to her parents bedroom. “We’re out of––” she started to say, but froze. Her mom and dad weren’t in there, either.

Janet checked all the bathrooms, the laundry room, her bedroom, their dining room, the living room, but to no avail. Her parents were no longer in the house.

She rushed out the door. There was nobody on the street, or in the storefronts, even though the glowing neon signs said “Open”. And although it was Sunday morning, no music came from the church.

The highway next to their town was deserted, too, which was especially strange. Cars were always speeding along it. Except for today, apparently.

Janet began to panic. “Mom! Dad!” she yelled, fghting back tears. “Where are you?”

Her headache was slowly worsening to a migraine. She felt dizzy and nauseous.

She had never felt so alone.

October 13th, 8:00 AM, 1993

Mrs. Flywell took a sip of her cofee. It was bitter, like a bad omen.

“So let’s discuss––” Mr. Flywell’s sentence was cut of by Janet running down the stairs.

“Mom?” she called.

“Good morning, sweetie,” Mrs. Flywell said, but Janet stared through her, like she was a ghost. Mr. and Mrs. Flywell exchanged a glance.

“It’s probably nothing, said Mr. Flywell.

Nowadays, when tourists visit the town of Oakridge, they always keep their necks craned and their cameras ready, in hopes that they will see the woman that wanders around the town like she can’t see anybody, the woman that sufered from an untreated gymnastics concussion thirty years ago, the woman who still hasn’t recovered.

weeping willows

Noah Kurzenberger Grade 8

your spectral remnants linger so quietly the graceful dance devoid of greed a one not seeming the lying kind one shameful mind i fnally read

all those words you’ve never said that same warm smile across your face desecrating to all we meant to be

your litany of lies collapse in my arms the grasp swiftly loosens as once I break free falling i am, beginning to sink waning away with every shy blink drowning in this longing endless sea only you can help me breathe

as i run from this moonlight your thoughts pierce my skin

the lights of this world begin to dim the end appearing to be just you and me your hand in my hand as we fnally fee

Piper Carillo-Foote Misty Lamp

Digital photograph Grade 7

Through The Years

Virginia Murphy Grade 7

Year one, First steps

First words

First time hearing the words no No worries at all

Year fve, First real friend

First memory

First time going to the beach

Only worried about what barbie I got

Year ten, First friend to leave

First crush

First time feeling left out Worried about my soccer game

Year ffteen, First love

First heartbreak

First time losing someone Worried about my body

Year twenty, First wedding

First kid

First time getting a real job Worried about money

Year thirty, First twins

First regrets

First time cheering in the stands for my kids

Worried about the bills

Year forty, First kid graduating high school

First kid in college

First gray hair

Worried about my kids

Year ffty, First vow renewal

First published book

First time being called grandma

Worried about my family

Year sixty, First retirement party

First back pain

First time without parents

Worried about life without them

Year seventy, First funeral hosted

First heart attack

First time alone

Worried about dying

Year eighty, Last laugh

Last hug with my kids

Last time feeling loved

Worried about my time left...

Matteo Brebbia

Stardust

Digital photograph

Grade 7

My Endless Sea of Song

Wil Falk

Grade 8

Slashing like a graceful petal

Gliding through a path of trees

Watching as the wind go fying

Rocking me so violently.

Crying for a note of song

As a strum is struck by bounds

The cries now start to quiet down

Here’s an endless sea of sounds.

No longer will the wind like thunder

Try and hold me any longer

Trapped inside my songless prison

Though now my Eyes have found their light

Trough dark and stormy nights

Now my harmony is free

Wind is Singing my melody

Plucking the strings of song

My freedom does now belong

In my endless sea of song

Digital photographs

Grade 6

Oola Breen-Ryan Vignettes

A Sound in the Night

Matteo Brebbia Grade 7

I jump up from my bed when I hear a loud crash. Then a creeeeek. My heart begins to thump in my chest, because I know my parents are never up at this hour. I slowly slip out of bed and put on some clothes. The noisy foorboards of my creaky, rustic Salem house are as old as time itself, and unless you constantly wipe down every surface, there is always a thick layer of dust wherever you put your hand. As I tiptoe out of the door, I hear a small, soft cackle, coming from below me on the frst foor. The laugh of a cold hoarse voice. Whispery. Quiet. Bone-chillingly cold. It sends a shiver down my spine and my breathing becomes shallow and quick. My clammy hands are white with efort as I grip the railing for the stairs. I walk down slowly. Step. By step. By step.

At the bottom, I quickly fnd something to hide behind. Afraid someone, or something will jump out at me any second. Beads of cold sweat drip down my back. They feel like getting pricked by an icicle. Something is defnitely wrong. I don’t know what. I’ve heard all the stories from the past. Telling the history of our town. The Salem witch trials. Witches being burned at the stake. But those witches weren’t real, were they? They couldn’t be, but I’m not so sure. My brain feels like it has been enveloped in a fog. Just like the

fog that blurs the full moon outside my window. A wolf howls at the moon. I jump with fear, accidentally knocking the closet full of china plates that I am hiding behind. They clatter, making a noise that, in the silence of my sleeping house, sounds like a building falling down. It’s glass windows shattering into a million pieces. I pray that whatever is lurking in the shadows can’t hear the plates. Walking carefully, I leave my hiding place and venture further into the thick darkness, hoping with all my might that this is just a nightmare that I will wake from in the morning. More noises seem to be coming from behind the door to the basement. The hairs on my neck stand up, and ever so slowly I creep towards the door. One fnal step and I am at the threshold, my hand poised to turn the handle. Before I can however, the door opens on its own, creaking as it does so. I look down the stairway. Suddenly, a hand appears from the shadows. The skin on it tight. Its nails long, black, and curved. I know it is human, but it looks more like a claw. Its fngers crooked and gnarled. I try to scream, loud enough to pierce the veil of silence, but the hand covers my mouth, stifing my desperate call for help. It couldn’t possibly be alive, it is so frigid on my skin. I try to run, but it is too late. My last thoughts are of my happy family that will be broken up by my death, before I am pulled down, deep into the darkness.

Never to be seen again.

Vibrant Waves

Raleigh Simmonds

Grade 8

Vibrant waves of warmth (dance) across the room

Heating the space set to welcome

Contrast sending shivers down the body

Sudden cracks fll the silence

A fourish as it is moved or rekindled

Up into the ambiance they go melting into it all

Heat burning the nose with fragrance

Warm dry scents

Scents of the putrescent lumber used to stoke open fame

A stunning array of hues envelops

Breathing (beauty) into the comparatively bleak expanse

Flames fade out fawlessly from the core

Deep breath in Smoke out

Leaving a stinging sensation unlike many

Matteo Brebbia Flame

Digital photograph

Grade 7

Kirk Ships in the Night

Oil on canvas

Grade 5

Ashlee

the warm smoke of cigarettes

Noah Kurzenberger Grade 8

Every night was the same.

At 5 o’clock sharp, she’d step out on the patio. The door was closed gently, and I could see a blurred image through the battered glass. It would take a couple minutes before she stepped inside again, the same monotone look on her face every time.

I didn’t notice at frst. It took a few days before I smelled the lingering smoke as she walked through the home, pacing from the kitchen to the den. When she came close, a faint, smoggy sigh escaped through her smile.

“I’m okay,” she’d assure me. “I just need a breath of fresh air. On warm days, she’d go when the sun began to set. I could almost see the colors of the sky bounce of her skin, pinks of oranges and yellows in blues. I’d peer through the glass, waiting like an attention-starved puppy for her return. Minutes would pass, but it seemed like hours in my head. At times, I had a short fuse for her evening rituals.

“Lune,” I’d say. “It’s time for you to come inside.”

The smokey scent on her cardigan only strengthened with time. I grew worried, biting my nails when the door shut.

“Don’t worry about me,” she’d plead. “I’m doing just fne.”

I knew it was a lie. If I pressed my ear to the wall, I could hear mufed sobs escaping from the other side. The bags under her eyes grew darker with each evening, her fgure now frail. How could she be doing just fne? It bafed me every time.

On that fateful day, I followed her outside. She seemed startled when her gaze met mine, finching like I was a stranger. Her eyes were duller than the night sky, looking lifeless in the porch light.

I tried to speak, but no words came out. I tried to move, but my body did not comply. All at once she began to fall, her soft, brown hair blanketing the foor. Her eyes slowly shut, mine quickly following. As the darkness took over, I knew what had been done.

I lost her; and I had lost myself too.

Lynx

Chalk illustration

Grade 5

Ashlee Kirk

The Pause

Matteo Brebbia Grade 7

The day fies by The bustling and rushing of all your activities numbing the brain

It’s exhausting, running around wildly

Never taking a pause to think or settle the mind

Because sometimes, that’s all we need.

A pause.

A tiny stop in time.

The moment between when you inhale and exhale, Or the little stall that happens just after you swing up on a swing,

But just before you come back down to Earth.

Breathing.

Swinging.

These are continuous motions.

The up and down movement of the swing. The in and out movement of breath.

But they are all broken only by the pause.

A busy day is a continuous motion, too.

But the diference is that there is no pause, Nothing to break up the work, No chance to calm yourself, Without the pause you just get pushed around Like a leaf on the wind.

The day needs a pause.

The swing needs a pause.

The breath needs a pause.

Everything Needs a pause.

Doomscrolling Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 6

She was doomscrolling when it happened, when it was announced that the Earth wasn’t safe for humans anymore. She had been looking through countless articles about relationship issues, about how she and her husband’s marriage wasn’t going to work out. But, when the radio crackled and the announcers explained that everyone would have to enjoy the last three days of their lives, she realized that there were bigger issues on her hands. The reporter said that landflls had killed the fsh and other sources of meat. How many things did she throw away that she could have reused? How many items of clothing did she wear once or twice, then get rid of? Could she have recycled more? Pollution had seeped into the ground and made any plants inedible, the reporter explained. Smoke made the air unbreathable. The water, once clear and drinkable, was flled with trash, gasoline from tourist boats, and microplastics. Even when fltered, fresh water was too polluted to be drunk. Animals had been dying because of climate change for decades, and now humans were, too. She thought about the air she was inhaling right now. Was it safe? Or were pollutants entering her lungs? Her thoughts few to her family, her two daughters. Would her kids cry? She regretted every minute that she hadn’t spent with them. And what about her husband? She glanced once more at the ffteen tabs open on her phone and felt her heart sink. Her marriage was the least she had to worry about. She loved her husband. How had she not fully comprehended that before?

Slowly, she let her phone fall out of her hand. It crashed onto the foor, sending a million cracks through the screen like a spiderweb. The last thing she saw before it shut down was the date.

Raleigh Simmonds

Profle

Digital illustration

Grade 8

Eddie Musser

Actress with a Malleable Face

Digital illustration

Grade 8

Noah Kurzenberger Grade 8

the blush flls my face as i gaze into the glass the glare blinds my skin a face peering back while i sit here and weep your strange face remains staring back at me with that same sorrow gaze

“how could you?”

i ask receiving no answer

“why would you?”

i add tears creeping closer the mirror stares back and suddenly i am nothing just a body on the earth spinning but never stunning as the sun keeps shining in this cruel, broken world

i stare into the mirror longing for your return

Tree

Ethan Kirk

Grade 8

Standing alone, Shining down, On two trees, Branches out.

In the middle of a barren land, Many branches illuminated. Casting an ominous shadow, On the wet land below.

The lamp post standing tall, Like a slender tree, An outcast, Surrounded by outcasts.

The only illumination in the land, Shines upon two trees, As they stand, In the middle of the sea.

Wil

Grade 8

Wood, digital photos, acrylic, lucite

Mason Gray

Breaking Free Clay, acrylic Grade 7

Raleigh Simmonds

One More Sip

Glass, wood, wire, acrylic

Grade 8

Julia Broder Unlocking Their Future Wood, digital photos, acrylic, parchment Grade 8

Bryael Gonzalez

The New School Uniform

Refective vest, school supplies, acrylic paint Grade 7

Michael Toolan

Virginia Murphy

Ghosts of the Classroom

Wood, acrylic Grade 7

Digital

Noah Kurzenberger 34

images, acrylic Grade 8

Coco Thomson

Do You Like What You See?

Cardboard, acrylic, tinfoil

Grade 7

Ava Sylvestro

Caged Fear

Birdcage, clay, acrylic, fshing wire

Grade 7

Tanyse Floyd

Why Can’t I Be Like Them?

Digital images, acrylic, string, pins

Grade 8

Fabric, digital collage, iron-on transfer Grade 8

Teddy Kushel

The Communities Behind the Courts

Ty Srihari

Flower Fission

Wood, artifcial fowers

Grade 8

Eddie Musser For Your Pleasure

Wood, acrylic, paper, wire, screws

Grade 8

Ethan Kirk

Record Breaking

Digital images, wood, acrylic

Grade 8

Grade 7

Emily Toolan Poverty’s Uneven Plates Clay, paper plate, cardboard, acrylic, digital images

Chipili Dumbwizi

Typical Refection

Glass vases, artifcial fowers, acrylic, digital images, lights

Grade 7

This year’s edition of Pen & Paper, “New Horizons,” is organized around the themes inherent in these vistas: change and transition, beginnings and endings, aspirations and dreams, etc. The intent throughout the magazine is to ofer commentary and insight into these areas through the artwork, poetry, short stories, and photography of our middle school students. Each section begins with a thematic heading and a full-page photograph.

The digital fle of this edition was created on a MacBook Pro using Adobe InDesign 2022. Spreads and the layout were designed using Adobe InDesign 2022. The font used is Iowan Old Style. llustrations were scanned using a Sharp MX-4070 scanner. Pen & Paper is printed on sixty-pound white bond and the cover is printed on 100# stock.

A special thank you to Gary Boros of Signworks Studios in New Milford, CT for his professionalism, promptness, and precision in printing our editions each year.

The Unquowa School is Pen & Paper’s home base. Unquowa is a progressive, independent, Pre-K4 through 8th Grade school located in Fairfeld, Connecticut. There are 152 enrolled students in total (92 in the Upper School, Grades 5-8) and 45 faculty and staf members. The contributors to Pen & Paper, ranging from 5th through 8th grade, make the fnal production of the magazine possible through their serious dedication and talent. Each year, 7th and 8th Grade teachers encourage writers, editors, and artists to join the Pen & Paper staf, where they engage in the creative process of producing the magazine from start to fnish.

Previous editions of Pen & Paper earned the following awards:

Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA)

Gold and Silver Crown Awards

Gold Circle Awards

American Scholastic Press Association (ASA)

First Place with Special Merit Award

Most Outstanding Middle School Literary-Art Magazine Award