How We Produce Pen & Paper
Pen & Paper, Unquowa School’s literary and art magazine, is published annually and offers an outlet for students to share their literary and artistic talent. Students in grades 5-8 submit writing, photography, art, poetry, and other creative projects 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 staff 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 fit within the magazine’s thematic sections and the editorial staff’s standards of excellence.
The editorial staff, invited to Pen & Paper by their teachers, focuses on writing their own work, selecting pieces for publication, and providing feedback on student 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 submissions to finalize selections. The art staff links writing to illustration, pursues individual art projects, and selects the cover photo.
Lastly, the advisor, together with the art consultant, editorial staff, and Editor(s)-in-Chief, approves the final layout of the magazine and makes final edits and adjustments before going to print.
Art
Toolan In Living Color
Digital photograph Grade 8
Cover
Michael
Pen & Paper 2023-2024
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 Staff
Sylvia Barbuto ‘25 Editor
Piper Carrillo-Foote ‘24 Editor
Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25 Editor
Bryael Gonzalez ‘24 Editor
Reya Halper ‘25 Editor
Kyra Karayiannis ‘24 Editor
Sarah Maximin ‘24 Editor
Cameron Mitchell ‘25 Editor
Virginia Murphy ‘24 Editor
Michael Toolan ‘24 Editor
Aleksandra Wesson ‘25 Editor
Coco Thomson ‘24 Editor-in-Chief
Emily Toolan ‘24 Editor-in-Chief
Mrs. Krissy Ponden Art Consultant
Anson Pitts ‘24 Editor
Mr. Eric Snow Advisor
Dedication
This year’s issue of Pen & Paper is dedicated to Mrs. Megan Kirk, the Performing Arts teacher at Unquowa for the last twelve years. Mrs. Kirk is an accomplished playwright and director, penning the scripts to our Winterfest celebrations and directing our Spring musicals. Mrs. Kirk’s deep care for and connection to students is evident in everything she does: she pushes us out of our comfort zones, helps us feel more confident on stage, and is our biggest cheerleader. Mrs. Kirk always has a smile on her face, even when directing us is stressful, and that positivity translates into the best performances. Mrs. Kirk, we wish you the best as you move on to your next adventure! Thank you for everything!
From the Editor
Dear Reader,
We are so excited to release our fourteenth edition of Pen & Paper this year with the title “In Living Color.” This volume is an important addition to our repertoire as it captures the entirety of our 7th and 8th Grade writers and artists. In the first section (PAST), you’ll see each final 7th Grade submission for the “Unsung Heroes” project, and in the final section (FUTURE), all of the 8th Grade “Voices of Change” projects are on display. In between, you’ll notice the vibrant images, art, poetry, short stories, and even a couple of videos that showcase what it looks like in the minds and hearts of the students at our school.
As co-Editor-in-Chief, this volume has a very important meaning to me. Over the years, the amount of work that goes into the creation of each edition of Pen & Paper has become more and more apparent. Every single member of the editorial staff has worked tirelessly every Monday afternoon to put together one of the most incredible publications that I’ve had the privilege of contributing to during my time at Unquowa.
This edition evokes for me a sense of nostalgia and memory. The poignancy of this, even as we look from the past to the future in each section, is striking to me, especially as so many of us move on to our next academic adventures.
Both Emily and I would like to thank each and every student who submitted work to this edition of Pen & Paper, the staff who put it all together, Mr. Snow and Mrs. Ponden, and, of course, our faithful readers. Thank you all, and please enjoy this wonderful, collaborative installment in our award-winning magazine!
Thank You
Coco Thomson Co-Editor-in-Chief
Numbers Save Lives by Vivian Kelley ‘25
Maurice Willows by Vivian Winkelmann ‘25
The Story of Her by Clara Scotto ‘25
Illustrating the Truth by Ellie H. and Emi S. ‘25
The Rats Say Yes! by Ethan Perez ‘25
“I Must Do My Part...” by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
The Beauty Behind the Brains by Sierra Iacovella ‘25
Sacrifice and Selflessness by Weston Doyle ‘25
Aiko by James C. and Nerushka L. A. ‘25
The Descendent of Hope by Oscar L-R. and Cameron M. ‘25
Secrets Underground by Alegria Rojas ‘25
Money Over Children by London A. and Aleksandra W. ‘25
The Divide by Sylvia Barbuto ‘25
Elliott’s Eye by Jax Yeung ‘25
A Light in the Dark by Cole H. and Asher T. ‘25
On the Streets by Pooja Bedi ‘27
Sunset Pier by Coco Thomson ‘24
Winter’s Edge by Michael Toolan ‘24
The World Rejoices by Sylvia Barbuto ‘25
Cloudy Day by Everett Spinner ‘25
Fossils by Everett Spinner ‘25
In the Heart of Stone & Steel by Sylvia Barbuto ‘25
Monolith by Michael Toolan ‘24
After by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
The Light Gets In by Michael Toolan ‘24
Centering by Michael Toolan ‘24
Younger by Sylvia Barbuto ‘25
Bubble by Piper Carrillo-Foote ‘24
Winter’s Light by Ellie Holtz ‘25
Snow by Sierra Iacovella ‘25
Stars by Coco Thomson ‘24
The Moth by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
Morning Jo by Reya Halper ‘25
Flicker by Piper Carrillo-Foote ‘24
The Things that Burn by Sierra Iacovella ‘25
This is a City by Ashima Bakshi ‘26
Cloudscraping by Sierra Iacovella ‘25
Standstill by Alegria Rojas ‘25
City Express by Alegria Rojas ‘25
Beverly Hills F. D., Engine #3 by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
42:1 by Michael Toolan ‘24
Dappled Cliffs by Michael Toolan ‘24
Mully’s by Sylvia Barbuto ‘25
A Haunting We Will Go by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
Autumn Starts, September by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
Ghost Grains by Mila Nechaev ‘27
Umbrella Ghost by Reya Halper ‘25
Funeral Garden by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
The Plane Passes by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
Number the Stars by Alegria Rojas ‘25
Dreaming by Sierra Iacovella ‘25
Rainbow Moon by Kaitlyn Mesiya ‘26
thoughtful by Ashlee Kirk ‘26
Scream by Grady Pompa ‘27
Hand-Eye Coordination by Ashlee Kirk ‘26
Dreamweaver by Reya Halper ‘25
Just a Floating Feeling by Ellie Mae Sullivan ‘27
Barbie Dream by Edison D. and Olivia W. ‘26
Football Dreams by Zaheera M. Alexandra M. and Gemma P. ‘26
Spring in Metal Pastels by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
Canopy by Alegria Rojas ‘25
PINK by Michael Toolan ‘24
Colors and Feelings by Grady Pompa ‘27
Two Rivers of Light by Virginia Murphy ‘24
Pigeon Cameo by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
Vanishing Dream by Grady Pompa ‘27
‘24
Frosted by Sierra Iacovella ‘25
The Woods by Theodore Adamson ‘26
Galway City by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
I Am the Great Big Mouth by Ashlee Kirk ‘26
Droplets of Sun by Everett Spinner ‘25
A Diamond of Hope by Grady Pompa ‘27
Baubles by Alegria Rojas ‘25
Half-moment by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
Mongers Meat Market by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
The Attic by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
L’Opera by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26
Rainy Drive by Vivian Winkelmann ‘25
Raindrops by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
Next Step by Ines Alexander ‘26
The Difference Between... by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
Arclight by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25
Road Goes Ever On by
Road Trip by Sylvia Barbuto ‘25
She Sells by Virginia Murphy ‘24
Bird’s Eye by Alegria Rojas ‘25
Hateful Arms by Adrian Omisore ‘24
Clock of Life by Kyra Karayiannis ‘24
The Weight of My World by Coco Thomson ‘24
The Pressure to Transform by Bryael Gonzalez ‘24
The Hidden Community by Tessa Balmer ‘24
It’s Just a Burning Memory by Anson Pitts ‘24
What Now? Where To? by Owen Epstein ‘24
The Game of War by Piper Carrillo-Foote ‘24
Filtered Reality by Ava Sylvestro ‘24
Layers of Beauty by Addie Mulvehill ‘24
Signs of Protest by Aidan Omisore ‘24
Six Lights... by Chipili Dumbwizi ‘24
Keeping it Together by Mason Gray ‘24
Who Am I? by Wyatt Lieberman ‘24
Bicycle Split
Digital photograph
Grade 7
JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
Alegria Rojas
Reya Halper Court of California
Watercolor, pen
Grade 7
Vivian Kelley Numbers Save Lives Watercolor, colored pencil, chalk
Grade 7
Printed images, acrylic, burned cardboard
Grade 7
2024 Pen & Paper
Vivian Winkelmann
Maurice Willows
Scotto
the Truth
Ellie Holtz and Emi Smith
Illustrating
Clay, engraved wood, crayon, cardboard, wire
Grade 7
Ethan Perez The Rats Say Yes! Clay, engraved acrylic panel
Grade 7
Oola Breen-Ryan
“I Must Do My Part to Promote a Better World.”
Cardboard, marker, printed images
Grade 7
Grade 7
Sierra Iacovella
The Beauty Behind the Brains Wood, paint, marker, printed images
Weston Doyle Sacrifice and Selflessness Torn magazines, glue
Grade 7
JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
Acrylic panels, printed images, origami paper
James Cleveland and Nerushka Lopez Aponte
Aiko
Grade 7
Oscar Lehnerd-Reilly and Cameron Mitchell
The Descendent of Hope
Cardstock, marker, acrylic panels
Grade 7
Alegria Rojas Secrets Underground Cardboard, clay, printed images, acrylic paint
Grade 7
Money Over Children
Wood, printed images, clay, acrylic paint
Grade 7
London Acunto and Aleksandra Wesson
Sylvia Barbuto The Divide Wood, printed images, clay, acrylic paint
Grade 7
Jax Yeung
Elliott’s Eye
Engraved acrylic, acrylic paint, wood
Grade 7
A Light in the Dark Wood, images on parchment, table lamp
Grade 7
Cole Herlet and Asher Tulupman
Pooja Bedi
Small Glimpses of a Poem
Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 7
She takes out an open page, plugs in her headphones, and starts to write as thoughts appear in her brain. Maybe they don’t make sense, but maybe they do.
(They probably don’t.)
A frosting piping bag, filled to the brim with a dark, starry night. It pipes dark lines, like words, onto a blank slab of universe.
A peacock walks through a living room uninvited, dropping feathers everywhere.
A dog is sitting, staring meaningfully at its owner. It holds a translucent, glowing scroll in its mouth. The owner tries to grab it, but the dog buries it, like, well, a dog.
Because it is a dog. Not a dragon from thousands of years ago, not at all. What are you even talking about?
Strange, tree-shaped shadows in a forest… not really trees at this time of night. Are they trees or people waiting in the darkness?
A cat playing the guitar. Why? No idea whatsoever.
Cheerful, chirpy music playing over speakers in a mall, but there’s a robbery going on in Target.
Rose petals turned into petal-shaped ashes, inevitably falling apart if you try to touch or pick up one. For the moment, though, they’re staying in their shape, delicate black flowers.
The World Rejoices
Sylvia Barbuto Grade 7
The world is silent as snowflakes fall, A blanket soft and pure, Transforming streets and rooftops All into a sheet of white.
Each snowflake is a work of art. As it softly lands, making no sound, The world has some peace.
The air is crisp, the sky is radiant, The snow is gleaming white. And as we watch with pure delight, The snowfall brings a special peace, A calmness to the air, As we embrace the world’s release, And forget our every care.
So let us pause and take it in, This beauty all around. For snowfall, I am so grateful Its beauty brings me joy And calm.
In a thing so gentle yet so powerful, The world rejoices.
Colored pencil, glitter pen, watercolor, and beads
Grade 8
2024 Pen & Paper
Everett Spinner Cloudy Day
In the Heart of Stone & Steel
Sylvia Barbuto Grade 7
In the heart of stone and steel, Where the shadows dance and dreams conceal, There lies a city vast and bold, A million untold secrets, hold.
From lights that flicker, dim, or glow
To where dreams live and breathe and grow Through the streets with life’s refrain Where every step bears silent pain
Towers raise their spirit high, Reaching for that endless sky, Each window tells a different tale, Of victory, loss, and hearts that fail.
In the alleyways where shadows creep, Where secrets lie and secrets keep, The city breathes and sighs and weeps, Its soul laid bare in midnight deep.
Yet amidst the chaos, beauty thrives, In every corner, it survives , In laughter shared on crowded streets, In love that blooms where hearts do meet.
The city’s heartbeat, strong and true Echoes through the avenue; A symphony of life and strife, Where dreams take flight and souls unite .
So let us wander, you and I, Beneath the endless city sky, And in its maze, we find our way From darkness to the light of day.
After
Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 7
When Paige arrived home from school on Monday, the first thing she did was brew a pot of coffee. She had been practicing the violin and lost track of time, and it was now around 7 o’clock. Paige drank the mug of coffee with no sugar or milk. The coffee tasted like it had been made in a gas station coffee machine that spent too much time near Styrofoam cups and started to act like a Styrofoam cup, which, in this case, meant that the coffee tasted like a Styrofoam cup as well. Paige tried to ignore the bitter aftertaste and put the mug into the sink. It didn’t matter that the coffee machine was having a crisis; what mattered was that it was strong coffee, hopefully strong enough to keep her awake so she wouldn’t be able to dream. If she didn’t dream, then she would be okay.
She studied for a math test until around midnight, when she fell asleep. She had distracted herself enough that she didn’t remember her dreams, if she had any, and that was the goal. It had been two months. She’d mastered the art of denial, so while she was conscious, that wasn’t a problem. What was a problem was when she was asleep, because Paige couldn’t control her dreams.
At first, Paige had sobbed uncontrollably at home. When the bus dropped her off at school, she would go into a bathroom stall and sob some more, sometimes for the whole day. The grief was never-ending. Eventually, she realized that she could tune it out if she tried hard enough. When she was younger, her dreams didn’t bother her too much. She once dreamt that she and her best friends were on a puffy cloud in the sky, surrounded by floating rubber ducks. She was hundreds of feet above the ground, but instead of being
scared, she just felt serene. Another time, she was a sunset. Paige only realized how nonsensical that sounded when she told her friends about it afterward.
Now, she tried not to sleep. The coffee usually helped. Her dreams took all of her happy memories and sad, terrible memories that she would’ve preferred to forget and put them into a confusing, overwhelming form that defeated everything she had been doing for the past two months: ignoring and forgetting. Paige stalled her brain and thought about everything other than what had happened two months before. It was exhausting and made it hard for her to do other things, but it was worth it. She didn’t want to go through everything again. If she distracted herself during the day, she might not descend into sadness again, but what was the point if that came back during the night?
The next day at school, as Paige slipped her failed math test–-the one that she had been cramming for—into her binder, she thought about what stage she would go through next. Bargaining? Was that the only one left? When everything had started falling apart, she kicked a wall at one point in rage. So, bargaining was the only stage left, right? Other than acceptance, of course. She wondered why it took so long to get there.
Paige went for a walk after school. She passed a tree, old and storm-evident but still alive. She’d had a dream as a six or seven year old with a similar-looking tree. This one looked more real, though. Had she maybe seen it on a walk with her parents and fictionalized it? It was possible, she figured. Paige stood in front of the tree and stared at it some more. It had gone through a lot, but was still there. Maybe that would be her someday.
On Friday, Paige stayed behind after school again to play violin in the instrumental room. After she felt like she had sufficiently filled the empty room with music, Paige left. For some reason, she remembered another dream she’d had maybe seven years before, where she was playing the cello underneath the ocean (along with a chorus of slightly rabid-looking pink crabs) and could see music notes floating towards the surface. Paige had never played the cello in her life, which she found funny, because in the dream, she’d known all the chords and strings.
She was still thinking about that as she went to bed, so she forgot to drink her coffee and fell asleep quickly—she had obviously been sleep deprived for several weeks. That night, she dreamt.
When Paige woke up, she remembered the dream. For the first time in two months, the PTSD came crashing back, but she only cried a little. The dream had all of the memories from before, her feelings after, and a generally melancholy aura to it, but it somehow wasn’t a nightmare.
In her desperate need to not dream about this, she had pictured herself going back down the rabbit hole and becoming even more emotional than she had been after the fact, but it didn’t feel like that at all. Paige sat down on a chair. The dream brought up a feeling in her, and she decided that, for once, she would think about it. Maybe she would cry. Maybe she would kick a wall again, although that had hurt the first time. Maybe this was acceptance?
Michael Toolan Centering
Digital photograph
Grade 8
JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
Younger
Sylvia Barbuto Grade 7
It was late on a Saturday night and I was on the phone with my best friend, Gabe. I was alone at home since my brother was out with his girlfriend and my dad had gone to play poker out of town. I wasn’t used to the house being so silent.
Gabe said, “It’s late, I’m headed to bed. I have a hockey game tomorrow.”
“Wait, I--!” I exclaimed, but before I could say more, he hung up.
Rude, I thought. But I decided to make some popcorn and settle in for the night with a scary movie.
About halfway through the movie, there was a sudden knocking on the door which startled me. I was all alone and wondered who it could be. I remembered my dad’s advice to never open the door to strangers, so I ignored the knocking. However, it only got louder and began to annoy me.
The knocking continued to get louder until I couldn’t take it anymore and shouted, “I’m not answering the door, so just give up now!”
To my surprise, a voice responded.
“Peter… open the door… please, it’s too dark out… I’m afraid of the dark!”
I was shocked that whoever it was knew my name. Who could it be? I tried to checked the front door camera, but it wasn’t working. Bad internet connection or something. I tried calling my dad, but his phone went straight to voicemail. And, since it was too dark outside, I couldn’t see through the windows.
“Don’t be shy! Open the door, Peter! I miss you,” the voice said suddenly.
Feeling scared and unsure, I asked, “Who are you? I’m not opening the door until I find out who you are.” My legs were shaking uncontrollably.
The voice replied, “It doesn’t matter who I am. I know who you are, Peter. You’re a fifteen-year-old boy who’s been feeling sad ever since your mother died. Let me in, Peter. You used to be so radiant and sweet, but you’ve changed so much.”
I didn’t feel like responding. I’m not sure I could have, even if I did want to. I was scared, and I wondered how this person knew so much about me.
“Please let me inside, Peter. You know I’m afraid of the dark,” the voice pleaded, now starting to cry.
You know I’m afraid of the dark.
The dots began to connect. I knew exactly who this was.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to let you in.”
Now I was crying too.
“Peter! You’ve kept me away from you for so long! Away from us!” the voice pleaded.
It was me. I was talking to the younger version of me.
He continued to plead with me, saying, “You’ve ignored me for so long! I know you so well because I was you. Am you. Please, let me in.” I was hesitant and didn’t know if I was ready to confront my past. The pain and regret I had buried long ago began to fill my body, and I was overwhelmed by emotions.
I realized that the person I am today and the one behind that door are not the same. I had hidden my past self away, ever since my mother died, and considered the old me to be dead. The thought of facing my past self terrified me, and I didn’t know if I was ready to confront it.
As I was lost in thought, I suddenly woke up, relieved that it was only a dream. But the confusion and lingering emotions from the dream still haunted me. Just as I was contemplating the meaning if it all, I heard a noise at my bedroom door.
I hesitated for a moment but then decided to answer it this time. To my relief, it was just my dog Zicky, wagging his tail and looking up at me with his big, adorable eyes. I saw myself in those big brown pools and wondered what I would become.
Grade
Grade
Snow
Sierra Iacovella Grade 7
Flecks of white cold Fall silently from the sky to the ground, Whispering the secret of existence, Making the world colder, Yet imbuing beauty with every flake, A shimmering cloak coating of pale white.
Slowly People notice.
Heads rise one by one.
They see the magic unfolding. The enchanting spell over the sky, The diamonds falling, Transforming into a land of wonder, A land of white, ice, cold.
Every flake sparkles in descent.
Trees, roofs, driveways
Blessed by the clouds.
Smiles spread and witnesses become strangers, Lost among the flurry of millions, Falling from above.
Coco Thomson Stars
Digital photograph
Grade 8
50 JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
The Moth
Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 7
The moth was determined—the light had long since burned out, but it wouldn’t leave its side. Ada watched it for a bit. It seemed smart enough for a moth, after having evaded Ada’s attempts for almost 20 minutes to get it outside. So, why was it so attached?
Ada sat in a chair in the apartment lobby and waited. The moth would leave the chandelier eventually. It was large for a moth, maybe the size of her fist. She wondered why it was there. It flitted around the chandelier, ducking in and out of odd corners. It had a greenish-brown tint, along with strange markings on its wings.
Ada checked her watch. It was ten minutes later than when her patient was supposed to show up. She was a therapist, but she couldn’t afford a fancy office or anything, so she instead went on long walks with her patients, even at negative-two-degree North Dakota weather. Ada liked the cold. It numbed the harshness of whatever people were talking about.
She hadn’t wanted to be a therapist; she wanted to be a painter. Her psychology degree was half-hearted, but it had grown on her, and now Ada liked how her patients’ problems made her own problems seem smaller. It was selfish of her, maybe, but she didn’t have a therapist dissecting every thought—why should she care about that?
After learning what renting a studio space cost, Ada’s minor became her major and she doubled down on having a degree that would be worth the money she spent acquiring it. By the time she was done with graduate school, she had pushed painting entirely out of her mind. In fact, earlier that day, she had trudged past a sign for a communal studio space, open to anyone, in the town community center. It was free for use. Ada ignored it. She hadn’t painted in so long - what was even the point?
The moth landed on a light. It started anxiously flitting around the bulb, almost so it looked like it was trying to dislodge something from the chandelier. Fifteen minutes, and still no sign of the patient. Ada sighed.
Finally, the moth triumphantly flew away from the burntout chandelier and landed on the ground next to whatever it had removed. Cautiously, Ada stepped over to it. There was another moth on the ground, next to it. It didn’t look alive. The first moth stood there for a second then flew off towards the door.
Twenty minutes now with no word. Rather than call or be concerned, Ada had a strange compulsion to follow the moth. Why had it been so determined to rescue its dead friend from the lightless chandelier? And where was it going now?
Clearly her patient wasn’t going to show up, so she ran over to the door and opened it. There was a space under the door that the moth had been able to slip through, but it hadn’t left yet and fluttered in the air, almost like it was waiting. When it saw that she was outside, off it flew.
Ada felt like a child again, chasing a moth. It was oddly slow for a moth with places to be. Maybe it knew that Ada was following it. She laughed. Even the moth would think she was crazy.
Finally, after a long, breathless run, the moth and Ada stopped at the communal studio she’d passed earlier. Even though it was pushing seven o’clock, it looked open, although nobody was inside. The moth fluttered through a crack in the door. Curious, Ada followed.
It landed on an almost-empty paint pallet and pile of brushes. Ada’s breath caught in her throat. The moth wanted her to paint.
She stepped towards a canvas leaned against the wall. It was half-painted, with—was that an image of a moth? A sticky note said “Artist is away, painting is yours to finish”. Ada was intrigued. A little bit wouldn’t hurt, right?
Before she knew it, she was enveloped. Despite the fact that her phone was ringing and it was almost certainly her patient, wondering where the heck she was, Ada ignored all of the distractions and continued to paint. Slowly, her brushstrokes became natural, and she was immersed in the world of something she hadn’t felt in fifteen years. She finally felt as happy as she had been as a teenager. Ada had forgotten how much painting meant to her.
The moth flew off, but she didn’t even notice.
Reya Halper Morning Jo Illustration
Grade 7
A Lullaby
London Acunto Grade 7
The wind blows softly as my eyes flutter closed. A lullaby.
The window cracked open
Just a little bit
To where I can feel the cold wind brush up against My sheets
And the white curtains hanging from my window
Wave in a rhythmic pattern
Like the ocean on a breezy day. I hear the crickets Inconsistently chirping. It’s distant, but close.
Beautiful.
Like a lullaby, I close my eyes
I drift off to a world, Completely unalike this one, Though it feels so real.
I transfer into this world, As distant as the crickets, Knowing I’ll wake up to another day. And fall asleep, A lullaby again.
Charcoal and graphite illustration
Grade 7
Ashlee Kirk soulful serenity
Piper Carrillo-Foote Flicker
Digital photograph
Grade 8
56 JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
The Things That Burn
Sierra Iacovella Grade 7
Isn’t it funny
How everything can seem so peaceful
But in a split second
Everything can be torn to pieces?
It only takes a spark
The drop of a single match
To start a blaze
That creeps up so suddenly
And takes whom we love in their sleep. A parent will go through their worst nightmare
Questions will swirl around in one’s head
It all went too fast
The wild scene of orange flames
Can be so deceivingly beautiful
And the clouds of smoke
Can smell so deceptionally good
But the pop of floorboards
The crackle of sparks
No time is all the time
It takes for everything to be lost
The things that burn take so much from us
Yet
In the middle of heartbreak, sorrow, tears
We find our true selves.
It doesn’t matter if it was a life of eleven Or a hundred.
When one person goes
So goes a small piece of us with them.
There are so many things that burn
So much can be lost.
Yet in the losing, We remember.
This is a City Ashima Bakshi Grade 6
This is a city. Alive like a baby fresh to the world. The city is bee at work. The city is the loud singing along in concert.
This is a city. A memory. a living place. A hive, Buzzing with the energy of a thousand bees. Hustling, non-stop, busy.
Voices echoing the sound of a song newly sung. The smell of smoke fills the air, Burnt cigarettes littering the ground. Oily pizza and street food fill the street, A city so rough, yet gentle, With traffic around each bend.
Digital photograph
Grade 7
Sierra Iacovella Cloudscraping
Alegria Rojas
Standstill
Digital photograph
Grade 7
60 JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
Alegria Rojas City Express
Digital photograph Grade 7
Beverly Hills Fire Department, Engine #3
Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 7
I’m driving my car. It’s late, the radio is blasting “We Didn’t Start the Fire” for some unknown reason, and I just want to get home. I’m tired after a long day of hanging out with Jeina on the yacht—her maid was completely slacking off, so we had to keep getting snacks ourselves.
It’s a dark, shadowy December evening. I went to Jeina’s dock in the morning, and we spent all day gossiping and sun bathing, just because it’s been so hot and sunny out. My father says that it’s not yacht season, but the weather has been so perfect lately. It’s remarkably dry out, too, and all the weather stations are whining about wildfires or something. God, I don’t know. My family’s never really been into that stuff.
I got my driver’s license last month, and am now using it for everything that I can. I sometimes blow stop signs or run lights, but I don’t care about how many speeding tickets I get—the fee is, obviously, manageable, and occasionally getting in trouble strengthens your morale.
Sirens and flashing lights pierce the pitch-black night. A fire truck, coming from an upcoming intersection. I speed up, determined to out-drive it. I want to get home soon. My parents called caterers, and the food will get cold if I don’t pick up the pace.
The truck swerves into the spot right in front of me. Great, I think as we approach a red light and the fire truck stops abruptly.
The side has “Beverly Hills Fire Department, Engine #3” painted in ugly letters on the side. It’s the color of deep rust, like what I see on some of my friends’ chauffeurs’ cars. (Not everyone can afford flawless limos. I try to be accepting, but the rust puts me off. Just how qualified is the chauffeur if their car isn’t in ideal conditions?)
It feels like forever before the traffic light changes. I’m sincerely tempted to honk at the fire truck, which seems to be stalling even after the glowing circles change from red to yellow to green. If it’s in such a rush, why is it taking so long?
We keep driving. I notice, with interest, that in the night, the truck looks like a shiny candy apple, rather than an eyesore. Among all of the bland, other sports cars, it shimmers like a beacon. I wonder where it’s going.
My phone makes a dinging noise. I glance down at it, but almost as soon as I pick it up, it dies. I try turning it off and on several times to no avail. Whatever. You’re not even supposed to text when driving, for some reason I don’t understand. What if you’re driving and you need to call someone urgently?
As the luminescent truck starts moving faster, I move faster, too. Mom said something about dessert being chocolatecherry mousse, my third-favorite sweet. (The first two are pretty specific, gelato from my favorite gelateria in town and a cinnamon-rosemary cake that my parents bought me one year for my birthday party.) If I’m late, the caterers probably won’t realize that they need to make three servings, not just two. I bite my lip.
I’m about two minutes away from my house, and the firetruck is still ahead of me. All of the flashing lights and blaring noises are distracting me.
Suddenly, a deer runs in front of my car. It’s large, cloaked in shadows, and, juxtaposed against the red lights, looks like a four-legged demon. I scream and slam on the brakes. My car jolts to a stop, almost giving me whiplash. The car behind me hits the back bumper, then, like a total jerk, drives away quickly. Sputtering noises come from the back of the car.
“Come ON!” I jump out of the driver’s seat and stare at the car driving into the distance. I couldn’t even see its license plate.
“Oh, no,” I mutter to myself, climbing around to the back of the car. It looks…bad. From what I can tell, both back tires some-
how ended up being punctured, and are slowly sinking. I instinctively grab my phone, but of course, it’s dead.
Breath in, breathe out, I tell myself. It’s not that big of a deal. You’re on the side of the road, alone, with no way of calling for help or getting home. It’s okay.
For a while, I try to flag down other cars, until I realize how bad that could work out if the driver is, say, an ax murderer or a kidnapper. Defeated, I sit on the sit of the road and inspect the tires. It’s bad.
In the distance, I can still hear the sirens. It would be really useful if the fire truck was here now—maybe they could bring me home. Ha, I think, realizing how ridiculous that sounds. They’re off saving someone’s life. They don’t care about your petty problems.
With no other options, I decide to walk home, get help, and come back. I can’t be that far, can I?
I start to walk. Already, I’m exhausted. The sidewalk is bumpy and I keep tripping over gravel. It’s pitch-dark. I can’t see a thing.
Normally, I don’t walk anywhere. Why sweat and get tired over nothing if you can drive yourself or have your chauffeur take you? Earlier, Jeina and I had been making fun of the far, far less privileged girls who walk to school in the morning. Now, I was walking, too.
As I stumbled towards the general direction of my house, I think about our conversation from earlier. It sounds so childish now, talking about the kids who are at our school on scholarship, or whispering about crushes. We thought it was so important. But my priorities at the moment are making it home okay.
Finally, after what feels like hours, I arrive back at my house. Or what used to be my house.
I gape at the smoldering remains of the big mansion that
I’ve lived in all my life. My parents stand on the lawn. My father is in a 3-piece suit and my mother is wearing a new cocktail dress. Clearly, they’re just as surprised as I am.
“Mom! Dad! What happened?” I race over to them, tears already running down my face. “OhmygoshIwalkedbackbecause mycarbrokedownand—”
I stop and realize the depth of this.
Our house, all of our belongings, my stuffed animals from when I was a child, my diary, all of my parents’ savings, which we kept in the attic, that one painting by a famous artist I could never remember the name of but always enjoyed—all gone, submerged by flames. Our lives, thrown into a bonfire.
We can’t buy our way out of this problem. Suddenly, I feel the need to get anywhere, anywhere away from this once-house that now is a house no longer. I start walking, briskly, past the burning forest that surrounds my home, through our driveway, past the garage. My parents don’t stop me. I walk past my parents’ car. An overwhelming feeling of fear, one that I’ve never felt before, envelopes me. I walk through our neatly manicured lawn and right off our property, pausing only once to see the Beverly Hills Fire Department, Engine #3 attempting to douse out the flames.
Digital photograph
Grade 8
JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
Michael Toolan 42:1
Michael Toolan Dappled Cliffs
Digital photograph
Grade 8
Mully’s Sylvia Barbuto Grade 7
(after the opening line of Stephen Graham Jones’ Night of Mannequins)
So Shanna got a new job at Mully’s, we thought we’d play a fun prank on her, and now most of us are dead, and I’m starting to feel kind of guilty about it all.
Shanna and I have been best friends for the last six years, ever since third grade. I only wanted one thing in high school, which was a boyfriend. Yes, I know it’s very cliche, but it’s what I wanted. It’s not like I’m an academic star - my grades are practically falling down the drain. The problem is that the only guy who talks to me is Logan, who I’m pretty sure doesn’t like me that way (I’m like 90% sure he’s gay). So I figured I would try to be popular and see if that helped. Shanna did not agree with this plan; she just wanted to get into a good school. Boring and basic, but that’s part of why we love her.
The popular kids at Westfield High were Nicole, Anna, Xander, Ivy, and Oliver. Five people, which is an odd number, and super unhelpful, I thought. They need me to make it even, There was one ticket to popularity at Westfield - the Halloween party. If I get invited, I’ll be set for life (or, you know, at least the last three years while I avoid conversations about college with my parents).
To be popular you have to be confident, right? Shanna was talking about something. A job? I wasn’t paying attention. I was looking at all the popular kids at their table laughing.
“Kate? Kate! Are you listening?” Shanna asked.
“I’m sorry, Shanna! I was thinking about being super confident!” and just then I stood up and walked over to the popular kid’s table.
“Hi! I’m Kate, but you know you could call me... uh.. Kay? Whatever, can I please come to your party?” I choked. That was so humiliating. To make it even better they all started to laugh.
“Fine. You can come but... the party is super scary and you have to prove that you can handle it. I want you to do the scariest prank you can think of on her.”
Nicole with a sly grin on her face pointed directly at Shanna.
“That’s my best friend!” I exclaimed.
“Good! You know what scares her,” said Xander.
Now, if you thought that I was gonna make the right decision and tell them no, you’d be very wrong. Hear me out, though. All I was going to do was go to Shanna’s job, make her go through the house, and then pay the workers a little extra to convince Shanna that she’s trapped for like fifteen minutes. Easy, right? What’s the worst that could happen?
“Ok fine, you’re on, Nicole! Meet me on Sunday, all of you, at 6pm. We’re gonna go to Mully’s Haunted House.”
This was gonna be the best prank ever, and I was going to finally be with the popular crowd. Shanna wouldn’t mind.
Right?
Everyone showed up on Sunday, and I also invited Logan. He seemed a little... off.
“Hey, are you good? It’s just Mully’s, no need to be scared.”
“Scared? The only thing I’m scared of is you. You’re about to prank your best friend just so you become popular? Why? What are you trying to prove?”
“Look, I promise I’ll invite you to the party. But I told you why I’m doing this, so if you weren’t okay with pranking Shanna, why are you here?”
“Because I’m the only responsible one - someone needs to make sure this doesn’t get out of hand!”
“They are totally responsible!” I shot back, waving my arm behind me to indicate the popular kids.
As Logan and I turned, Xander and Oliver started lauging uncontrollably while undressing a fake skeleton.
“Well… sometimes...” I began to cry a little. What was I doing? Was Logan right? Was any of this worth it? Sure, Shanna would be fine, but was I being an idiot just because of a stupid backup plan to being boyfriendless?
“Come on Kay! Let’s see what you’ve got in store!”
It was Anna. There’s no going back now.
Shanna greeted us with a friendly smile at the front desk, unaware of what was about to unfold.
“Come join us, Shanna! You deserve a break!” Oliver cheerfully said.
“You want me to join you guys?” Shanna blinked in disbelief.
“Of course we do,” Anna said, and then burst into laughter, which set the rest of them giggling as well. Shanna gave me a skeptical look, but followed us in.
As the group entered Mully’s, the air grew colder, and eerie whispers echoed through the house. I tried to hide my nervousness and led the way, Logan and Shanna following the popular kids after me. The winding hallways of the haunted house were filled with the typical shlocky horror scenes, each one a little more gruesome than the last. Fake monsters leaped outand spooky sounds filled the air.
We ventured deeper into the haunted house. Shanna seemed to relax, and was pretty oblivious - she seemed to have no idea about what was in store for her. Right on cue, the workers at Mully’s, who were in on the prank, blocked the way ahead of us. We turned around, and Shanna started leading us back, but the workers again played their roles convincingly, blocking her path and making Shanna believe that she was trapped in a never-ending maze of horrors.
After pushing and pulling at the workers, trying to get them to stop, and being egged on by the rest of us pretending to be trapped, the tension reached its peak, and Shanna’s fear turned to panic. She screamed for help, her voice echoing through the haunted house. The others watched in anticipation,
and I could see that Anna and Oliver were exchanging guilty glances.
Right as I was about to call it off (and I swear I was about to), something unexpected happened. As Shanna continued to scream, Mully’s darkened somehow and the air got even colder. The monsters on the edge of the path started to seem eerily lifelike, and the whispers grew louder and really didn’t seem like a recording anymore.
Panic spread among the group.
Anna, always the bravest of the popular crowd, went to bang on the door to try to get the workers to free us, but as she reached out, something in the darkness grabbed her arm and dragged Nicole, who was nearby, through a wall. We heard two screams, and the others rushed forward to help, but it was no use.
Oliver was the next to lose to the haunted house.
“Yeah! So scary! Try me!”
A ghostly figure emerged from the shadows, and with a ghastly howl, it dragged him away into the darkness.
Chaos erupted as the group scattered in different directions, trying to escape whatever this had turned into. I found myself separated from the others. As the rest of the others navigated through Mully’s twisted passages, we encountered nightmarish creatures and ghostly apparitions at every turn.
Xander and Ivy, desperate to escape, stumbled into a room that seemed to have no exit. The walls closed in on them, and their screams filled the air as they were swallowed by Mully’s weird magic.
Meanwhile, I finally reunited with Shanna and Logan, who were trembling with fear. I apologized profusely for the prank (and clearly this wasn’t my fault this would have happened to anyone, right?). The haunted house seemed to feed on their guilt and fear, making the terror even more unbearable.
With trembling hands, I managed to find an emergency exit and burst out into the night. Mully’s, once filled with eerie whispers and sinister laughter, fell silent. It was as if it had consumed the souls of those who dared to play with its dark powers.
As soon as we left the shadow of Mully’s, I raced to the nearest worker and punched him in the nose.
“What the heck!?” he said.
“Yeah - what the heck!? This was supposed to be a prank, not an abduction? What is wrong with you guys!?”
“Girl, I have no idea what you’re talking about. What prank?” the confused worker asked, holding his bleeding nose. It was at that moment that Logan, Shanna, and I realized that there was something deeply wrong.
Each of us pulled out our phones and started blowing up the police switchboards. Cops and ambulances arrived shortly thereafter and combed through Mully’s. But they didn’t find any bodies. It was clear that we were the only survivors of the night.
As we recounted the specifics to the detectives, I realized how stupid I was for all of this. I wanted to be popular, and now I somehow got kids killed. I didn’t even like them - I just wanted to be liked. I should have been more appreicative of what I did have, because every person I needed was right in front of me (minus Nicole - I meant Logan and Shanna).
I reached out to hold the hands of my two best friends, but I felt a chill icier than what I experienced inside Mully’s. Logan pulled Shanna away from me, and the look on Shanna’s face almost killed me as dead as those popular kids.
“This is all your fault,” Shanna said. And that was the last time either Shanna or Logan ever spoke to me.
Once the story came out, I guess I did get a little popular as a murder suspect. I was questioned and interviewed on TV. No one every discovered exactly what happend at Mully’s, but I carried the guilt of my actions for the rest of my lonely life.
Autumn Starts, September
Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 7
Autumn starts, September
The trees are green still, a remnant of summer leftovers.
Pumpkin spice is pumpkin-spiced until everyone gets sick of pumpkin spice and can’t stand it anymore.
Loud, attention-seeking October appears, forcing trees to turn bright colors. Kids run around encostumed before October is swallowed by quiet gray shades of November.
The trees are bare and the leaves crunchy beneath feet.
Apple pie, turkey, football, and Pumpkin spice makes a comeback on the dessert table. One Night Only; Leftovers for weeks.
And then December’s winter begins.
JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
Reya Halper Umbrella Ghost Pen, pastel, and watercolor
Grade 7
Funeral Garden
Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 7
I’m in the garden. It’s winter, bleak, and all of the happy flowers look like corpses. It’s sunny though, and a peaceful break.
Several lonely pallbearer dandelion stems strewn randomly around the flowers have, oddly enough, a spiderweb suspended between them.
I only see it for half a second before the angle is wrong and the sun has moved on, to highlight other things.
The spiderweb is there for only a second, even though I know it hasn’t moved an inch. Visible for a moment, but only when the sun wants it to be.
The Plane Passes Oola Breen-Ryan
Grade 7
The plane passes overhead. It’s dark, and the lights look like fireflies, awake.
Creatures of the night, they glow fluorescent popsicles on blacktop sky.
Tall buildings, crowded streets, the problems and issues of a million people— none are visible from here,
Only the glowing lights.
Everett Spinner Space Marker and pen Grade 7
Alegria Rojas
Number the Stars
Digital photograph
Grade 7
JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
Dreaming
Sierra Iacovella Grade 7
Those moments Under stars
No longer conscious Trying to make sense
Of what we are too naive to accept. Lucidity creates perfection, Flight to the starry universe, Free.
I dream of all the things I regret, All those moments I wish would reverse course. Like the heavens, spinning. I dream of what should happen, Perfect fantasies, laughs and smiles. I dream of fear, And those things that bring shocking tears. I dream of you, Even though I’ve heard you’re slipping away, I dream of you coming back Your hand in mine again one day. I dream of memories.
We wish reality, Or to be awakened gratefully to reality.
Dreaming, The border between fantasy freedoms somewhere else So thin, And most active in the darkness.
The full moon guides us, vivid and full of color. Dreaming.
2024 Pen & Paper
Kaitlyn Mesiya Rainbow Moon Paint and beads
Grade 6
Ashlee Kirk thoughtful Pen and pencil on paper
Grade 6
Scream Grady Pompa
Grade 5
I stared down an endless, shadowed path infested by tall, dark, leafless trees. It was late, and I just wanted to go home. I tried to hurry my tired legs down the path which had leaves strewn across the hard dirt ground, but they refused to obey. I groaned in protest.
“I wish I was faster,” I muttered under my breath, “then maybe I wouldn’t be in this mess.” As I walked down the dark path, gagging on the stench of rotten leaves, I thought about how nasty my situation was. I needed to get medicine for my grandmother who was very ill, frail, and sick in bed. But when I finally got to the old store, all that was there to greet me was a big, fat, CLOSED sign. Sadly, I didn’t have time to head to another pharmacy, so I was left with only one option: to get back before dark. In order to do so, I had to go through the woods. Unluckily for me, these woods were not any ordinary woods. In fact, the oldtimers in our town say horrible things about what might be living, or lurking, between the tightlypacked trees. The smell was making me regret this decision, but I didn’t have a choice.
In a couple of minutes, I was surrounded by the thick trees, their long branches stretched out like fingers, each looking as if it was frozen by some strange horror.
Just a little further, I thought to myself. I gritted my teeth and pushed on. After only a few steps, I felt a sense of creeping dread. Sweat dripped down my tired face, and I knew I had to stop - if only to take a few deep breaths and calm down. As I slumped down on an old, rotting, tree stump nearby, I decided that there was no way I would be able to see anything through the thick, black darkness ahead. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to make it, and the tiredness in my legs along with the lack of light had my eyelids sagging. Before I could fall asleep, I pushed
myself up to a sitting position and looked around.
It was then that I knew something was watching me.
A horrible noise shattered the quiet of the woods. I sprang up looking around. The sun was just coming up.
I must have fallen asleep, I realized. But there wasn’t time to think, because of that noise I knew something had followed me. I looked around and the only thing I could see were the endless rows of trees.
Maybe it was nothing, I prayed. Leaves crunched under my tired feet as I walked in a circle around the area.
I can’t see anything, that’s good I thought with relief. Suddenly, the birds stopped chirping, the insects stopped buzzing, even the wind seemed to hold its breath; it was as if the woods knew there was something to hide from. A few tense moments passed. Then a noise sounding like a thousand screams pounded my eardrums. This time I didn’t stop and look around, I was off and running in a beat.
The trees seem empty, I thought. However, I kept running, I was still terrified by the noise. After a while my lungs started to yell at me and I stopped. Gasping with breath I looked around, then I saw him, a beast perched on top of the nearest tree that looked like it was made of dark black shadows with two red-hot holes which were where the eyes should be. Then the beast lurched forward and darted towards me. I told my legs to sprint harder (they did not like this one bit) but I saw the beast gaining on me. I saw his glowing red eyes, the immense evil he contained, but most of all I saw that I was doomed.
I crashed hard to the ground in a heap, and my knee screamed in pain.
Stupid root, I thought, now I’m dead for sure. I scrambled to my feet and saw the shadow beast advancing on me. I was now close enough to see the beast more easily and it wasn’t pretty, thick black smoke made up his limbs, and his eyes were like burning embers staring right down my soul.
“Get away from me,” I yelled with all my remaining strength.
The beast growled as he fixed his horrible eyes upon my body. I tightly curled in my fists but inside I knew it wouldn’t be any use. Soon, after a horrible moment of silence, the beast attacked - ts limbs outstretched, each one trying to pierce my heart. I forgot about fighting and tried to run, but I found I couldn’t.
I was frozen in fear.
I heard the sound again, but this time, to my horror, it was coming from my own mouth.
Barely a second later, the pain had set in and everything had gone black.
So mark my words, be careful where you step, or your scream will be heard for centuries to come.
Ashlee Kirk
Hand-Eye Coordination
Colored pencil and pastel
Grade 6
Reya Halper
Dreamweaver
Pen, pencil, beads, glue, and paper
Grade 7
Just a Floating Feeling
Ellie Mae Sullivan Grade 5
Soft and wavy, like silk
Clear, as crystal
Foggy, a distant memory
Singing, dancing animals
Thick, black smoke
Tingling, the senses
Animals drop down cold or turn to stone
You scream but it doesn’t come out
Just an empty rasp
The smoke clears
But horror still lies adrift on the wind
Awake in a sea of cold sweat
Trying to recall what happened
But you can’t quite touch it
You slumber again
This time on the back of a glistening unicorn
You soar
Over mountains, moons, and worlds
This time no sea, no shaking
Just a floating feeling
All horror forgotten
Just a floating feeling
Grade 6
Edison Davidowitz and Olivia Weatherly
Barbie Dream
Stop-motion video
Grade 6
Zaheera McDowell, Alexandra Murphy, & Gemma Pitts
Football Dreams
Stop-motion video
Spring in Metal Pastels
Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 7
A yellow foil balloon drifts through the bright, otherwise sickly-sweet spring sky, faded letters spelling out “Happy Birthday, Claire” The once bright red words have faded to a soft pink, and they almost match the light blue atmosphere, both muted, cloudy, pastel.
I wonder who Claire is, and how happy her birthday really was if she wasn’t even able to save the balloon.
Nothing for miles around except the light green grass and the wastewater treatment plant. It would be peaceful, but nobody’s at the plant –lunch break or day off, maybe? –so it just looks abandoned.
I wonder if the balloon will pop, if it will crash into a plane or bird, or if it will just keep bobbing through the air until it’s gone.
Alegria Rojas
Digital photograph
Grade 8
JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
Michael Toolan PINK
Colors and Feelings
Grady Pompa Grade 5
Alaric trudged upstairs, his mind a swirling mess of colors and feelings, and his body stressed and worn. Mom had sentenced him to an early bedtime after he had broken his baby sister’s favorite toy.
Kauai deserved it, he grumbled to himself. She had been yelling and screaming all day, and besides it was only a doll with a missing eye.
He had explained this to his mom, but she was having none of it. Instead, she had told him to go to his room and think about what he had done. Typical. Adult. Behavior.
Alaric clicked open the door to his room and collapsed onto his bed. He didn’t really mind the punishment other than there was nothing to do. His room didn’t have many toys in it other than some beat-up action figures and a couple of video games with which he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to play. With a soft thump, he fell down on his bed and closed his eyes.
He tried to fall asleep, but it was a struggle since he wasn’t tired. But that’s what you get for being sent to your room. By the time he had counted the one-thousandth-forty-six sheep, his mind finally took a dip in the freezing waters of slumber.
Alaric landed in the middle of a chess board, the sixty-four squares rapidly changing color. In front of him were the black pieces, many times their usual size. They flashed and changed to green, then to white, and then to red before transforming to black again. As they kaleidoscoped disorientingly through the rainbow, a giant bishop hurtled over the board at a breakneck speed, toward him.
Alaric barely dodged, the now-yellow plastic grazing his shoulder. He looked around frantically for a way to escape from
this rainbow nerdy nightmare, but the end of the board seemed miles away. He was about to scream, but before the sound could exit his gaping mouth, a gigantic figure appeared before him. It was a broken doll. A button eye hung ten feet from its socket, and stuffing was bursting out of its stomach. Alaric realized with horror what it was, and his breath froze in his throat.
Before he could run or shout, the middle of the chess board collapsed into a giant vortex and the pieces started swirling to the center, to where Alaric could see no more. Then his foot slipped on the slick plastic and the immense pull of gravity yanked him down. He tried to grasp onto anything nearby, but his hands slapped and clawed at slick plastic without finding purchase. As he hit the center, he disappeared around a bend in a tunnel that had appeared and lost both sight of the entrance and consciousness.
When Alaric came to, he found himself in a forest of giant, purple, jungle trees with limb-like branches that scraped the sky. He looked around tense, half expecting something to attack him. After realizing nothing was there but his own paranoia, he stopped and slumped to the ground. He tried to orient himself for a few minutes until a sharp sound rang out and battered his eardrums.
Alaric froze.
Then the sound rang out again, but this time he listened closely. It sounded strangely like sobbing. Inhaling sharply and hardly believing what he was doing, he groped through the vines that surrounded the giant trees, and stumbled toward the wailing.
Alaric’s shoulders grew more tense as he approached the sound. The noise seemed to come from a substantial source, and whether or not it would hurt him remained to be seen. But it was the only clue toward getting out of his current situation. Alaric continued forward until he thought he had almost reach-
ed the source.
There he rested until he stopped panting and began to think about the situation. He was about fifty feet from his intented quary, and he could already tell that this thing was huge. It sounded like the creature - or whatever it was - had vocal cords the size of a whale, and a mouth to fit.
Despite his fear, he kept moving, desperate to find a way out of this jungle. He pushed through the vines and underbrush, and stepped out into the giant clearing.
Alaric gasped.
There was a creature in the clearing. It was sitting down and even then it rose about twenty feet in the air. It had spikes along the ridge of its spine, and its stature somewhat resembled a gorilla. Then the creature opened its mouth and another wail came shooting out of its mouth. In most circumstances, Alaric would have run away immediately, but he felt a strange connection to this creature, as if it needed him, or he it. Alaric took two strides forward before he stopped, ducking backward, as the creature’s claws raked the ground aggressively before it, turning up mounds of fresh soil.
Alaric’s eyes widened as he took another step back. He didn’t know what he had done. Slowly the creature’s head turned, and Alaric saw a familiar face. There was the button eye hanging from the socket. There was the stuffing oozing out of its stomach. Alaric felt sick.
What have I done?
Alaric woke up with a start. It was the middle of the night, but he knew what he had to do. He grabbed a needle and thread from his desk and then squeaked open his door and stepped out into the hallway. His eyes landed on his sister’s room, and he quickly dodged the creaky floorboards as he tiptoed closer.
When he finally rested his hand on Kauai’s doorknob. The door swung open and Alaric stepped inside.
There was his sister Kauai in her crib. There were her tiny fingers grasping for something to hold. No, not something. Her favorite doll that Alaric had destroyed in a fit of rage the night before. She was crying in her sleep, and, he imagined, hoping. Praying. What meant so much to her was now broken, and what was a friend was now gone. And it was his fault. There, tossed in a corner, was the doll, looking even worse than he remembered. His eyes traced bits of stuffing around Kauai’s room. It seemed like a million pieces in a million places. Disaster.
Gulping back tears at his own wrongdoing, Alaric got to work.
Alaric awoke bone-tired the next morning to the shrill, yet joyful, shouts Kauai was making. She’d found the doll. He knew Kauai might be a monster of a little sister today, as she was most days, but he smiled and tried to roll over to get a few more moments of peace before that happened.
Two Rivers of Light
Virginia Murphy
Digital photograph
Grade 8
Oola Breen-Ryan
Pigeon Cameo
Digital photograph
Grade 7
100 JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
Vanishing Dream
Grady Pompa Grade 5
Kian stared out of his apartment window. He gazed around the shabby room and wished again that his mom got home earlier. She worked as a physician, and when dad and she divorced, she had to be in the office for extended periods of time to support them. It wasn’t her fault, but it didn’t help anything that school wasn’t working well for him. He had no friends, and his grades stunk.
Kian sighed (it had sort of become a habit these days) and looked around the room trying to find something to do. Everything seemed to be so gray and dark. Finding nothing of interest, he sighed again and trudged slowly out of the apartment, through the lobby, and into the street. He looked around and did his best to focus on something that wasn’t so gray, sad, and depressing (he had enough of that inside his own head). He wasn’t used to the city yet, but when dad left, he and his mom had to relocate. Again, it wasn’t her fault, but he definitely wasn’t coping well. Failing to find anything to brighten his spirits, Kian slumped to the ground in defeat and rested his back against the hard concrete behind him.
Then his hand brushed against something. He turned to look. It was something green. A few leaves barely attached to a just-visible stem. That was all. It was there all alone, looking half-dead, and yet it had somehow survived. It had managed to find a centimeter of dirt in a crevice in the sidewalk and had sprouted. It was just a seedling, yet it felt essential to Kian. If this seedling had managed to bud against all odd, then he knew that he could too.
Each day after this, Kian protected the plant. He watered it, gave it fresh soil and did everything he could to nourish it. In
return, the plant grew. It strengthened its roots, spread out its leaves, and then, it bloomed - right there in the sidewalk. It was a beautiful plant with saffron yellow petals stretching out as if it were greeting the sun every morning. And as the plant got healthier, so too did Kian. He made more friends at school, and was able to cope with the long streches of alone time at home.
Two months later, Kian lay on his bed with a smile on his face when he heard the door bang open. He sprang up from bed and hurtled down the stairs, super excited to greet his mom. Yet the face that met him was not a cheerful one. She dropped her things down on the kitchen counter, saw Kian, and winced. Kian, like all kids, knew that when parents wince, it’s rarely good news. Especially when they wince at you.
“Kian, we need to talk,” Mom declared heavily. Kian braced himself, this would not be good. “I don’t know how else to say this, so I’m just going to say it. I lost my job.”
It hit Kian so suddenly that he felt like he had lost his voice. He didn’t know what to think, let alone say. Now they would have to move again away from his new friends, away from his beautiful yellow flower, away from his hope.
Kian felt his eyes burning with tears, and he turned away and ran out of the apartment. He ran to find his plant, his little rainbow of hope, but he also ran to escape his troubles and the darkness that he felt pursuing him. He sprinted down the steps, ignoring the cries of his mother. He darted through the lobby, feeling the many awkward stares glancing off his back. In a flash, he rounded the corner and looked right at what he knew would help him feel just a little bit better.
But the sidewalk was being repaved. There was no more plant. All he saw was a single saffron petal. He reached down and picked it up and held it against his chest, tears streaming down his face. He breathed deeply and held onto this last bit of hope one final time.
Foster Emily Toolan Grade 8
September 5, 2015
Age 6
I waited patiently for my mom as raindrops pattered on the field. The rain went from a drizzle to a downpour, but I didn’t see her car. Even after all oft he other kids got picked up. I kicked around my soccer ball, waiting. After an hour, I looked around the empty, wet field, and slowly began to cry. My heart ached, despite being used to my mom being late. This was worse than the last time she didn’t come, and I had to walk home to be greeted by an empty house. At the soccer field, I was too far away to walk home, and I didn’t know what to do. Where was she? Why wasn’t she there when I needed her?
December 23, 2023
Age 14
Memories with my mom are all so hazy. I try to recall the good ones, but sometimes I only think about that last timethe rain and the empty field and the crippling sadness and fear. When I’m able to, I think of the one time she brought me out to ice cream. She got chocolate and I got vanilla. I close my eyes, trying to think of more, but that’s it. Just the two flavors and that’s the only good memory I can think of. I’ll hold onto it, though, even if I get angry sometimes that it felt like she barely tried to be a good mom. Even if her absence and the anger I feel is overwhelming. I never wanted to upset her. I tried. And still it seemed like I always did.
I feel my wet cheeks; I hadn’t noticed I was crying. I was put into the foster care system after that rainy day. They told me it was because my mom “couldn’t take care of me” anymore. I
don’t know if she wasn’t able to, that sounded like an excuse. It’s always seemed to me like she didn’t want to. And so, I was torn away from the only home I’d ever known. And tossed around from foster home to foster home - some of them okay, but so many of them worse than I let anyone know. My heart hurts thinking of all the times where I felt like I didn’t belong. I don’t expect it anymore - not at fourteen. But still, in my most hopeful moments, I long for something permanent. I want to be with parents - with a family - who want me around.
I hear Mrs. Smith’s cheery voice calling for me. It’s dinner time. I have been at the Smiths’ house for a while now. I think around a year. They are nice people, but I still struggle to feel like I belong. The Smiths do so much for me. In the first couple of weeks I was here, after I settled in, they took me to a water park. I’d put that on a list of things that little kids do, so I was planning on smiling through the boredom, but... it was fun? When we got there, I felt a sense of joy. They let me go on whatever slides I wanted, including the super fast ones that spit you out at like sixty miles an hour. And I could eat whatever I wanted (that’s not something you get to do a lot of as a foster kid), and run. No one was hounding me to behave correctly, and for the first time in a while, I could breathe a little. It was freedom, and all I wanted to do with my freedom was spend time with people who love me, and I was glad that the Smiths were there.
I think I love the Smiths. I look out my window, and see the crystal clear pool in their backyard, and I think of all the memories I have with water. That rainy day. That water park visit. And I can’t help but hope, even just for a little bit, that maybe the Smiths want me around a little longer. My heart drops, though, when the voice in my head that I’ve trained to tell me the reminds me: they aren’t your parents, Lila. This time
at the Smith’s may not be permanent.
I walk downstairs, and the smell of garlic bread fills the air. It’s my favorite, even though it’s simple. Spaghetti and garlic brea, but mostly the garlic bread. I sit down and look at Mr. and Mrs. Smith as I reach for the bread. They’re looking at each other, and then back at me.
My hand stops in midair, and I take inhale sharply.
I’ve had this happen before. The foster family makes your favorite meal and then tells you that you’re moving on to a new home. They have a baby coming or you’re too much work or some other excuse. (Spaghetti and garlic bread wasn’t always my favorite, but I can’t bring myself to eat steak or fried chicken after the last two times this exact thing happened.)
I drop my hand and look down at my feet, not wanting to meet their eyes only to hear that I’m not good enough or that one day I’ll find my forever family.
“Lila…” Mrs. Smith starts to say. My heart starts to race. I sink down in my seat. The thought of having to leave and go to another family is too much, and a single tear streaks across my face. I want to wipe it away, but my hand won’t move. It’s happening again.
Mr. Smith clears his throat and says what I was least expecting, but most wanting to hear.
“We’d like to adopt you, Lila.”
Iacovella
The Woods
Theodore Adamson Grade 6
John was taking a late night stroll in the woods, on a dark, stormy night. He could hear the beating of bats wings as they flew around in the vast sky of darkness. He could feel his long, smooth brown locks flying behind him in the wind.
As he was walking he saw a little child of about six. That’s odd, thought John. What is a child doing in the woods on a night like this?
As the child got closer and closer he realized that not only was this child alone, it also didn’t have anything to shield it from the rain.
Finally John asked “What are you doing out here on a rainy night like this?”
I am lost,” the little boy rasped. So John decided to take this kid to his small, lonely house on the other side of the woods. As they got back to John’s house the boy asked “May I come in?”
“Of course,” said John,“ You don’t need to ask, you know.”
“Yes I do,” said the boy.
John showed the little boy to his room in the attic and then gave him fresh new clothes. As John was putting the boy to sleep he felt a tingle up his spine but he simply ignored it and went to his bedroom down on the first floor.
As John was getting into bed he heard a vicious cackle coming from the attic. John went upstairs to investigate but all he found was the boy sleeping deeply. He must be tired, thought John as he quietly tiptoed to his bedroom.
Later that night John felt another tingle up his spine.
Maybe I will go and see the doctor tomorrow, John thought.
If you live! a voice said loudly in his head. “
“I must be going crazy!” John said aloud. After lying in his bed for a while, wondering about the voice, and thinking and
thinking he eventually fell asleep.
The next day as John woke he realized that he had never asked the boy his name. So he quickly went down to the breakfast table and found the boy waiting there.
“So,” said John, “ what is your name?”
“May I have some food?” the boy asked, completely ignoring the question. John turned to grab the boy some fruit, but when he turned around he found the boy’s seat empty.
Where did he go now? thought John. Then he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his neck, and the light started to dim.
“My name is Pokol. Pokol son of Count Dracula. Thank you for inviting me in. Your hospitality is... delicious.”
Then everything was black.
It was at about one in the morning the next day when the neighbors woke to find a child of about six wandering in the woods outside their house. Feeling extremely bad they asked “What are you doing out here on a rainy night like this?” “I am lost,” the little boy rasped.
Oola Breen-Ryan
Galway City
Digital photograph
Grade 7
110 JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
Grade 6
Ashlee Kirk
I Am the Great Big Mouth Marker, paint pen, pen
Everett Spinner
Droplets of Sun
Digital photograph
Grade 7
112 JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
A Diamond of Hope
Grady Pompa Grade 5
The wind whistled fiercely around Jay-Jay threatening to rip him into the sky.
“Come on Ánemos,” Jay-Jay hollered to the old Husky behind him, “we’re almost there!” Ánemos was Jay-Jay’s greatest friend, who was named after the Greek word for wind. Jay-Jay loved her.
Jay-Jay glanced up, and all he could see was the blinding masses of falling snow. His back hurt, the weight of the groceries piled behind him was immense. His grandfather had told him to take Ánemos nd get food from Ms. Lewis in town. But unfortunately, just as they started the treacherous hike back up the mountain, the sky started to fill with snow, and they were now stuck in the worst of it.
Ten minutes later, they hadn’t made much headway, and the storm wasn’t easing up at all. Then Jay-Jay stopped with a start. There was a great mound covered in snow a hundred meters away from them.
That’s weird, Jay-Jay thought. I don’t remember that on the way down.
All of a sudden the humongous mound lurched forward and shot towards Ánemos and Jay-Jay with terrifying speed.
“Avalanche!” Jay-Jay yelled, and took off sprinting down the mountain.
“Ánemos run!” Jay-Jay shrieked. Ánemos hesitated for a second and then darted after Jay-Jay.
The avalanche roared closer and closer to Ánemos and Jay-Jay, no matter how hard they pushed themselves. They couldn’t escape it or get out of its path.
Then Jay-Jay fell over a jagged snowbank and tumbled to
the snow-covered ground, rolling over multiple times before being completely enveloped by the endless snow.
Jay-Jay woke up with a throbbing headache. He looked around and found he was on a small cot.
Grandfather must’ve found me, Jay–Jay realized. He tried to get up, but his headache soared from a throb to a searing pain. He let out a yelp and fell back to the safety of his cot.
“Are you okay? an aged voice asked.
“I’m okay, Grandfather,” Jay-Jay answered, “Ánemos and I were stuck in a snowstorm, and I think I lost the food.”
“Don’t worry about the food Jay-Jay,” Grandfather reassured him, I’m more concerned about Ánemos. I couldn’t find her.”
Jay-Jay gasped with horror. “I’ll go look for her now!”
“No Jay-Jay,” Grandfather exclaimed. “I barely made it back with you the first time, and you’re still recovering.”
Jay-Jay knew nothing could change Grandfather’s mind, so he slumped down into his cot in defeat. He couldn’t lose Ánemos - she was his best friend, his happiness! Hot tears welled up in his eyes. His friends had always said that boys weren’t allowed to cry, but he never understood that rule and definitely wasn’t going to follow it now. So Jay-Jay buried his face in his pillow and started to sob.
Later, Jay-Jay lay in his cot, his eyes wide open staring at the blank ceiling above, not able to think about anything else.
Soft footsteps pounded on the old wood floor. A door creaked. Then Jay-Jay’s warm shoes crunched on the deep snow. The blizzard was still howling with anger, but Jay-Jay just knew he was going to find her. He looked all over; he dug into the deep snow, looked behind snow banks, he looked everywhere. But no Ánemos.
Then out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the fur of an old gray dog! Jay-Jay sprinted over, trying not to fall into the cold,
frozen, snow beneath him.
“Ánemos wake up!” he shouted, pushing at the Husky’s body. Nothing.
“Ánemos?” Jay-Jay tried again. Still nothing.
“No!”
Jay-Jay cried and burst into tears. Ánemos was gone. JayJay raced into his grandfather’s hut and stormed up to his room. He felt like his happiness was gone forever. He felt broken and empty inside. He was lost.
Three dull knocks pounded on the door of Jay-Jay’s room. Jay-Jay said nothing. Grandfather came in anyway. Jay-Jay turned away, expecting a scolding for being out in the snow against Grandfather’s wishes. To his surprise, it never came.
“I’m sorry Jay-Jay,” said Grandfather softly. Jay-Jay stayed still staring out the window of his room. Finally, he spoke.
“After my parents died,” Jay-Jay began, “Ánemos was all I had left, and now she is gone too.”
“I know, Jay-Jay” Grandfather answered, “And I know it won’t help the hurt, but I have a surprise for you if you come with me.”
Jay-Jay got up half heartedly, he felt nothing could heal his heart now.
“Come on,” Grandfather said. They walked slowly through the small hut. When they got close to the kitchen, Grandfather stopped.
“It seems Ánemos had an attachment she didn’t tell us about, “ Grandfather said slyly.
“An attachment?” Jay-Jay asked. Grandfather didn’t answer. He just opened the door to their small kitchen, walked inside, and presented Jay-Jay with a little bundle of mewling fur.
“This is Ánemos’s pup,” Grandfather said, “the father died soon after it was born and now the pup has no parents.” Grandfather handed the pup to Jay-Jay, and Jay-Jay held her carefully in his arms. He wished the moment would never end.
An orphan, Jay-Jay thought with wonder, just like me.
Digital photograph
Grade 7
JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
Alegria Rojas Baubles
Half-moment Oola Breen-Ryan
Grade 7
There’s always that half moment of believing after you wake up, when the improbable things that happened feel more probable than anything that has ever happened to you in real life.
Maybe it was a fever dream, and you feel disoriented and strange. Maybe it was a nightmare, and your first instinct is to check if you’re still alive. Maybe it was something in between.
Dreams are a patchwork of reality. They’re like a quilt of memories and emotions and feelings and desires that you can’t understand while you’re still awake.
Oola Breen-Ryan
Digital photograph
Grade 7
The Attic
Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 7
The stairs creaked as I set aside a pile of boxes filled with dusty, old files. The attic was cluttered with cardboard boxes of all shapes and sizes, illuminated by a single, magenta-colored lightbulb hanging precariously from the ceiling. I had been in here since 6:30 that morning, getting rid of anything that we could sell or give away. My family was planning on hosting a yard sale later that week before we moved to our new house in Minnesota. I wasn’t excited about the move, but my sister had gotten into a fancy boarding school in Minneapolis, so my parents wanted to be closer to her, and that meant moving out of Indiana.
The stairs creaked again. Huh. Maybe my sister was coming to tell me that she needed me to crush a “colossal” spider in her room again, which would then prove to be roughly the size of a dust speck. Or maybe my parents had brought up lunch for me. Either way, I didn’t want to be disturbed—I was so close to finishing packing up everything.
I opened the final box, which was coated in a fine layer of cobwebs. The tape on it was thin and broke without me even having to use scissors. That was weird—my parents never used less than five layers of heavy-duty packing tape on any box. Maybe it was from a previous owner of the house? Creak, went the stairs.
Inside the box was another box. This one was sealed with… brown envelope wax? The seal broke open when I tapped it. The material that had been used to close it was sticky and the color of rust, brown at first sight but redder at a deeper glance. As I removed the top of the second box, my finger caught on the cardboard side, and a raindrop of blood landed on the faded box cover.
I pulled an ornate porcelain sculpture of a house out of the box. It looked surprisingly like my house, tall, with a wide balcony. The only splash of color was a red door—just like the door on my home. This is cute, I thought. One of my parents must have made it, or maybe it was a housewarming gift.
Grabbing my phone, I snapped a picture of the house. Maybe I could give it to one of my younger neighbors, and they could use it as a dollhouse. Did it open? I felt around the door, where hinges met. Curious, I pulled open the door and tried not to gasp. Creak.
While the outside had been pretty and artistic, the inside looked like something out of a dystopian movie. A giant red abyss filled the space, overtaking everything, even the window spaces. As I stared into it, a crushing migraine developed in my head. What was this?
I could hear the real attic door opening, but I was too busy staring at the dollhouse thing. It was like a black hole, sucking in everything around it. My heart thumped in my chest.
I noticed that the blood that had spilled on the box earlier was now dry. It looked exactly like the strange material that sealed the box. Something wasn’t right. I turned around and screamed.
The doorway of the attic was filled with the same crimson nothingness from the miniature house I was holding in my trembling hands. It rushed through the room like dry molasses, washing away the boxes I had stacked so neatly and coating the piles of give-away books. It slowly filled the room until it was up to my knees, then my thighs, then my shoulders. I tried to swim through it, but it was heavy and weighed me down. Soon, the lower half of my head was submerged. I couldn’t scream. The porcelain house drifted away from me through the strange scarlet flour. It crashed through the small, triangular window, and then fell onto the street below, leaving me behind, slowly drowning in the red sand.
Rainy Drive
Digital photograph
Grade 7
122 JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
Vivian Winkelmann
Raindrops
Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 7
Raindrops fall like tears, landing on the window in chaotic circles, twists, and lines. They swirl the light and sky, darkening the ground, each a little mirror, showing the world beyond through liquid glass.
Ines Alexander Next Step
Digital photograph
Grade 7
JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
The Difference Between Good and Bad Oola
Breen-Ryan Grade 7
Jennifer didn’t like labels—there were too many in her life. To everyone else, she was her favorite food or ice cream flavor or enemy’s name. She knew that she lived in a world where labels were what made you special. What if she hadn’t been a human?
Jennifer ate lunch alone in the math room, even though she knew Emma, her best friend, wanted them to sit together. She knew that Jennifer loved the movie “Clueless”. Jennifer knew that Emma was going to be a bad person. What was the point, anyway?
On the first day of Kindergarten, Jennifer flounced into the room. All of the students had to sit in a circle and say something they knew about the person sitting across from them. None of them had met each other before.
One little girl’s favorite flowers were daffodils and dandelions. Another liked the color blue. One boy who looked like a third grader’s favorite hobby was drawing. When it was Jennifer’s turn, she made up something stupid about the boy across from her (he was five years old?) and prayed that it was true. They were all the same age, so the teacher seemed a little disappointed that Jennifer didn’t have anything more impressive or interesting to show off, but she just nodded curtly. Jennifer could see that the little boy was a good person, but that would open up a whole rabbithole—am I good? Will I be bad?—and she didn’t want to tell most people the truth.
Exactly eight years and two months after her first day of Kindergarten, Jennifer was sitting in the math room when a girl walked in, tears streaking her face.
Jennifer recognized her as Olive, a girl in her grade. Olive was able to see how any person would die and when, a more morbid view than everyone else. She was a good person, though. Most kids in her grade didn’t know that. Jennifer and Olive weren’t friends.
“Hi, Olive,” Jennifer said. There was a mascara streak under her left eye. Olive pulled out her lunch and started eating, silently.
Jennifer could tell immediately if any person was good or bad immediately after meeting them, just like Joel could see a person’s (usually vague) fate, Joy could tell the middle name of any stranger she came across, and Emma knew people’s favorite movies without ever having to talk to them. Nobody really cared; it was just a fun trick that any person could do for an icebreaker or a game of reverse Two Truths and a Lie. Still, it was a thing that loomed over you.
It was also always true.
Jennifer had heard stories about people in other states and countries who could see everything about a person, all at once, but that amount of information usually made a person go mad almost immediately once they were old enough to fully comprehend it.
Most of these views for people were trivial and fun. Then there were people like Jennifer, who knew a person’s moral code from the second she met them, and Olive, who knew how you would die.
Most people’s were the same. They could see your clothing style, favorite season of Gilmore Girls, tiny stuff like that.
Jennifer was halfway done with her sandwich when Olive blurted out, “What do you know about me?”
Jennifer typically didn’t tell people, but Olive wasn’t the type to ask unnecessary questions, and anyway, what was the worst that could happen? “You’re going to be a good person. How am I going to die?”
“Poison,” she said bluntly.
“When?” Jennifer asked.
Olive didn’t answer, and Jennifer fell silent. The ceiling fan grumbled.
“Scientists say that if there’s another world out there, other than ours, they don’t have the sixth sense. The only way they know less-than-surface-level things about other people is by communicating,” Jennifer said out of the blue, a few minutes later. “I mean, we’re humans, but what if there are other humans out there too? Are we smarter than them? Less smart?”
Olive was scrolling on her phone, but she looked up. “Can you tell if you’re a good or bad person? Like, do you know that about yourself?” she asked, ignoring Jennifer’s question. “I know that I’m going to die of natural causes when I’m eighty-five.”
Olive hadn’t answered any of Jennifer’s questions. Two could play at that game. “That sounds like a good life.”
“I mean,” Olive continued, “isn’t the idea of good and bad a little subjective? I mean, who’s telling you what’s wrong and what’s right?”
“Killing people is wrong. Stopping someone from robbing a bank is right.”
“Yeah, but those are inherently good and bad. Everyone makes bad decisions, but whose standards are we adhering to?”
Jennifer hadn’t thought about that.
“God, I don’t know!” she replied with a huff. At that moment, the bell rang, and she started to gather her items. Olive left the room quietly.
Jennifer didn’t look in mirrors, because then she would be reminded of how she was a bad person every time she looked in one.
Sometimes she wondered if her intuition was wrong, but it wasn’t. She could tell. It was always true.
As she left school that day, she thought about what Olive had said about the difference between good and bad. Maybe the reason her brain was telling her that was because she just made a really big mistake but tried to spend the rest of her life making up for it. Maybe it was all some sort of accident. Then again, she highly doubted it.
Digital photograph
Grade 8
130 JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
Emily Toolan The Road Goes Ever On
Road Trip
Sylvia Barbuto Grade 7
“I hate this song,” I said while grabbing a bag of chips.
“No way! I love this song. It’s so catchy,” Emily said as she started to sing along to the radio in the convenience store.
It was April 29, 1983. I was standing in a convenience store, with my best friend, Emily. Emily was electric. She had beautiful huge hair, green emerald eyes, and sun-kissed freckles that covered her whole face. I’d only needed to walk in the store and buy a bag of snacks for our road trip, but of course, Emily is making it a whole adventure.
“Come on, let’s get back. Asher and Ellie are probably waiting for us.” I grabbed my bag of chips and started to walk up to the counter. All of a sudden, I a tap my back, and of course, it was Emily. Her gorgeous green eyes meet mine and I feel my face get red.
“Can we dance?” she said, batting her eyelashes.
“No, that’s weird we’re in the middle of the store. When we get to Sacramento, we can dance there,” I said. “I’m sure there will be a bunch of parties and stuff. Plenty of nonconvenience store weirdo dancing.”
She began to look down at the floor. She looked back at me with puppy dog eyes. I have to admit I cringed, but I didn’t want her to be bummed out for the rest of our trip.
“Quickly, and don’t tell anyone about this. I’m not really a good dancer”, I said and it was true. My mom said I was born with two left feet. I placed my hands on Emily’s and began to spin around the room with her, trying not to trip. She giggled, and pushed her big hair out of her face.
“You’re not too bad, Victor!” Emily lied. Then she teased, “Let me show you how to move, though!” and started to give me
actual real dance instructions as the clerk looked on, trying to hide his laughter. My face got red for an entirely different reason this time.
“Victor and Emily, we have been waiting in the car for twenty minutes,” Ellied hollered from across the room.
I’m saved! I thought. Even though as I let go of Emily’s hands, a deep sense of loss and regret washed over me.
Emily gave me a sour look as if to make it extra clear that I ruined her fun. And... maybe a moment of something else.
I ran to the register to pay for the food and as the clerk was ringing me up, still smirking to himself, Emily tossed a whole King Size Kit-Kat bar on top. She smiled sweetly, and gave me a quick peck on the cheek when I nodded my head before she scampered back off to the car with our friends.
For the rest of the cross-country trip, that convenience store moment keeps playing out in my head over and over and over again. And every time I turn to look at Emily, she meets my gaze with a grin.
This road trip is gonna be fun.
Virginia Murphy She Sells
Digital photograph Grade 8
Alegria Rojas
Bird’s Eye
Adrian Omisore Hateful Arms
Lego box, legos, paint, acrylic
Grade 8
Kyra Karayiannis Clock of Life Wood, paint, printed images, acrylic Grade 8
Coco Thomson
The Weight of My World Glass scale, gold paint, wood
Grade 8
The Pressure to Transform Wood, hinges, locks, acrylic, paint
Bryael Gonzalez
Grade 8
The Hidden Community Printed pictures, paper, cardboard
Grade 8
Tessa Balmer
Anson Pitts It’s Just a Burning Memory Mirror paper, mat board, paint, printed images
Grade 8
Owen Epstein
What Now? Where To?
Digitally-altered photographs
Grade 8
Grade 8
Piper Carrillo-Foote The Game of War Playing cards, printed images, paint
Sylvestro Filtered Reality
Wood, printed images, marker, colored film
Grade 8
Ava
Addie Mulvehill Layers of Beauty Frame, mirror film, skincare products, wood, marker
Grade 8
Aidan Omisore
Signs of Protest
Cardboard, marker, pencils
Grade 8
JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
Chipili Dumbwizi Six Lights... Wood, Christmas lights, tissue paper, acrylic paint
Grade 8
Mason Gray Keeping it Together Clay, paint, string Grade 8
Wyatt Lieberman Who Am I? Wood, printed images, string, paint, flowers, nails
Grade 8
Jack Ferrandino
It’s All Fun and Games
Marker box, wood, printed image, pegboard
Grade 8
150 JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
Video game boxes, 3DS, etched acrylic, paper
Grade 8
James di Bonaventura Game Over
The Vicious Cycle Wood, fishing wire, fish tank, cans, paint
Grade 8
Virginia Murphy
Sarah Maximin Imbalance
Scale, printed images
Grade 8
JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
McDowell Million vs. Billion Fabric Grade 8
Zeylah
Grade 8
JUNE 2024 Pen & Paper
Michael Toolan Echo Chamber Mirrors, video
This year’s edition of Pen & Paper, “In Living Color,” is intended to illustrate: out loud, and in every hue imaginable. The issue is organized around how we all experience such living: the past, the present, and the future. These categories collect student work that tells vivid stories about people who lived in the PAST, our PRESENT realities, as well as the impact our students hope to have on the FUTURE world to come. The intent throughout the magazine is to offer commentary and insight into these areas through the artwork, poetry, short stories, videos, and photography of our middle school students. Each section begins with a thematic heading and a full-page photograph.
The digital file of this edition was created on a MacBook Pro 15-inch, M2, 2023 using Adobe InDesign 2024. The font used is Marcellus. llustrations were scanned using a Sharp MX-4070 scanner. This issue of Pen & Paper is printed on 70lb silk paper and the cover is printed on 10pt semi-gloss stock.
A special thank you to Joe Upton of Gasch Printing for his professionalism, promptness, and precision in printing this year’s volume.
Unquowa School is Pen & Paper ’s home base. Unquowa is a progressive, independent, Pre-K4 through 8th Grade school located in Fairfield, Connecticut. There are 152 enrolled students in total (92 in the Upper School, Grades 5-8) and 45 faculty and staff members. The contributors to Pen & Paper, ranging from 5th through 8th grade, make the final 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 staff, where they engage in the creative process of producing the magazine from start to finish.
Previous editions of Pen & Paper earned the following awards:
Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA)
Gold and Silver Crown Awards
Gold Circle Awards
All Columbian Honors
American Scholastic Press Association (ASA)
First Place with Special Merit Award
Most Outstanding Middle School Literary-Art Magazine Award
