Pen and Paper - Vol 16 - 2025-2026

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 5) while continually incorporating new ideas. The editorial 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 ft within the magazine overarching theme and the editorial staff’s standards of excellence.

The editorial staff, invited to Pen & Paper by their teachers, focuses on writing their own work, providing feedback on student submissions, and selecting pieces for publication. 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 fnalize selections, link writing to artwork, and selects the cover photo with supervision from the Editor-in-Chief.

Lastly, the adviser, with input from the art consultant, editorial staff, and Editor-in-Chief, approves the fnal layout of the magazine and makes fnal edits and adjustments before going to print.

Cover Art

Maxim Michniewicz

Skies Askew

Digital photograph

Grade 8

Pen & Paper 2025-2026

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

Dedication

This issue of Pen & Paper is dedicated to Mr. David Coe, a beloved member of the Unquowa community who is retiring after twleve years of teaching instrumental music. His performance and recording experience has made him one of the most unique teachers at Unquowa, and faculty and families have deeply enjoyed getting to see him perform at Founders’ Day and on public stages across Fairfeld County. Mr. Coe has been writing and performing music for most of his life, and has been teaching students for twice as long as we have been privileged to have him at Unquowa. He is a favorite teacher for so many students, especially those with an affnity for guitar, piano, and ukulele.

Mr. Coe is a treasure, an Unquowa institution, and we will miss his regular presence in the halls dearly.

Congratulations, Mr. Coe! Thank you for everything!

Table of Contents

The Dock by Ollie Murphy ‘27

Arches by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

Lingering Gloom by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

Fog by Grady Pompa ‘27

Pastorale by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

Weeping Willows by William Esteves Cooper ‘27

In the Snow by Grady Pompa ‘27

Frostbitten by Grady Pompa ‘27

The Mountain by Ollie Murphy ‘27

Falling by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

The Whale by Ollie Murphy ‘27

Obsidian Eyes by Ollie Murphy ‘27

Woodpile by Maddie Theodore ‘29

Shattered by Salma Mehra ‘27

Falling by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

Candy by Jack Bazzanella ‘26

Preserving a Presence by Grady Pompa ‘27

The Bravery of Braidwood by Noah Clark ‘27

The Rogue Cururpira by William Esteves Cooper ‘27

Liquid Gold by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

A Thousand Miles Away by Ollie Murphy ‘27

Leafng by Ollie Murphy ‘27

Starstruck by Riley Saint ‘26

Mare of Night by Claire Ponden ‘28

Luminous by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

The Clockwork by William Esteves Cooper ‘27

Cardboard Appliances by Cullen Peck ‘26

The Golden Rung by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

Through the Mist by Ollie Murphy ‘27

Parting Clouds by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

Dimensions by William Esteves Cooper ‘27

Fire and Ice by Grady Pompa ‘27

The Weight of Injustice by Ian Curran ‘26

Beast in

Table of Contents

by Grady Pompa ‘27

Flowers by Ollie Murphy ‘27

Age of Refection by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

Falling Down by Claire Ponden ‘28

The Mississippi River Flood by Pooja Bedi ‘27

Language + Photography + Art by Lucie Haskell ‘27

Lost by Ellie Mae Sullivan ‘27

The Brave Girl by Isha Lakhotia ‘27

One by William Esteves Cooper ‘26

Red Rocks by Lucie Haskell ‘27

Too Much by Sophia Borges ‘26

The Cart by Ellie Mae Sullivan ‘27

Imprudence by Nora Mulvehill ‘26

Sunbirds by Grady Pompa ‘27

Shimmering Horizon by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

Their Eyes by Ollie Murphy ‘27

Afraid of the Dark by Grady Pompa ‘27

Enveloped, Invisible, and Erupt by Claire Ponden ‘28

Ablaze by Grady Pompa ‘27

The Escape by Salma Mehra ‘27

Tree of Life by Guinevere Prapopulos ‘26

Man in the Moon by Ollie Murphy ‘27

From Above by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

Hues by Avery Holtz ‘27

Once Upon a Time by Ollie Murphy ‘27

blot out the sky by William Esteves Cooper ‘27

When I Look Up by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

Beneath by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

Limits by Poppy Thomson ‘27

Color by Guinevere Prapopulos ‘26

Dew by Poppy Thomson ‘27

Shaken by Breya Peck ‘28

Snowdrift by Claire Ponden ‘28

Fear in the Woods by Ellie Mae Sullivan ‘27

Table of Contents

The Work of the Pied Piper of Saipan by Miles Williams ‘27

Snow Owl by Grady Pompa ‘27

Taking Flight by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

Opening Light by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

Father Figure by Claire Ponden ‘28

They’re Still Out There by Jordan Page ‘26

Noon by Nora Mulvehill ‘26

In the Distance by Avery Holtz ‘27

Night Painting by Ellie Mae Sullivan ‘27

Silent Stars by William Esteves Cooper ‘27

Stars by Ollie Murphy ‘27

Cherry Blossom by Lucie Haskell ‘27

Midnight Beauty by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

Candy Shop by Adam Lerner ‘26

Unseen Danger by Kaitlyn Mesiya ‘26

The Sound of Silence by William Esteves Cooper ‘27

Aftermath by Riley Saint ‘26

Extra! Extra! by Jack Bazzanella ‘26

by Claire Ponden ‘28

The Flame of the Fight by Ellie Mae Sullivan ‘27

The Power of One Person by Henry Hart ‘27

Hello how can I help you today? by Alexandra Murphy ‘26 Muse by Claire Ponden ‘28

Seas of White

Ollie Murphy Grade 7

My heart thumps a fast, unsteady beat as I smile at my uneasy face in my small, compact mirror, hair smoothed and braided, topped with a fashy pink bow. Although my stomach leapfrogs, I keep my face calm and fip the sparkling mirror shut, snapping my head up and looking around, checking that nobody noticed my weak moment. The sunfower-yellow bus buzzes with chatter as students take selfes in the bleak leather seats.

“Keisha!” I hear someone exclaim behind me, excitement in their voice. I turn to see Nikki, applying a fresh layer of Perfectly Pink lipgloss. She purses her lips and leans in towards me, so close I can almost smell the strawberry gloss on her lips.

“Did you see the new kid?” She motions toward the back of the bus with her pink-nailed hand. “SO weird. I heard they’re not from here or something.”

I look over Nikki’s head to see a mess of blonde hair in one of the last seats, illuminated by the glow of a device. I grimace.

“Oh, yeah. Totally weird. High school will eat them alive.”

The bus pulls into the school parking lot and I put my hands to my head, smoothing my hair down to my scalp. As we fle off the bus, I take my steps evenly, like a model. I have a reputation to keep at Stoneybrook High. I have to stay perfect. Nobody can see me falter. I listen carefully as my sparkling shoes click against the tile foor, making my way to my frst class. As I enter the homeroom doorway, I catch sight of a nest of blonde hair crouched in the back of the classroom. I’m almost caught in a daze, staring at that barrage of clips and hair product, tips dyed neon blue. I

can’t seem to shake my head away-not until Nikki and her friends strut in, makeup-slathered faces pointed toward the ceiling. I’m shaken awake, it seems like, as they make their way across the classroom to the cream-colored hairball who suddenly looks up, alarmed. Their eyes are a blazing blue, a perfect contrast with their neon tips. I watch their lips open the smallest bit, in a silent scream, as Nikki approaches them, crouching down to where they perch on the foor.

“Hi, there.” She coos, her voice a sticky sweet, like corn syrup. “What’s a little baby like you doing in a big kid school?” Their eyes narrow, becoming two slits of icy fame. A moment passes- two silent pairs eyes boring into one another. Suddenly, they speak, their voice smooth and silky like down feathers on a baby duck.

“I’m 15.” They say, staring up at Nikki with an unwavering voice. I put my hand to my mouth, still gazing at them, small and defant. Nikki looks them up and down and crosses her arms, annoyed. She opens her mouth to speak, but they cut her off.

“You’re not 15 yet, are you?” They ask, their voice overfowing with innocence.

Nikki looks aghast, her petite mouth falling open. How did they know? That’s her deep dark secret! “Yeah. I thought so.” The bell rings and they gather their green backpack, slinging it over their back and starting towards the door. Before they leave, they stop, sticking their head out the doorway.

“I’m Sparrow, by the way,” they say, smiling. “Don’t wear it out.”

With that, they turn on their heel and waltz out the door, head held high. I spend the day like any normal teen would, working, groaning, explaining the details of my uneventful thanksgiving break over and over again. In the

back of my mind, though, I can still see Sparrow, confdent, unafraid, and... sort of majestic. I blink. What did I just think? I turn to Michael, my crush, as I pack my bag at my locker, and look in his eyes for that familiar sparkle I know. It’s there- it’s always there. He smiles at me with his white-toothed grin, and I feel myself blush. I turn back to my belongings and sigh, satisfed. There’s nothing wrong with you, Keisha. You’re perfect. As I walk outside, a light furry of snow tumbles from the sky, powdery and soft, like sugar sprinkled in tea. I catch a fake on my tongue and lick my lips, savoring the crisp favor. I pause on my way to the bus, suddenly, seeing Sparrow leaning against the brick school wall, snowfakes catching in their hair and long doe eyelashes. I take a deep breath, glance around for Nikki and her friends, and walk towards them. They look up, fear glistening in their eyes. I lean against the wall beside them, trying to act casual. Why am I so nervous all of a sudden?

“Hi, Sparrow.” I say, lifting my hand in an awkward half-wave. Their shoulders relax a bit and they smile at me, revealing rows of hot pink braces.

“Hi. Uh… nice to meet you…” They stutter, stumbling over words.

“I’m Keisha. I’m sorry about what happened today. Those girls were really mean.” Sparrow nods, looking downward.

“Yeah. I saw you. You didn’t do anything…” They whisper, fdgeting with their jacket.

“I’m sorry!” I blurt out. “I didn’t- You were so confdent and cool and I really was looking up to you!” I slap my hands over my mouth, shocked. Why did I say all that?! Sparrow’s face turns beet-red and their eyes almost seem to shimmer in the sunlight.

“You’re… pretty cool, too,” they say, reaching out and squeezing my hand. Their palm is warm, bracelets climbing

up their arm, and I feel my heart leap into my throat. The snow grows stronger now, swirling around us in a minitornado. I hear the bus screech out of the parking lot, but I ignore it, suddenly hearing myself ask a question I vowed I would never ask anyone but a boy.

“Do you want to… walk home with me?” I ask tentatively, my face hot in the icy air. Sparrow bobs their head up and down frantically, and we leave the parking lot, walking side by side. Sparrow is silent as we trek through the snowy streets, barely finching when a blizzard of ice comes fying at our peach-pink faces, pinching them like hundreds of clawed hands.

“Do you think I’m weird?” Sparrow asks suddenly, looking up at me with their frosty blue eyes. I think for a second. Are they really weird? I think about how confdent they were, how they stood up to Nikki so easily like that. I think about how I stare in the mirror for hours, trying to look fawless and thin. I turn back to Sparrow, seeing their round, glowing cheeks. They probably don’t care. They’re amazing just the way they are.

“No.” I say, smiling, watching Sparrow’s eyes glitter as we pause in the frozen abyss. I wrap my scarf around their shoulders and they finch, startled at the sudden touch.

“You’re amazing.” I utter, my breath making a frosty puff in the air. Sparrow smiles, and for a fraction of a second, the world seems to become warm; as warm as a late summer’s evening. I gaze into their ocean eyes and feel my lips curve upward. The world is still. So indescribably silent you could hear an ant sneeze. I bask in the warmth, the stillness, hoping it lasts forever. Sparrow takes my hand, warm palm in my clammy one, and with the scarf wrapped around our shoulders, our fngers intertwined, we take slow even steps into the cold, which now feels like love.

By the bayside,

The Dock

Ollie Murphy Grade 7

There lies, Just between the sea and the sky, A long winding dock, Created from a sturdy tree, Tall and frm, Made to support lovers, To support lives. A child, About 7, Sits on the dock, Gazing upon the sea, As gulls fock the cloudless sky. The world, For a fraction of a second, Is silent.

As the child wishes a daring wish on that very dock. A wish to grow up. A wish to be older. To be smarter. The child lets the wish go into the salty air, then returns home.

Soon after, As the moon rises, Stretching and yawning from its slumber, A man appears on the dock, Tired, and frail.

He stands on the edge, Letting the moon shine on his sunken face, And he wishes a daring wish on that very dock. A wish to be young again. A wish to be taken care of. To be free. The man lets the wish go, extending his hand toward the full moon as it’s whisked away. On this dock, People go to ease their agony, Their sadness, Their feelings of failure, Regret, And their feelings of joy, Their euphoria, Their lives.

Maxim Michniewicz

Lingering Gloom

Digital photograph Grade 8

Grady Pompa

Grade 7

The thick smog of evaporated water

Creates a veil of uncertainty

Rounding sharp edges

Dulling vivid colors

Rendering the world a thick, matte, grey

The grey resembles a blank canvas

So the empty void creates more

Harnessed by imagination

Evil sprouts

Liana-like as it climbs

Simultaneously, a fash of color emerges

Resilience embedded in its nature

Vile and Life collide

Then mixes

Returning again

To grey

Maxim Michniewicz Pastorale

Weeping Willows

William Esteves Cooper

Grade 7

By myself I walk Through the willows, Weeping.

And the sorrows I had been keeping Fall, Seeping, To their roots, Forever seeking.

But the willows had been creeping, And when I came, they were leaping At the chance for my sorrows, Which they are now reaping.

By myself I walk Through the willows, Weeping.

In the Snow

Grady Pompa Grade 7

Her ancient mahogany rocking chair creaked as it foated in the evening breeze, and as the seat who had learned to hold her frail body so well that they might have even been merged together groaned at the loss of her weight, Sage leaned her tearstained face against the windowsill, and watched on as the buntings whom grandma had fed so well let out pitiful noises as they found no seed awaiting them.

The cold had arrived a few weeks ago, but the signs had arrived a month before, and as the world was readying for a food crisis, Sage’s family had been – as humans do –fghting over things that matter little. When the feuding passed it was too late. The frigid air, which pounded against the aged framework like no tomorrow, was the same air that claimed her life.

Sage, with her mind in a lapse of thought from sorrow, cast her own food insecurity aside, and tore off a chunk of bread she was carrying, creaked the door open a crack, and tossed it to the birds. The food foated through the air before landing with a soft thud on the icy surface, and the buntings all chirped excitedly, futtered over, and ravenously tore at the food that they were not made to eat.

“I’ll fnd some seeds tomorrow, Sage murmured halfheartedly, knowing all the while that this was an almost impossible task.

The sun fell quickly, and that night Sage lay awake on an old cot bursting with goose down. Sage shivered – the quilt Ma had hastily sewn together was made too thin and offered little warmth. Despite the odds, she was just managing to drift off when she heard voices. First they

were hushed, just whispers bouncing off the walls, but then as Sage’s eyes widened with recognition they became audible. Sage crept down the stairwell and peered into the kitchen. Two silhouettes sat around the kitchen table, talking in the moonlight.

“Food is scarce, everyone’s terrifed, and… you heard what happened to the baker’s son.”

“You want us to leave? We met here, we lived here—”

“We can’t stay here, you know that just as well as me.”

“Yes we can! My mothe—”

Jacob… your mother di…” There was a pause and the sounds of sobbing drifted into the air.

“To stay is a death sentence!”

“I-I-I can’t leave.”

“Jacob…”

“I CAN’T LEAVE!” Another pause. And a deep, deep breath.

“T-then, well then I have no choice.”

Sage bolted. She ran to her room, slammed the door behind her and dove under the covers. There she lay sobbing, as she listened to the sounds of hurried packing and eventually, a slamming door.

Sage didn’t sleep that night. She only got out of bed because she heard the bunting’s hungry chirps. As she climbed down the stairs, she saw her father sitting in the very same chair he had that night. He sat, unmoving, staring straight into space.

“Pa?” No answer. Sage considered just walking by him, but a question popped into her head.

“Pa? What happened to the baker’s son? For a moment there was silence. But then, to Sage’s horror, he started laughing – it wasn’t the nice warm chuckle Sage was used to though – this was something else, this was maniacal.

With a deep, raspy voice Pa answered. “Said he was so

hungry that he started seeing things. Just walked out last night, he didn’t even bother putting on a coat. Said they found him the next morning face down in the snow.”

Sage turned away. Stepping outside, she traced a set of footprints leading away from the house. Following her mothers footsteps she walked out into an abyssal cold.

They found her the next morning, face down in the snow.

The Mountain

Ollie Murphy Grade 7

The ground is fat, The world is solid, My heart thumps a steady rhythm with my steps, As I walk across the vast plain. Light, Dark, Air, Water, I trek through it all, Allowing my feet to carry me around the world in a delicate pattern.

But the ground never stays fat forever. It curves up, up, up, and away, into the blue abyss of sky, Why does the ground upturn so fast? Sometimes we don’t even realize it happens until we are in the center of it.

The tip, The climax, The crescendo.

My heart no longer beats a rhythm, Now it loses control, My breath heaves, My muscles shake, Perspiration beads on my forehead, I want to turn back, To give up, But I continue.

No matter how much I want to stop, I keep going, Step, by step, by step. It feels infnite, the uphill, As I climb upward, My bones screaming, My lungs sobbing, My heart trembling, But what goes up must come down. So slowly, but surely, I descend.

I feel my breath slow, My muscles become light once more, My heart begins to beat, A simple, calming, Thump, Thump, Thump. And I reach the bottom of the mountain, Feeling shaken, Tired, Scared, Yet stronger than ever before.

The Whale

Ollie Murphy Grade 7

In a world of deep blue, The wide-eyed whale emerges, Sprouting up and out of the endless waters, To take a great gulp of air. It pausesHead perched above the icy surface, Waves crashing and slipping over its silky skin. It has never seen such skies, Such magnifcence, Never known there was more to life than the ocean. And as the snow begins to fall, The whale is still, Gazing upon the breathtaking wonder, Although its skin begins to frost, The whale lies motionless, Bobbing on the velveteen surface, Watching the millions of fakes, Float perfectly through the howling air, And as a sheet of white, Forms on the tip of the whale’s outstretched nose, It takes a heaving breath, Plunging itself out of the water and into the snow-speckled sky, A picturesque moment of undeniable, Unimaginable, Beauty.

Obsidian Eyes

Ollie Murphy Grade 7

“Bubble…Bubble! BUBBLE!”

I open my eyes drowsily to see Wren staring straight at me. She grins and paws at the side of my face, her amber eyes glowing with excitement. I glance around my den drowsily and yawn. Why did she have to wake me up? I usually get to sleep in on hunting days.

“We’re going hunting, sleepyhead!” She squeals. I bound upright, my tail swishing. I completely forgot! Today is the day when the pups get to go on their frst real hunt, and I get to hunt with the cutest wolf in the pack! I turn my head to Wren, but she’s already trotting out the door.

“Wait up!” I holler, bounding after her and into the thicket. The common area is full of wolves, and I suddenly lose track of Wren. My heart sinks, but I shake off the feeling and make my way to where the other pups wait for their placing assignments. Crow and Finch practice their prey imitations, while Feather and Stripe roll in the dirt, working on camoufage.

“Hi everyone!” I yip, pouncing on Crow. Crow laughs and shoves me off of him.

“Hey, Bubble!” He replies. “Are you excited for hunting? I heard you’re partnered with Wren.” My face grows hot and I look at the ground, embarrassed.

“Yeah…But that doesn’t matter. Someday, I’ll lead the pack, all on my own!” I say triumphantly, lifting my head to the sky.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Crow remarks, pawing at my face and giggling.

The head wolf, Claw, howls to get our attention and we turn our heads towards him.

“Welcome, young pups,” He bellows, “to your frst ever

hunt. Your job is to bring back at least fve birds or two rabbits. It will be diffcult, but I have full trust in you.” And with that, he lifts his head back and lets out a long howl, signaling that we should prepare to start.

Suddenly, Wren appears beside me, practically foating with elation. She smiles, and I sheepishly smile back, lowering my head. We line up beside each other, and Claw etches a line in the dirt with his nose.

“This is where you will start and fnish.” He says, his ashgrey eyes scanning across the lot of us. “You must be back before moonrise, and don’t let the bears get you. You may begin.” My stomach twists and turns as Wren and I look at one another with fear.

“The bears… right…” Wren mutters. “But… we’ll be fne! Let’s go!”

Her overwhelming confdence flls me to the brim with warmth, and I can’t help but trust her to protect me as I dash across the starting line. The golden-brown foliage that surrounds me is almost surreal, and the forest, for a moment, seems more magical than dangerous in a way. Wren sprints ahead of me, bounding off of rocks and trees, her charcoal fur shimmering in the morning sunlight. I suppose I haven’t trained enough for this moment, because I lag behind, panting and pausing to walk at times. Suddenly, Wren stops, her ears twitching.

“Shhhh…” She whispers, “I hear something.”

As if on cue, a small, white rabbit pokes its head out of the brush, scanning the area for danger. For us. We dive into a small trench and gaze at the beautiful, velvety rabbit. So innocent, so meek. Claw would love it! I bare my teeth and bend down, ready to pounce. Wren nods at me, signaling that I can catch it.

Yes!!! Oh my gosh! My frst catch!

I creep towards the rabbit, staying low to the ground.

When I get within range, I jump, landing on the rabbit and sinking my teeth into its delicious fesh. It’s like a head rush, but I stumble back to wren, the rabbit limp in my jaws.

“That’s amazing!” Wren shouts, “You did such a good job!”

She nuzzles her head against mine, and I feel giddy with happiness. My chest heaves with exhaustion, so I lay down in the leaves, and I stretch out, giggling at the c-c-crunch they make when I roll around. I land on my stomach and spot a tiny green caterpillar, creeping across a blade of grass right before my eyes. I gasp and watch it slowly reach the tip of the plant, and rest there, pausing like a frozen moment in time.

“Hey Wren!” I whisper, “Wren! Look at this!”

She doesn’t answer.

I look up, and I realize I’m completely alone.

“Wren?” I shout, “WREN?”

Still no reply.

I stand up and try to listen for any signs of her, but I hear nothing. I look up at the sky. Oh no. It’s almost sundown. I should be on my way back by now. I turn to where I came from, and start back down that path, my heart in my throat. After about ffteen minutes, though, it’s pretty obvious that I’m lost. I can’t believe it. My frst hunt, and I’m completely lost. I dig my claws into the ground and shiver in the brisk cold, longing for nothing but my own bed. As the sun descends, I create a makeshift bed out of leaves and pine needles. It’s nothing like my bed at home, but it’s enough. Even though I’m so, so tired, my eyes seem as though they’re propped open, and I lie awake as the sky grows dark. Every sound spooks me. My heart thumps in my chest and I’m startled by every beat. The wind howls across the trees and it almost sounds like my family. Like my pack. As I curl into a ball, trembling, I whisper a song

my mother used to sing to me, way back when I was just a newborn.

Have you, have you, found what you’re after?

A brightened allure, The sound of your laughter. Your blossomed complexion, Lights up the night sky, You’ll never be lost, Go as the crow fies.

I hum the tune to myself, over and over again, falling into a ftful slumber. Images of Wren and my pack dance through my dreams. I see blood. Red. I cry out, but the woods are like a barrier around me. I paw at the transparent wall and scream for help as a shadow looms over me and swallows me whole.

I wake up drenched in cold sweat. It’s pitch-black out and my joints ache like I’ve been running for hours. My eyes burn, my tongue feels like sandpaper, and I desperately need water and food to jerk myself out of this feverish delirium. I stumble through the inky blackness and wonder how long I’ve been asleep for. I reach a puddle and begin to lap up the precious water, when I feel something brush against my back. I jump, spitting out a mouthful of water and turning around, coming face to face with a pair of jet-black eyes, so dark, yet so bright in the inky abyss. They spook me, and I stumble backwards, landing in the puddle. I’m sopping wet and freezing, but I continue to back away as the fgure steps into the dim moonlight, casting an eerie shadow across the ground. I gasp. The razor-sharp teeth. The matted fur. The obsidian eyes. It’s... a bear.

I race through the darkness, crashing through plants and swerving around trees. The bear follows close behind me and I don’t think I’ll be able to run for long. The bear gets closer and closer as I slow down, snapping at my hind legs and my tail. I howl with fear and turn a sharp corner, diving into a bush. The bear doesn’t give up, though, he swipes at me with his beastly claws, and begins to try to squeeze into the bush. I don’t waste a second. Even though my lungs ache, I continue on through the thicket. I am just about far enough to stop, when I trip on a rock, my paw bending backwards, and I hear the unmistakable crunch of bone. I scream, falling to the ground and writhing in pain. I hear the bear just behind the bushes but I can’t get up. I dig my claws into the leaves and try to drag myself across the ground, but I just…Can’t…move. I close my eyes and lay my head on the ground, preparing for my inevitable demise. This is how it all ends, I guess. Alone, in the woods. I hear the bear approaching behind me.

“I love you, Wren…” I whisper into the silence.

The bear swipes at my back and I feel blood pool in my fur. “Goodbye…”

As my eyes slide shut in defeat, I hear the bear roar in anger, and I see Wren rush to my side.

“Oh my gosh, Bubble! Are you okay? You’re bleeding! Let’s take you back…”

I try to respond, try to tell her I’m alright, but her voice fades away with the rest of the world in a heavy, foggy haze.

I wake up with a start, looking around warily. My ankle is wrapped in leaves and bark, and so is my back. Bowls of oils and food rest beside me, and there is a cool, damp piece of lily pad on my forehead. Meadow, the medicine wolf, trots in and gasps at the sight of me.

“You’re awake!” She squeals. She howls excitedly, and

pretty much the whole pack comes rushing into the den to talk to me. My brothers and sisters pounce around me, and my mother nuzzles my face. Claw nods in appreciation and smiles.

“You did it, young one.” He says. “You faced the bear.” I smile at him weakly and nod back. Then, in the doorway, I see Wren, a lily fower clutched in her mouth. She places it beside me meekly and looks to the side.

“I-I’m sorry…” She whimpers, her voice breaking. “I left you…I didn’t mean to, I really didn’t! I just got so distracted and I ran off and then you were gone and-and…” I sit up with sudden energy and give her a quick lick on the cheek, making her eyes go wide.

“It’s okay, Wren.” I whisper, and put my paw on hers until her breathing settles. I stare into her syrupy eyes and feel calm. Eyes tell stories. They are the window to the soul. Some souls are lost, and some are tied to packs, but all can be told through the eyes. Quietly, to myself at frst, I sing my mother’s song, but it’s a bit different…

Have you, have you, found what you’re after?

The inky abyss, The silence, The wind. His charcoal complexion, Lights up the night sky, You’ll see a whole lifetime, In those obsidian eyes.

Shattered

Salma Mehra

Grade 7

A world so cruel

A light so dull

A single shard of ice

Cracked my heart

The world I live in

No light

No sound

Nothing but darkness all around

The people I greet

The friends I made

All have souls

That shatter by the days

But the world above me

So full of joy and rays

Seems so far away

“If only”

I would say

I see humans above

But in a different light

The light when someone is smiling so bright

I look to my left

I look to my right

Monsters are lurking

In the moonlight

“It’s not fair”

I plead

“Why can’t I just be up there?”

There is no escape

I walk on black ice every day

Fear of falling

Crying

Lying

Up above

I see little kids play

They play a game

It seems to brighten their day

They are holding an orange ball with stripes

And there is a tall pole with a net

Seems kind of nice

But I see more than just that

The kids are running

They don’t trip

They have no care in the world

Then the ball twirls

And twirls

It twirls so fast

Till it breaks through the ice

That has been keeping me trapped

Falling

Digital photograph

Grade 8

43 JUNE 2026 Pen & Paper

Candy

Jack Bazzanella Grade 8

It was Halloween Night. Trick-or-treaters were about, walking from house to house collecting pieces of candy at each one. Each one dressed up as something different. Some were cats, others were vampires or another sort of halloween themed monster. The one thing that they all had in common, was that they loved halloween. They loved the scary stories, and the dressing up in all manner of costumes. But for Ethan, the only important part of halloween was the candy.

He dressed up as a bandit, and for good reason too, for he pilfered every last piece of candy from the houses of Birchwood Street. He wasn’t alone in his endeavor though. He allied himself with his friends Richie and Conrad (both ironically dressed as burglars). At the houses with someone answering the door, they would wait for someone to bring out the candy, then one of them would create a distraction - usually by running off with a fake pumpkin from the lawn - while the other two snatch as much candy from the bowl as they could before the owner of that home (and that pumpkin) fgure out what was happening. The homes with simply a bucket on the front porch and a take one sign were an easier situation, but probably more evil. They would grab one of their bags and pour the entire contents of the bucket into the bag.

They’d continued to do this every Halloween since they were eight years old, planning out which houses they could get more candy from before someone noticed, which houses wouldn’t have anyone answering the door, and of course, which houses belonged to police offcers. Of course they wouldn’t just stop at Birchwood Street. They raided every house in Salem for candy, and everyone was

fed up with it, mostly because of what they did if someone refused to give them candy.

If someone forgot to set out their bucket when they left with their kids to trick-or-treat (although unlikely considering how much these people love Halloween), or if someone simply didn’t answer the door for those three, they took note of the house and returned home to gather ammunition. Payback. At the end of the night, they would circle back to every house that had refused or forgotten to proffer any sweet treats, and they enacted their vengeance in the dual forms of toilet papering and holiday decoration destruction.

Every year, kids would invariably walk up to a house and fnd an empty bowl tossed onto the lawn, angry would come home to their houses coated in layers of two-ply, and out-of-town families would return home to fnd all of their decorations destroyed and scattered across the lawn. Everyone hated their antics, but any photos couldn’t be traced back to them due to their masks, and no one who witnessed them in the act were able to catch them and bring them to justice. However, there was one person who had an idea for how to catch them, and they were about to enact their plan…

It was Halloween night, and Ethan and his crew were about. They smashed every Jack-O-Lantern in sight and snatched every last piece of candy they could fnd. They worked fast. They knew this neighborhood like the back of their hand, and they knew all of the people on Birchwood street well enough that they could predict who would be out of the house trick-or-treating, and which people were sitting in their front lawn waiting for them. By the end of the street, they came across a house by the woods with naught but a bowl of candy on the porch.

A little boy in a ghost costume darted between two houses as they came. They quickly ran up, dumped the contents into their bags, and walked down the porch steps. Ethan noticed something though as they were walking down the steps. He looked across the side of the house and saw a trail of candy extending into the woods behind the house.

“Hold up,” Conrad replied, picking up a piece of candy to inspect it. “This stuff is full-sized – the good stuff!”

“There’s no way we can just leave that lyin’ around, can we?” Ethan interjected.

The boys followed the trail into the dark forest. It felt like the trail continued for miles on end.

“Hold it guys!” Richie yelled. “We’ve been walking forever and I’ve got no idea which way we came from.”

“It’s a good thing Connie’s got a phone then!” Ethan replied. “Right Con…”

He stopped himself when he looked back and Conrad was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s he at?” Ethan asked as Richie trembled in fear.

“Something got him!!” Richie frantically looked over the bushes, “How long has it been since Conrad said something?”

Richie brushed against a bush and jumped in fear.

“It’s been ‘bout twenty minutes,” Ethan replied worriedly.

“Something feels wrong…” Richie said with a frown. They both quieted as a bush behind them shook.

“You see that!?” Ethan said, wide-eyed with fear. “The trail of candy stops right there in the middle of the path.”

He was right; the trail they had followed had ended as abruptly as it started.

“But... what do we do now?”

Ethan’s voice fell on deaf ears as Richie was nowhere to be seen.

Nate Evanko Power of a Reference

Grady Pompa Preserving a Presence

Pencil & digital images

The Rogue Cururpira

William Esteves Cooper Grade 7

“One dark and stormy night … Did you really think it would start that way? No believable murder story ever starts that way.”

Four orphans were sitting around a campfre, toasting marshmallows. They stared into its depths, similar to the fre their parents had died in years ago. The tales people spun were always different. One said it was caused by a gas leak in the basement; others said it must’ve been a candle left burning; but the children knew that it had been set deliberately.

They had decided to go camping on their late mother’s birthday, for she loved camping. Several of those trips had resulted in whining from all four of them, but they decided to go anyway to honor her.

The eldest child, Sorrow, was always silent. He seemed to know everything but rarely spoke. He always looked scared, as though she knew the world could end at any moment. The second oldest, Malicious, was sly and always plotting something. She wouldn’t just steal your keys, but she would take something personal or she would trick you into drowning in your own anguish. The third oldest, Morbid, was sinister. She had the darkest thoughts, yet she was hilarious in her own malevolent way. The fourth and youngest was adequately named Death. However, nobody called him that. They just referred to him as Four – his age. The last time somebody called him Death, destruction followed their path.

Morbid had been telling the others a story about a Curupira gone rogue. A Curupira was a forest demon and a protector of the trees and animals of the Amazon. It had backwards feet to trick hunters, and hair that could turn

turn into fre. Most of them were friendly, but a few have become insane.

“I think not,” said Death. “Plenty have died during a nighttime storm.”

“It was a joke, Four,” replied Malicious, tired of him taking everything too seriously.

“Anyways,” Morbid said, glaring at both of them. “It was a lovely day in the Amazon, yet there was an overhanging sense of dread. None of the animals spoke to each other, and the Curupira assigned to this part of the forest was nervous and jumpy.”

“Isn’t that the thing that killed our parents?” asked Death.

“The hair, the fre and the tragedy are one and the same,” uttered Sorrow.

Nobody heard but Malicious. She gasped. How did he know? This is impossible, she fretted.

“What is it, Malicious?” asked Morbid.

“Nothing, nothing. Carry on.” Morbid was not convinced at all, but continued.

“So, later that night, as everybody was sleeping, a gas leak opened up in a nearby mining facility. The sparks from machines heat up the gas and set it on fre. The fre snaked its way through the city out to the nearby Amazon. It lit the trees on fre and destroyed everything in its path. It raged on and destroyed the Curupira’s part of the forest. It was saddened as it stared at the ash what once meant everything to it. It went mad and destroyed city after city after city.

“Eventually, people started putting up barriers around their cities to prevent further attack,” she continued. “The Curupira retreated to a cave and seethed. It focused all of its mind power on raging. Its mind grew sharper and sharper until it could bend light to its will and change what

it looked like. It went back into cities disguised as a new person to destroy them from the inside. Legend has it that it’s still alive today and could be anyone.”

“No, no, no. How could this be happening?” Malicious said as she tugged at her hair, which seemed to be glowing.

“What’s wrong?” asked Morbid. “I just told an amazing story, and it had death in it – Not you, Four,” she added to Death.

“The unholy comes out of her shell,” Sorrow said, staring at Malicious and starting to scramble away. “The hair comes alive,” he continued, now running. He had dropped his burnt marshmallow into the fre.

“What’s wrong?” asked Death.

“Nothing is wrong, Four,” Malicious said, but she looked and sounded different.

Her voice had become double, as if it were on delay. Her shoes had come off, revealing feet that faced backwards. Her hair had turned to ashes and then regrew ten feet longer, a burning red. She whipped her hair around, burning their tent their mother had left them on touch. The biggest change was by far her face. It had started melting off like candle wax to show a bone mask. Her eyes were nothing but distant, dimming embers. Morbid screamed, but it was too late. Malicious swung her hair like a whip, disintegrating her into ash. Death accepted his fate and let her drape her hair over him. He didn’t scream; he just pressed his lips together, eerily silent; until he, too, was little more than a memory and a pile of ash.

Only Sorrow lived on to tell the tale and warn others of the Curupira gone rogue.

Liquid Gold

A Thousand Miles Away

Ollie Murphy Grade 7

The child of gold lifts their hand to the sky to spread light, To spread warmth, To spread eternal peace.

Tall mossy dancers shift and sway in the rippling breeze, And towering fgures, with hearts of stone, Loom over the forests, bearing pathways and streams that slice through their solid fesh.

From the giants of magma, to the smallest being of petals and nectar, who feeds the butterfies of the garden.

From the blue, billowing swimmers, that move always in sync,

To the sleek, inky gymnasts, that slide through the woods, just under our feet.

I live a thousand miles away from these miracles, In a small town where nobody goes. Where only creatures acknowledge my presence. The world is silent, As I fall from the sky in soundless twinkles, Painting the ground a pearly white. A lonely color.

Leafng

Ollie Murphy Grade 7

I abide

High up in the arms of Mother, Who caresses me, protecting me from wind and rain, Sheltering, warming, loving. At the appointed time, I feel myself toughen, Become ill, and hard. It is the way of things. I know and we know, Share that look of Knowing that the end is near. My ends tremble, My breath shallows, Mother has no words for me. Soon, then, when the world is Frosted. Something snaps within me, And I tumble Down faster and Faster towards my End, my goodbye. I swish fying through the air, Back and forth, Land soundlessly on the ground, Close my eyes And crumble my body into dust.

Mare of Night

Claire Ponden

Grade 6

Mare of Night

Screaming in my ear

Others do not hear her

Of this I fear

I frst hear her

At dawning light

She gives no warning

Though no one shows fright

Hags of Shadow

Haunt my head

But the Mare of Night

Sleeps in my bed.

The Clockwork

William Esteves Cooper Grade 7

The Clockwork inched its way to one more tick, and each increment it gained moved us closer to death.

The Clockwork is an ancient system of deciding when to offer up the sacrifce. Legend has it that it was created by Necron themself, but everyone knows that that was just propaganda spread by the Crown.

My family and I had been peacefully minding our own business when the Crown’s underlings – people dressed in all white suits that by some miracle never got dirty –kidnapped us. There are many names for them (some worse than others), but I call them the Skeletons, since they don’t think for themselves and almost every single one of their actions is controlled by the Crown. Every bump from the back of the carriage punctuated and worsened my nausea. Almost all of the gossip I had overheard in the market that week was about the growing missing persons rate, which I now knew was caused by the Crown, judging from the number of other people in here with me. I snuggled closer to my dad, while rubbing my little sister’s back with my shackled hands. It hadn’t been easy for us in the past year, with mom’s death and the coup of the Crown against the Republic. Mom’s death had been especially hard on me. I had been thrown so far into grief that I had become pious to Necron in the hopes that they would bring her back. I prayed thirteen times every day, sang cries of anguish, and even offered up jars flled to the brim with my own blood and tears. Necron, despite reigning over the living and the dead, is said to bring people back to life for his most devout followers. had done that for months, worshipping and giving offerings to Necr-

on much more than I grieved the death of my mom. I now regret ignoring her for so long and denying her passing.

Just when I thought I couldn’t handle the jolts and bumps any longer, there was one fnal almighty jerk, we rolled onto smoother ground. There was only one place in Altria permitted to have paved roads, and that was the royal palace.

What are we doing here? The Crown never has guests after what happened during the coup. After the Crown had successfully overthrown the Republic, Altria had become a tyranny. The Crown took absolute power and controlled everything from what people ate to who came and went. People did not not like that at all. They protested and threw riots .Someone even managed to sneak into the palace and tried to assassinate the Crown. They failed and were lynched. After that, no one dared breathe a word against the power of the Crown.

The tarp was suddenly ripped off the carriage. I squinted in the harsh sunlight. We were shoved up and forced up four fights of stairs so heavily ornamented that it looked like the goose that lays golden eggs had vomited all over the place. We were then shoved into a dimly lit room with a giant clock in the center.

I knew this room. Unless you were living under a rock, everyone in Altria had seen this room before. It was all over the newspapers and posters at every fork in the road. It was the Room of Sacrifce. It was quite literally what it sounded like. It was the room in which the Crown gave offerings to Necron.

In the center was the Clockwork, and a fgure emerged from behind it. They were wearing the Triple Crown, the symbol of the Crown. It was the Crown themself. They were also wearing a mask, which they started taking off. In addition to my growing dread, I also

felt a dark kind of excitement. No one had ever seen the Crown with their mask off! As they lifted it, a saw fangs up to their nose and two glowing red pupils. That was exactly how Necron was always depicted! The god I had prayed so much to and devoted so much to has been the oppressor of our whole land.

Presently, the Clockwork tolled, signaling my impending doom.

Cullen Peck

Cardboard Appliances

Cardboard, model foliage

Grade 8

Through the Mist

Ollie Murphy Grade 7

Beyond the frozen windowpane, Through the mist creeping in the garden. You tread with caution, With a sense of the certainty of escape. This frozen palace encases you, A prison unlike any other. Surrounding you in icy breath. This mist, though, Holds truth, Holds bliss, Holds golden sunshine on your back. And with your frosted fngertips, You reach slow, a beginning outward. A feeling unlike any other. You smile, glee passing over you. Clouds dance, You, higher and higher, Dazzling sights, people smiling, warmth await. But the mist fades a beginning to the edges, And the gulp of air you take, a prayer for stillness. Yet upon exhale, The mist has fed, And on your knees in colorless white. From the corner of your eye, The mist winds past your garden, Carrying its light and joy, To someone new.

Parting Clouds

Digital photograph Grade 8

William Esteves Cooper

Dimensions

Pen,

Fire and Ice Grady Pompa

Grade 7

The endless carpet of white stretching from horizon to horizon, It is coming down in sheets now.

The barren landscape devoid of life, looks back at me, defant. Give up.

The frigid air rushes past, Pummeling to the bone. I rub my frostbitten hands together They refuse to move. Resistance is worthless.

My frozen legs stagger forward, but falter.

I fall, landing harshly in a miserable heap on the endless snow. Death is certain.

What is it like to die? Is it excruciating? blissful?

I would hope for the latter, but apathy consumes me. There I lie.

Waiting to meet my maker.

Nothing happens.

I spring up hot headed and full of rage. What does the cosmos want from me? Let me die already. Suicide didn’t seem like a bad option, when…

Was that smoke?

Grey wisps rise slowly through the air, mingling with the snow. My eyes water from the strain, and praying it’s not a mirage, I allow myself a smile.

I remember the saying:

Where there’s smoke there’s fre.

Where there’s fre there’s warmth. Where there’s warmth there’s… people?

Beast in the Dark

Grady Pompa

Grade 7

The sunbaked dirt roads grew quiet and dark, and then grew silent. And the mudbrick houses of a little colony in the desert soon were flled with sounds of snoring. From afar, it would have looked like everything was normal, but hidden deep in one of the numerous alleyways, an ancient beast had awakened, and it was starving. In a little house at the edge of the town the family’s clock struck twelve. A mouse skittered down a hallway. And a window creaked open. Creeeeeeaaaaaaaak

The little girl was found the next morning. At frst it looked like she had died of natural causes, but then they realized something that made the doctor’s faces turn gray. The girl had no blood.

“There is a murderous villain on the run!” bellowed a paperboy, desperate to be heard over the hustle and bustle of the town square. “Get all the scoop with the Taris Times!”

An old man with a long white beard hobbled over and handed the boy a dime. He hobbled back to a tattered nearby bench with his newly won prize and sprung open the crisp paper, but before he could devour any information, a young voice piped up.

“Mister! Would you like me to clean that grime of your otherwise beautiful shoes?”

The elderly man, clearly amused at the boy’s attempt at business, decided to comply. But after he placed his newspaper down beside him he failed to notice a redhaired girl — around the same height as the boy — snag the newspaper and walked briskly away through the cobbled streets. The boy, after watching the girl take the newspaper, hastened his work rate and soon made off after

the girl with a shiny quarter.

By the time the man noticed they were long gone.

“What’ya want for dinner tonight?” The boy asked, tossing the quarter around in the palm of his hand, while glancing cautiously around the alley.

“Uh, how much did he give you?” The girl responded fipping absent-mindedly through the paper she had stolen.

“Ha, that shouldn’t bother you! I got the coin so I get dibs on choices.” The boy chuckled, clearly amused with his prank. The girl just rolled her eyes and continued paging through the news, but then, all of the sudden, she froze and stared at the headline of one particular page.

“‘Blood Sucking Killer on the Loose’,” The girl said cautiously, “‘Reward: $5,000 for any information leading to their capture’.” The boy had stopped laughing and became serious.

“Wait, how much did you say?” asked the boy. The girl absent mindedly showed him the headline.

“You know I can’t read, Jules!” The boy exclaimed, frustrated.

“Oh right,”Jules responded, smiling slyly, she hucked the newspaper down the alleyway where it bounced off a wall and landed with a sad plop in a nearby puddle, “All you need to know Simon, is that a lot of money could soon be ours.

“Ha! Key word being ‘any information.’ Mom and Dad would be so proud.Simon replied, smirking. It says so here right? So how can they say no?” The partners went to bed that night smiling, not knowing that it would be the last time they would ever smile together again.

The colony lost ten souls that night. A boarding school had lost three, an entire family of six was missing, and a girl was lying with a slit through her throat in an alleyway.

Simon had been crying for hours. When he awoke he hadn’t believed Jules was dead. He had thought it was some kind of elaborate practical joke, or, at least until for the frst couple of hours… After that, it was all over. He wasn’t sure when he started running, and he wasn’t sure what he was running from, but he did know that he ran until his legs turned to lead, and his heart broke down.

Simon rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He felt as if his soul was riddled with holes, but he knew he needed to stay strong — if that was possible. Something was out there, and that something had killed his sister.

He felt like a zombie as he retraced his steps. He trudged down the alleyway looking for a clue – and then just as he picked up a rancid scent of something, a loud sound rang out.

Creeeeeeaaaaaaaak

Simon looked up at the moon coming up over the desert horizon – it was full tonight and the light from the setting sun gave it a soft, red hue – but then something high up on a building’s rooftop blotted out this sight.

Simon stopped and stared up at this silhouette, but then he was flled with the same rancid sent as before. It fnally came to him what the stench was. There were rotting bodies inside the building this creature was standing in.

Suddenly he understood, it wasn’t a human who had killed all those people. It was this creature. This was the monster that killed his sister.

The smoky silhouette looked down on him. It blinked twice, and Simon watched its pupiless red eyes fxate on him. Simon tried to bring himself to fght, but instead he

he felt an immense feeling bubbling up inside him – fear. The creature slowly opened its mouth in a lopsided grin, showing off two glittering fangs hanging down like assassin’s daggers.

Simon looked up at the moon one last time.

A few hours later a little boy was walking down the same pathway. He stopped at a fork in the alley, and looked around uncertainly.

Creeeeeeaaaaaaaak

Flowers

Ollie Murphy Grade 7

At the crack of dawn, while his children still sleep, a man dressed in yellow walks in long strides from his cottage through the forest to the feld. The feld, his feld, he calls it, is made up of fowers of red, blue, and yellow, indigo, maroon, and chartreuse.

The man is a collector. He gathers wildfowers from the ground, plucking them one by one after giving each careful consideration. This takes hours, and it might be painstaking for some. But for this man, it is a joy.

Bringing them back to his cottage, tucked in a separate thicket, he begins to prepare. This is where and with what he will make soup for his family. Flower soup is not well known in these parts, or in ours, but then again, these are no ordinary fowers.

These are fowers only some can see.

Only the pure of heart, the kind, the loving, the ones who need the fowers most can see them. They keep themselves secret, quiet, inaccessible to most. All aside from those who would choose to use the magic of these fowers for good.

The fowers do not heal - they are not magic in that way. They do not grant special powers (fight, invulnerability, telepathy) or anything nonsensical. They are not... powerful, per se. Rather, they hold a simple magic. They hold the power of love. This is a rare gift, and one the man seeks for his family.

Theirs is a power of togetherness, a power of blessing. And if one’s heart rings true, as the man in yellow’s is; and if one is are kind to all, as the man in yellow is. Then one will be drawn to the woods, as the man in yellow is. And this particular feld will call and await, as it does to him.

Age of Refection

Digital photograph

Grade 8

JUNE 2026 Pen & Paper

Falling Down

Claire Ponden

Grade 6

My feet fnd it before my eyes do, And all I know is I’m slipping. Too bad I was walking by a stream, Too bad it was fathomless With many rocks, Too bad the lonesome roots That my fngers tried to catch Had been worn and slippery With time. Time.

That is the little thing, The precious little thing, That I am running out of Because all I know is I’m tumbling In freezing waters With no air in my lungs And that breath Has been pummeled out My sore lungs. Ache. I could’ve avoided this If I had just paid attention To the black ice.

Lucie Haskell

Language + Photography = Art

Fabric and embroidery thread

Grade 7

Lost

Ellie Mae Sullivan Grade 7

“We are so lost!” cried Liana. After two hours of driving around she was pretty annoyed, “Just admit it Kasey, you don’t know where we are,” she said.

“For the last time, I know where we are!,” Kasey replied nervously.

“Guys stop! This won’t work, we’re not getting to Emma’s tonight,” Sophie interrupted. Kasey and Liana just nodded their heads.The three girls had been trying to get to their friend Emma who lived in Salem Massachusetts. On the way they got lost, and they were all in need of rest.

“You’re right Sophie, we just need a motel,” agreed Kasey, “Besides this woods gives me the creeps,” she added. She was right, a thick mist had set in turning every shadow into danger.

“Hey look at that sign,” pointed Liana. In the mist stood an old wooden sign; the letter seemed to be carved into it read,

Misterville, ½ mile, We’re dying to meet you.

When people are tired and hungry they often forget to look at basic clues. The girls did not notice that the sign wasn’t there a moment ago, and they defnitely did not notice the second part.

As they went through the town not a single person showed.

“Is it really that late?” asked Sophia. All of the girls’ phones had died so they had no clue what time it was for the past hour.

“Never mind that,” said Kasey, “And look I found us a motel,” the others were happy to see that.

The front door creaked open to a youngish man with a stare that felt like a dagger. The lobby smelt of decaying

fesh, and the whole room was cast ina toxic green shadow.

“Um excuse me sir, I was wondering if you had any rooms?” asked Liana sheepishly.

“Rooms? Oh yes rooms,” the man said, “I’m Mr Morgin, leader of this fne establishment,” Mr Morgin declared with a toothy glare. “I’m sure your stay will be a bite,” he smiled a wry smile. What’s that in his teeth? Wondered Sophia, but she kept it to herself.

Liana was settling into the room when the light started fickering.

“That’s odd,” she said while ficking the switch. Then with a crack the light went out completely. THUMP!

“Hello?” she called out to the dark room. Lian decided to look in the hallway. She waked down a couple of paces.

“Is everything alright?” asked a grim voice, “Are the lights being a pain in the neck?”. Liana whirled around. Nothing.

“What is this creepy place?” Lian muttered to herself. Her heart was pounding. She turned to go back inside her room. The door creaked open. She stepped inside.

“This isn’t my room,” she said. The room itself smelt like death, and in the corner was an odd box. Curiosity got the better of her and Liana crept closer.

Liana went as pale as what was in the box. Kasey!

Liana bolted out of the room and into the labyrinth of hallways. Every shadow wanted to kill her.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!” a shrill scream penetrated her ears. Then it was Liana’s turn to scream.

Georgia bolted. Her shoes were soaked through, and her hair was tangled in front of her face. She was walking home from work when she got caught in a downpour. That was fall in Chicago. Benny had warned her not to walk home, but it was for a different reason.

“In the rain She comes,” he had said. She was the

demon who supposedly took people in the darkest storms. Georgia didn’t believe in things like that. She never really did. Her whole family did though. Her father and brother never understood, but her mother did.

“That’s alright that,” she would say, patting her head, “you do what makes you happy” Georgia loved her mom. Georgia was shivering. Not because of the alleged demon, though. instead, her whole body was ice from head to toe.

Mixed media

Grade 7

One

William Esteves Cooper Grade 7

One.

Among all six of them, one person didn’t belong. They were a monster, or a sorcerer, or just a murderer. The Organization had told them so. And the Organization’s word was law.

When the Organization had announced over the P.A. in their rooms a chance to get out of their colorless apartments, even for a moment, to breathe air without peroxide and see more than just the four white walls of their living quarters, everyone had leapt at the chance. Because why wouldn’t they? They lived in purgatory. They weren’t allowed out of their rooms. The only way to escape was to try to unalive yourself. And no one even managed that. The rooms were devoid of anything but a mattress, a scratchy sheet that barely passed as a blanket, and a hole to relieve yourself. Meals were given through slots in the wall that became fush when not in use.

So almost everyone entered the contest, and the Organization chose through a lottery system. This was how Myra ended up in that room with the fve others.

Why me? Myra thought, not for the frst time. She hadn’t even known she’d entered. How was I supposed to know that you entered by pressing the Lokh?

The Lokh were a set of microchips that were embedded into every admittant’s skull as soon as they arrived. They were located in the temples, and were used to tell the Organization where anyone was at any time. They would sometimes also play a high-pitched ringing frequency that made people collapse in pain, wailing and begging to make it stop.

Myra had been in her room (where else?) sitting on

her bed when she had suddenly dropped to the foor, screaming in pain. She had felt the pain of the Lokh before — the leaders tested them monthly — but this was something else. Something worse. Her whole body spasmed, and all she could feel, all she could think was pain. Even her usually curly, bouncy hair seemed to jitter, as if trying to shake the pain out of her skull. She had pressed her hands to the sides of her skull, as though trying to keep it from falling apart. And somehow that had entered her into this contest, almost guaranteeing her impending death.

The headache had faded after about thirty minutes, and Myra fell into a restless sleep. However, it came back. And again. And again. They kept coming back, over and over. At frst, Myra had thought that it was just a normal migraine, caused by the harsh light or the constant smell of bleach and peroxide assaulting her nose. But they came back, every night at the same time, like clockwork. For months.

She had found ways to cope, small tricks like saving her water from lunch to soak a corner of her blanket to hold to her head, pinching or stabbing herself with anything she could fnd to feel a different pain. Often, the inedible, stale bread they got for breakfast would be hard enough to give her enough pain, and sometimes even drew blood.

Not for the frst time, Myra marveled at how she had gotten here. Her family had fallen on hard times after her father passed away, and as the eldest of her four siblings, she had taken on three jobs to try to help them stay afoat. She wallowed in her grief, and it was all she could do to feed the family and take care of the baby and the toddler. Myra didn’t have many memories of her father, only that he was constantly away at work and rarely stayed long enough to even take them to school.

After he left, Myra’s back was constantly in pain from sweeping at the bar, and her feet hurt from standing at the cash register at the gas station. She got less than three hours of sleep a day. This went on for months, until she forgot what it was like to be without pain. She even began enjoying others’ pain, because it felt good to know that she wasn’t the only one. She was often called a sadist, but she didn’t care. She thirsted for pain. She needed pain. So she started going to watch underground fghts. She laughed and laughed and felt drunk on their pain as the fghters threw punches and got beaten up for not enough money. But it wasn’t enough. She had to be in there. Experiencing their misery up close. So she signed up to be in the fghts. It came easy to her, and she was quick, furious, and strong. She would destroy her opponents, cackling as they cowered before her. She became known as a cruel, sadistic fghter in the ring. But it all came crumbling down when her mom found out. She was so horrifed, and didn’t trust her daughter anymore. Her whole family was terrifed of her. Eventually it just wasn’t possible to live together. Her mom sent her to an asylum called the Organization. She cried the whole way there.

Her days of relishing in others’ pain were behind her, and she was perfectly healthy, but the Organization wouldn’t let her go. They were paid by the government per person admitted, but nobody checked where that money went. They also often held these “gladiator fghts,” such as the one she was in now, for time to go outside, but she had turned down the offer every time. She hadn’t wanted to go back to her old ways. But here she was, in a prison arena, about to fght to the death. She was terrifed, but a small part of her was excited to see pain again, after so long. No, she thought. I can’t go back. I won’t go back.

Her urge to kick in their faces, to smash their ribcages, to break their legs was overpowering. It overcame all of her senses, coursed through her veins, and seized control of all her autonomy. She felt something within her snap, as if tearing free, away, as the chains keeping it in place fell down, down down into the abyss of her heart.

The others in the room, most much bigger than her, all of a sudden looked terrifed of her. She was confused, but she didn’t care. She felt powerful, and for the frst time in her life, she felt free.

Her wounds felt better, and she looked at the wound on her thigh from this morning’s bread. Her whole body was covered in hair.

She was the one that didn’t belong. She was a werewolf.

Red Rocks

Lucie Haskell Grade 7

Dry blood surrounds me With my every breath I say I am so lucky Damp veil covers my dry head Towers built with iron rust

Upcycled clothes

Grade 8

Imprudence

Nora Mulvehill

Grade 8

Just be

Just allow yourself to exist

Bask in your own decisions

Live like a fruit fy

People will forget what you do

You will become inevitable

Don’t let your choices defne you

Swim in the fountain

Climb on the wall

Watch that show

Jump off the bridge

Drink the drink

Go to that country

Don’t take those gentle reminders

Skip school

Try new food combos

Double dip your carrots

Pour two hot chocolate packs instead of one

Get your nails done

Be reckless

Eat zucchini muffns

Dye your hair jet black

Compliment that strangers perfume

Buy that shirt

Go to that concert

Get the dog you’ve always wanted

Post those embarrassing photos

Roll down that hill

Read that book

Take that road trip across the country

Go to that party

Host that party

Go camp in the middle of nowhere

Sneak out to stargaze

Just do what you want

Ignore the rules and just do it all.

Digital photograph Grade 7

Maxim Michniewicz

Shimmering Horizon

Digital photograph

Grade 8

Their Eyes

Ollie Murphy Grade 7

Her eyes, How they sparkle, Like fresh pumpkin pie, Like auburn autumn leaves, Like a sunset sky. His eyes, They’re like rivers, Icy and fowing, Two pools of boundlessness, Kind, And all-knowing. But together, Oh, together, Their eyes are gems, Sparkling, Glistening, Love without end. They cross, And they merge, They ebb, And they fow, Hot chocolate, And ice cream, Fire, And snow.

Afraid of the Dark Grady Pompa

Grade 7

The sun fell too quickly that day, Its golden glow was quickly softened.

Darkness is the absence of light

The shack on the corner never looked so frightening, Its silent trees framed the sky as I walked past. The greying sky looked like broken glass while looming above those trees.

The red orb of light quickly sank. The dark flled the light And silence flled the sound

Then ravens caw shattered the tranquility and shook me from my trance.

Stunned at the difference in light I hurry along Quietly

I’ve neared my street when I see it, A pair of bright yellow eyes pierce the darkness. I freeze Frozen. Forever.

Haiku in Triplicate

Claire Ponden

Grade 6

Enveloped

Caught in frigid storms

Wind bickering around me

Heavy snow coatings

Invisible

Snow hides something that I cannot fathom and yet It leaves me falling

Erupt

Loud beauty licks wood

Flames not quite transparent leap In my freplace

Tree of Life

Guinevere Prapopulos

Grade 8

The vibrant autumn leaves, descend upon the ground, Too numerous to count, Making barely any sound.

Each one with intricate veining, Like tributaries of a river, Blowing through the air, insistent you follow them.

Once vibrant green, Morphing into vermillions, oranges, and yellows, Keeping a strong observance, through the grasp of the fall foliage.

Not all of the leaves blow into the wind, For they have been squashed, By the boot of a walker, Or the tire of a cyclist.

The tree that was their breath, Standing upon the hill, Now they all are withered, But their spirit lurks still.

Man in the Moon

Ollie Murphy Grade 7

When we surrender to the night, Letting our minds foat us away on a cloud of dreams, Has one ever wondered who keeps watch over us during that time? Well, there lies an old man, His hair a pearly white, surrounding him in a blanket of slumber, He naps during the day, And at nightfall, he casts his silver fshing rod, Pulling himself up and into the sky for the whole world to gaze upon, Playing cards with the stars, And sharing secrets with the wind, He spreads his old, tired arms, Sending peace and harmony echoing through the world, Ricocheting from house to house, Laying a warm bed of rest upon each and every one, And when morning arrives, He sinks back down past the horizon, Awakening a new beginning.

Avery Holtz Hues

Once Upon a Time

Ollie Murphy Grade 7

Many stories began with “once upon a time”, Stories of princesses, dragons, and kings. From true love to magic, Some truthful, some tragic. Some wrap around your head, Some soar high above. These new stories, though, Don’t align with these tales, Not fables or frauds, Not lessons you learn, Or a kiss from a frog. The magic of life, And imagination, too, Are the modernized versions, Of the stories that you, Were told before bed, The peaceful ones. Of a princess with magic, Produced from the sun. Stories keep us in check, Without reason or rhyme. But not all stories start, With “once upon a time”

blot out the sky

William Esteves Cooper Grade 7

the black shadow on the paper the stroke of darkness on an otherwise empty leaf of unbroken canvas fows from the tip of my pen, silently sinking into the vessel beneath my hand.

feeting words fow, feeing my otherwise clear mind leaping down my arm, into my pen, to be bequeathed by my hand into the thin page before me.

at frst a few words, then full phrases flter through my subconscious, funneled into a poem with a few ficks of my wrist.

I write, and I write, and I write, ink fy furiously into the page, and I write, and I write, and I write, covering my mind, my page, and my body, and I write, and I write, and I write, until my ink blots out the sky.

Beneath

Digital photograph

Grade 8

109 JUNE 2026 Pen & Paper

Limits

Poppy Thomson Grade 7

My eyes do not reach light anymore

The crescent moons I have built on my eyebags

The kind of moons no astronaut will discover

For I cover them with a smile

A smile without a soul

A body with no controller

Only that I had never given up my hope

For I don’t drop the bricks I must carry

Right onto my feet

Because a match will not light without a bit of pressure

But how much pressure must I put on my back till it snaps

How much pressure till I can rest my mind

Till I can no longer carry?

Till I am told that I look sick

And I my soul stretches into a void?

How much must I run to see

The fnish line that tells me

To stop vaulting myself past myself?

I want to push myself harder

Worried I might go too far

I don’t want to rest my eyes

For it is only the start.

I have been deceived by limits.

Color

Guinevere Prapopulos

Grade 8

As the snow comes down, The doves leave, Into the clouds in the sky, Waiting until the moon comes up.

The leaves blossom, until they are encompassed by the deep vermillion of fall, The cardinals land on them every day, Until the leaves are no more.

As the fall turns into winter, The Monarchs start their assent, Flying as the day trickles by, Waiting until the sun sets.

The sun shines down on earth, Making the marigolds visible, As the bumblebees seize the nectar, Until the fowers breathe with life.

As the mountains are eroding, A glimpse of a chartreuse peeks through, As peridot emerges, Symbolizing the summer is coming to a close.

The ocean pulsing with entity, As the sky bustles with essences, As the blue jays are watching from overhead, Noticing the blue whales communicating with each other, whispering secrets to one another.

As the ice starts to melt, The crocuses appear at the beginning of spring, The days of the Amethyst are slowing leaving, And the existence of nature lives on.

Breya Peck

Shaken

Digital photograph

Grade 6

113 JUNE 2026 Pen & Paper

Snowdrift

Claire Ponden

Grade 6

Powdery white dust crunches beneath my feet

I swing my sister’s hand in mine

She giggles, I chuckle back

The snow nearly rises up past my knees

It swallows her waist and below

That’s what takes me by surprise

I take one wrong step

Suddenly I feel cold seeping into my clothes

Through my many layers

Frost tickles my skin

I still feel myself pitching forward

My sister’s muffed screams for me still rise above

Echoing through this snowdrift to me

But the frozen water melts in my mouth, Every time I try to inhale

It stings the back of my throat

Crunches of my sister’s feet alarm from above

Probably running to my parents

I swing my frozen limbs

Trying to swim and follow the sound

But now all I hear is wretched silence

And only solemn silence follows

And all I know

Is that this is one deep

Snowdrift

In the woods

Fear in the Woods

Ellie Mae Sullivan Grade 7

You must beware, For terror lurks within the air. A crunch of leaves on the ground, In the darkness clawed paws pound. Through the mist, wind, and rain

You feel the cold, You feel the pain. In the woods you hear a cry, In the fearful shadows You ponder Why?

Deep and cold

Stay away, The signs have told. In the darkness of the woods; Feel the fear as you should.

Snow Owl

Grady Pompa

Grade 7

Perched high along a bare branch, Its snow-white wings folded majestically, Sits the owl, Its icy eyes, sparkling from years of wisdom, Silently surveys its territory. Finding nothing of interest, The snow owl, With one beat of its powerful wings, Lifts itself to the sky, Aloft,

It is a bird of new beauty, A master in its old element, It pierces the stratosphere with the utmost ease. As it cruises higher, It becomes a dot of white, Amongst a blue, blue, sky. And then it disappears. And all the while, You are sitting peacefully, Glass in hand, And a mass of embers

Burning brightly in the room.

Opening Light

Digital photograph

Grade 8

Father Figure

Claire Ponden

Grade 6

Once upon a time Long, long ago

Back when everything was perfect are not words I will describe this story with as forth, this is a continuous story a never ending loop of longing

The Sun, a bright maiden with golden hair and practically glowing skin

The Moon a young girl with already greying hair due to the immense pressure of her father, Pluto

Yet one day during an eclipse while in orbit the Sun met the Moon

The Sun fell as soon as she met the Moon shoved into sentimentality plunged into passion yet she knew she was tumbling into treachery She knew this because Pluto would never accept

The Moon felt the same towards the Sun even as she watched the silky hair of the Sun move away from her Her father her ill-viewed father would never let the Moon see the Sun ever again if he could help it

He tried to get the Moon to move in with him to move to the Asteroid Fields She was heavily tempted since she never got to see the Sun that much anymore Alas, she declined, deciding less is bigger than more for her

Pluto got so peeved that his daughter could love someone else more than she did him And a star at that too! he remarked to himself Pluto always had a secret thing that went especially against stars

He asked his closest neighbor Neptune for a potion

One day, while the Moon was sleeping he wiped it on her forehead right underneath the long rocky hair he had given her

When the Moon awoke, she quickly dressed, putting on a tight blue blouse and a leather vest She told her roommate, the Earth, that she planned on going to see the Sun the Earth just smiled and waved a goodbye as not even he, had known the nefarious doings of Pluto the night prior

Now, you may be wondering, What on Earth was that potion for? well the Moon sadly found out quickly enough As she was headed to see the Sun,

away towards the opposite direction the direction of Pluto but she never saw him only the Sun as she hung and dangled mid air

between the Sun and Pluto

At least that’s what the Moon told herself though she never really saw the Sun only once every 18 months on the eclipse they frst met

That’s why another name for a month is a moon

So that even the Sun can remind herself of the ticking time between seeing her beloved again

Noon

Nora Mulvehill Grade 8

You’ve been here before, the same circumstances, same day but different times. You’ve been stuck in a continuous loop for centuries. Slowly, you’ve gone insane, not able to handle this derangement anymore. The day starts out the same way, you wake up and you accept that you are, yet again, in this loop. The only thing acceptable about this constant cycle is that you are completely numb to what happens. No matter what you do, she will be gone by Noon.

She lives a normal day from when she wakes up to dusk and then it collapses. She’ll wake up, stretch and do some yoga to get ready for the day. She’ll walk to the bathroom, look in the mirror and frown at her face for the frst time, because of a dark circle around her eye. Then she’ll wonder what went through her mind in that moment of weakness. After she stares too long she splashes her face with cold water and pats it dry. As she brushes her teeth and goes over the science formulas in her head. The test today is going to be extremely challenging.

After she gets dressed in a baby pink tank top, light wash denim skirt and a white cardigan she does her makeup and places a navy headband on top of her curled hair. She feels pretty, despite the large bruise on her face. You, on the other hand, will never feel remorse. It’s still early when she grabs her toast and banana for breakfast, then she rushes out the door and the cold weather pierces her skin. Although she loves fall weather, she was not built for the frigid morning air.

You watch her as she boards the bus, you are beaten by what could have been. She sits in a seat by the window in the front and gazes through the frosted window. You

still have her schedule and lunch spots memorized, you fnd that that’s going to be useful in this situation. Her frst class was science and it was boring. Social Studies is her next class and her least favorite subject but next she has English which everyone says is their favorite but it truly is her favorite subject.

You watch her as she walks out the door in English and you watch her as she places her bags into her locker and grabs her lunch bag (she is gluten and nut free). She walks to the library and is looking through the history books. She fnds a Susan B. Anthony biography and sits at an empty table. You come up behind her and she doesn’t notice.

It’s Noon.

Avery Holtz

In the Distance

Digital photograph

Grade 7

127 JUNE 2026 Pen & Paper

Night Painting

Ellie Mae Sullivan Grade 7

At the time the grateful sun slips beyond With it the pinks, greens, oranges, and reds

The moon comes out to color her sky

With a pallet of icy darkness. She swirls her hues, and splattered her crystals

With the night, And its beautiful paintings

The shadows are carefully swirled too

Molded in with the shining inky sky

There are the bits of stars that break And cascade down into trouble, but sometimes glory

The night is mysterious, Both wonderful and fearful

It brings with night beasts, terrors, And shadows that coat the land

With just the sheer terror of the unknown

Even with the chilling shadows

The night sky, And night itself

Is a graceful, shadowy work of art

William Esteves Cooper

Silent Stars

Acrylic & pencil on glass Grade 7

Stars

Ollie Murphy Grade 7

Through stars I spin, Sanded, sorted, Struck with shimmering beams. Suspended silently, Amongst lightning and rain, I’m shredded and realigned. My DNA shattered, Paper-mache brain set alight, From matchstick fngers. But still glued and pasted back into one. The stars caress me. Safe, Spinning, Soundly.

Cherry Blossom

Lucie Haskell

Grade 7

Angel wings falling Honeyed petals lay lightly Covering the dew

That was once in the pink tree Sweet aroma in the air

Unseen Danger

Kaitlyn Mesiya

Grade 8

All that glitters is not golden, Nor harmless as it seems. Not all danger is apparent, As black ice’s shiny sheen.

It lays silent on the street, No one knows it’s there.

Until one false step, The worlds collide, Slick and slippery As you tumble Down, Down, Down.

Lesson learned, Take small steps

Caution is your friend.

Trust not only what you see, Look beyond.

The dangers of the world lay hidden in plain sight.

The Sound of Silence

William Esteves Cooper

Grade 7

In the woods

You must beware, For terror lurks within the air. A crunch of leaves on the ground, In the darkness clawed paws pound. Through the mist, wind, and rain

You feel the cold, You feel the pain. In the woods you hear a cry, In the fearful shadows You ponder Why?

Deep and cold

Stay away, The signs have told. In the darkness of the woods; Feel the fear as you should.

Roar

Claire Ponden

Grade 6

Hear their voices roar

Mixing with the screams and shouts

Livid and surreal

The Power of One Person

Pencil and paper on printed photographs

Grade 7

Alexandra

Murphy

Hello

Muse

Claire Ponden

Grade 6

Let me be your muse

Your inspiration

For paintings of whimsy pegasi

For ballads of lovestruck sirens

Let me be your muse

Your pallet

For grasses red as dawn

For skies yellow as daisies

Let me be your muse

Your heart

For busts that will laugh

For bouquets that will cry

Let me be your muse

For the hope of it all

This year’s edition of Pen & Paper, “Skies Askew,” is intended to hold both complimentary images and words as well as some jarring juxtapositions that subvert the reader’s expectations. As in life, things make sense until they don’t, but as people we are always trying to make meaning, whether the skies are bright and clear, cloudy and dim, dangerous and threatening, or a mixture that upends our previously held conceptions (like sunshowers or daytime lightning). The intent throughout the magazine is to offer commentary and insight into what it means to be human, through the eyes of middle school students and their artwork, poetry, short stories, videos, and photography.

The digital fle 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 Fairfeld, Connecticut. There are 135 enrolled students in total (only 68 in the Upper School, Grades 5-8 who contribute to the magazine) and 53 faculty, staff, and members of the administration. The contributors to Pen & Paper 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 staff, 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

All Columbian Honors

American Scholastic Press Association (ASA)

First Place with Special Merit Award

Most Outstanding Middle School Literary-Art Magazine Award