Pen & Paper - Volume 15 - 2024-2025

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, 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-in-Chief, approves the final layout of the magazine and makes final edits and adjustments before going to print.

Cover Art

Alegria Rojas

Dappled Things

Digital photograph

Grade 8

Pen & Paper 2024-2025

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

Ines Alexander ‘26 Editor

Sylvia Barbuto ‘25 Editor

Luna Ambrosi ‘25 Editor

Jack Bazzanella ‘26 Editor

Maxim Michniewicz ‘26 Editor

Cameron Mitchell ‘25 Editor

Aleksandra Wesson ‘25 Editor

Vivan Winkelmann ‘25 Editor

Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25 Editor-in-Chief

Mrs. Krissy Ponden Art Consultant

Nora Mulvehill ‘26 Editor

Mr. Eric Snow Advisor

Dedication

This issue of Pen & Paper is dedicated to Mrs. Ann Palm, a beloved member of the Unquowa community who is retiring this year. Mrs. Palm has taught PreK-4 and Kindergarten with love and dedication since 2013, and every student who has had her as a teacher loves her deeply and can attest to her caring nature. She has instilled a sense of compassion, respect, and empathy in all of her students, and inspired a love of learning in countless students throughout her time here. From raising monarch butterflies to leading the Kindergarten Camping Trip, Mrs. Palm’s gentle, creative, and loving presence in the classroom has been an inspiration to so many. She will be dearly missed by all of us, but especially by those of us privileged to have been in her joy-filled classroom throughout the years.

Mrs. Palm, thank you so much for everything you have done for us! We love you! Enjoy a long and happy retirement!

From the Editor

Dear Reader,

Creative expression has helped the world through even the darkest times, and this issue of Pen & Paper, “Morning Has Broken”, is no exception. In “Dusk”, the first section of this issue, the work takes on a hazy quality, evoking the feeling of a cloudy sunset—the thin lines between happy and sad, laughter and tears, good and evil, real life and dreams, are blurred, just like that period between afternoon and evening, and the world becomes unsure. Then comes “Midnight”, where the pieces illustrate the darkest parts of our present world, yet still manage to find the light. Even in this section, a feeling of hope permeates the work. And, finally, “Dawn” comes. There is still heartbreak, pain, and darkness, but the morning has arrived, and the love, happiness, and joy that are always there (even if they aren’t always apparent) are illuminated by the sun.

Even in the most difficult times, hope prevails. Even in a metaphorical “midnight”, the stars are still visible. There is still beauty in the world. And, eventually, morning will break in and out.

This issue would not have been possible without everyone who contributed to, helped, and advised the Pen & Paper staff. I want to send huge shoutouts to: Mr. Snow, who advised us all year, helped us brainstorm ideas, was willing to play our really strange music requests on full blast during that one hyper-chaotic meeting, and never failed to make us laugh; Mrs. Ponden, who helped us with the Voices of Change and Unsung Heroes submissions; Upper School students who submitted work for consideration—your contributions are the reason this issue is as beautiful, poignant, and inspiring as it is; the rest of the Pen & Paper staff, who showed up first thing in the morning to edit, come up with contest ideas, judge submissions, and write for the magazine, all without complaint; and, finally, you, dear reader, for taking the time to sit with and consider the gorgeous art, photography, short stories, and poems that are contained in this issue.

Thank you.

On behalf of everyone involved in Pen & Paper, I hope that you are moved, inspired, and empowered by this issue.

And remember: morning will come.

With love,

Oola Breen-Ryan Editor-in-Chief

Sunset on the Beach by Xavier Holzer ‘28

The Line by Zaheera McDowell ‘26

Cupid’s Gaze by Reya Halper ‘25

Miss Adler’s Love Potions by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25

From Paper to Paper by Edison Davidowitz ‘26

When Harm is Heard by Alexandra Murphy ‘26

Snowbeach by Alegria Rojas ‘25

When the Snow Meets the Sand by Reya Halper ‘25

Supernova by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25

Red by Alegria Rojas ‘25

Second Scream by Grady Pompa ‘27

Along the Docks by Alegria Rojas ‘25

Sunrise by Sylvia Barbuto ‘25

Scars by Poppy Thomson ‘27

Starcatcher by Rex Spinner ‘25

City 2025 by Alegria Rojas ‘25

The Catepillar Effect by Alegria Rojas ‘25

A Normal Day by Grady Pompa ‘27

Preoccupied by Weston Doyle ‘25

Treetops by Nerushka Lopez Aponte ‘25

The Mirror Dream by Ellie Mae Sullivan ‘27

Hand-Me-Down by Rex Spinner ‘25

Arrows of Terror by Grady Pompa ‘27

Fire Escape by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25

Texter by Ellie Mae Sullivan ‘27

She Was So Beautiful... by Sylvia Barbuto ‘25

Waves of Waste by Alegria Rojas ‘25

The Voodoo Doll by Salma Mehra ‘27

Patch by Avery Holtz ‘27

Lights Off by Alegria Rojas ‘25

Day/Night by Emily Smith ‘25

Stretch of Sound by Alegria Rojas ‘25

The Silent One by Tresor Kayumba ‘27

by Nerushka Lopez Aponte ‘25

by Reya Halper ‘25

reaching by London Acunto ‘25

Nightfall by Asher Tulupman ‘25

Slasher by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25

Paper Guardian by Henry Winkelmann ‘28

Seeing Stars by Rex Spinner ‘25

Moon’s Glow by Reya Halper ‘25

La Luna by Reya Halper ‘25

Hot Stones by Alegria Rojas ‘25

Charlie by Sylvia Barbuto ‘25

A Candle’s Light by Ellie Alexander ‘28

The Cart by Ellie Mae Sullivan ‘27

Interstellar by Henry Winkelmann ‘28

Streetlamp by Oola Breen-Ryan ‘25

The Reflection by Nerushka Lopez Aponte ‘25

I’ve Worn Other People’s Faces by Sylvia Barbuto ‘25

Dreams by William Esteves-Cooper ‘27

My Most Memorable Vacation by Vivan Winkelmann ‘25

Warmth by Clara Scotto ‘25 Dust by Clara Scotto ‘25

Aaron by Denny Dumbwizi ‘26

Just Like That by Ellie Holtz ‘25

Crash Site by Henry Winkelmann ‘28

Silencing Sexual Assault by Vivan Winkelmann ‘25

Worth the Wait? by London Acunto ‘25

Sorry by Luna Ambrosi ‘25

The Waters of Soólkin by William Esteves-Cooper ‘27

Space Dust by Henry Hart ‘27

Las Esfera (The Orb) by Clara Scotto ‘25

The Final Destination by Clara Scotto ‘25

The Window by Lucie Haskell ‘27

Bird’s Eye by Alegria Rojas ‘25

Waterway by Clara Scotto ‘25

Schizophrenic by Luna Ambrosi ‘25

Fragile by Ellie Holtz ‘25

It’s Time to

On by Vivian Winkelmann ‘25

Loveless by Claire Ponden ‘28

Prophet by Claire Ponden ‘28

Valentine by Reya Halper ‘25

Snowset by Alegria Rojas ‘25

Changing Seasons by Kaitlyn Mesiya ‘26

Spiral Out by Alegria Rojas ‘25

Nature’s Bath by Rex Spinner ‘25

It Will Be Okay by Rex Spinner ‘25

The Sky and Me by Rex Spinner ‘25

Shadow Fronds by Vivian Winkelmann ‘25

The Way to the... by Nerushka Lopez Aponte ‘25

Colors of Autumn by Oscar Lehnerd-Reilly ‘25

Apple Juice by Sylvia Barbuto ‘25

Ripples by Vivian Kelley ‘25

Magic in the Wind by Mila Acunto ‘28

The Shimmer of the Earth by Clara Scotto ‘25

by Rex Spinner ‘25

Borderline by Sylvia Barbuto ‘25

Bright by Alegria Rojas ‘25

Starsun by Charlotte Mulvehill ‘28

Peaceful Protest by Olivia Weatherly ‘26

Behind the Scenes by Nora Mulvehill ‘26

Freedom by Alegria Rojas ‘25

Al-Jabr by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26

Cloudstepping by Clara Scott ‘25

Berry Stippling by Ellie Holtz ‘25

Ode to the Strawberry by Nora Mulvehill ‘26 Lost by Clara Scotto ‘25

Couney’s Babies by Denny Dumbwizi ‘26

I Would Die for You by Maxim Michniewicz ‘26 ... by any other name by Ellie Alexander ‘28

Firewater by Vivian Winkelmann ‘25

oh little sunshine by Claire Ponden ‘28

a Flash

Digital photograph Grade 8

Alegria Rojas In

Dusk

Sunset and Specks

Ellie Mae Sullivan Grade 6

When the final tangerine glows slip down past the horizon, to take a nap before, they bring our main star up again, a new glow drapes over the sky. First a royal blue, the color of a noble queen’s robes, flowing like the sea. Then it fades to black, but the black has little specks of light, like the middle of a child’s eyes, wide, eager, and full of wonder. The sky soon looks like a sheet of velvet, with elements of water in it.

Silky, wavy, and full of mystery, bright specks start popping out.

Awakened from their slumber, freshened and bright.

Dotting the night with sparkle, and beautiful colors that can only be seen, in the little white glow of one single speck.

Xavier Holzer Sunset on the Beach

Zaheera McDowell

The Line

Fabric, graphite, thread

Grade 7

Digital illustration Grade 8

Reya Halper Cupid’s Gaze

Miss Adler’s Love Potions

Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 8

Miss Madeline Adler had worked at the shop for 30 years and run it for 25, and she didn’t intend to stop anytime soon.

She loved everything about it–the mixing of the potions, the precise measurement going into each one, the astonished looks on people’s faces when they returned a week or so later.

Once, a 20-something year-old had burst into the shop the day after she bought an engagement potion, crying happy tears. “He proposed,” she gushed, “we’re getting married in October, do you want to come to the wedding?” Miss Adler politely declined, but mailed a toaster to the couple’s address.

Of course, by then neither of them knew who she was—the woman because any memory of the potion had been erased from her mind about a week and a half after she used it, as was customary for most love-related magic, and the man because he genuinely believed that he’d proposed to her on his own will. (In fact, before she used the potion on him, he was planning on breaking up with her, which he remembered about a month before the wedding. He wondered why he’d decided to propose instead, but ignored that until December of the same year, when they filed for divorce.)

Miss Adler had seen the birth of hundreds of relationships–a widower and retired movie actress suddenly involved in a whirlwind romance (celebrity crush potion), two teenage girls inexplicably ending up on a road trip together (forced by fate elixir), a 30-year-old PR manager for a business firm and a 32-year old wrestler conveniently sitting down at the same table in a cafe (a quick kismet spell).

Miss Adler went on the first date she’d gone on in a while on a cold January evening. He picked her up from her house, and they went to a cheap Italian restaurant that had given Miss Adler food poisoning once. She decided not to mention anything.

“I’m really glad we’re doing this,” said the man, Harry or Larry or some name like that. She couldn’t remember.

“You seem like a lovely person.”

“Thank you,” Miss Adler said. “So, what’s your line of work?”

“I’m actually a real estate agent,” he said, going on a tangent about the unfair stereotypes about real estate agents—“it’s actually quite interesting, despite what people say”–and then proceeded to rant about his job in a way that seemed, to Miss Adler at least, to perpetuate said stereotypes.

“But I’m talking so much about myself,” he said. “What do you do?”

“I actually run a love potion shop,” she said. “It used to be my mom’s. I started working there when I was 16, then, when she died, I inherited it–”

“Love–love potions?” the man said.

Miss Adler silently cursed herself. Oh no, she thought, not again.

“I keep my business and personal life separate,” she said, “please believe me.” But she could see it in his eyes— did she use a potion on me, am I really interested in her or is this her doing? She could see that he was questioning everything–did he really find her attractive, or was that a result of some strange hex? Was he really interested in what she had to say, or was she manipulating him?

Miss Adler wanted to tell him that she never used magic for herself, only her paying customers. It was true–in this case, the man had reached out to her, first, on a dating app.

But he was already grabbing his jacket. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I need to go.” She didn’t try to stop him. What was the point?

Miss Adler couldn’t believe that she’d let this happen again. Almost every date she had ever gone on since she started working at the shop ended this way. How could she still be so naive?

When Miss Adler got back to the shop, she sat down and cried. It wasn’t that she was sad about the loss of this man, specifically–just the realization that she would never be in an honest relationship. If she omitted the fact of her job, she would be lying. If she didn’t, nobody would ever trust her. This thought broke her.

She screamed and threw a potion (“unrequited no more”, the label read) across the room. Shards of glass, tinted slightly pink from the contents of the bottle, richoceting off of the wall, tiny, delicate pieces suspended in the air for half a moment.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, then collapsed into her desk. She took out her computer and Googled “job openings in Syracruse area”. She would find someone to sell the store to, or, if need be, close it altogether. Whatever happened, she wasn’t going to stay here any longer than necessary.

If she had bothered to clean up the broken bottle, or even been able to see through the tears in her eyes after she’d thrown it, she would notice that the glass had fallen into the shape of a heart, rose-colored glass sparkling in the sunlight, unobserved by her final customers or the eventual demolition crew.

Grade 7

Edison Davidowitz From Paper to Paper

Mixed media

Digital photograph

Grade 8

Alegria Rojas Snowbeach

When the Snow Meets the Sand

Reya Halper Grade 8

Snow falls on the beach, gentle and unexpected, settling quietly on the sand as the ocean sighs in the distance. The waves are pale, their movement slow and unsure, as if they’ve forgotten how to speak to the land. Footprints form, then disappear. Breath shows like smoke from a cigarette before fading. a soft conversation between earth and sky. The horizon is blurry, the light shifting, Not quite day, not quite night. It should not be snowing today, but something in the air feels charged as if the world paused, just for a moment, to leave it so the only thing left to hear is the sound of snowflakes meeting the earth. The snow doesn’t ask for much, but it lingers, and for a while, the beach feels like a place between seasons, between thoughts.

Supernova

Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 8

Mary knows that she is a supernova, imploding without control, and the harm she causes to everyone around her is just collateral damage. Thinking about herself this way makes her feel better, because at least the harm is split up between herself and everyone else, balanced, a feeble equilibrium.

She’s always wanted to be an astronaut, and float away from it all. In the ether, nobody can yell at you or tell you there’s something wrong with you. You’re just surrounded by millions of miles of emptiness and far-apart explosions. Like a god, she thinks. She can be a god and wreak havoc on all of the people on Earth who have wronged her. She can control the strings, and, because nobody will be there to tell her otherwise, she can tell herself that she is really making a difference and not just waving her hands in circles, pretending she is fate.

In space, if you’re a supernova, you fit in with the hundreds of stars imploding on themselves every day. You’re not the exception, the one kid coming to school with bruises on her arms and a flaming temper. There are millions of dying stars surrounding you, enveloping you, becoming some sort of twisted family.

You’re not the only one being torn away from her parents in the third grade. You’re not the only student going to therapy in fourth grade and climbing out the window, breaking your forearm. You’re not the only eighth grader being expelled for fighting. You’re not the only sophomore diagnosed with severe PTSD and psychopathy. To all the other self-destructing stars, you are one of them—death is all they know in the present moment.

Mary knows she can’t be an astronaut if she tells

anyone about her increasingly violent urges, so she keeps her head down for high school, gets into a decent college, graduates, applies for a job at NASA. She’s surrounded by supernovas, not other human supernovas like herself, but satellite images and research. Mary wonders if that’s how other people think of her—as a rare phenomenon to be observed and studied, not as a real being. Do the supernovas projected on screens in conference rooms feel pain as their life disappears within them? Do they feel regret, anger, or do they antiseptically accept their death?

When Mary finds out about the opportunity for 5 people currently working for NASA to be sent to the ISS, she immediately applies for the job. She gets it, and is sent in a rocket 6 months later to the Station.

As they leave Earth, Mary’s repressed lack of feeling is overwhelmed by the vast emptiness around her, and she bursts, kills the pilot of the ship, crashing it into a piece of space debris, imploding.

Mary, a supernova, and everyone else, collateral.

Alegria Rojas

Second Scream Grady Pompa

Grade 6

I had always liked the fall—I loved to carve pumpkins to decorate our backyard with beautiful or creepy faces, I loved the crisp fall air, but most of all, I loved the leaves. I loved waking up in the morning seeing that blanket of red, yellow, and brown, I loved darting through those leaves, watching the wonders of nature leap to the air in a firework of color then floating slowly back to the ground, I loved it all.

Then that all changed in an instant, and now fall and the leaves are only a bitter reminder of what could have been. If only I had done something differently maybe, just maybe, he would still be here.

My older brother Elias was someone who I always looked up to, and I cherished every moment I had with him. But one day he asked me to go with him to a place I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to end up in.

The woods.

See, our town wasn’t very big. It was mostly surrounded by wilderness and trees for miles—we called this huge area “the woods”. But “the woods” being overgrown isn’t what had frightened me. I was horrified by the Red-Eyed Demon—a shadowy monster who was said to stalk the forest looking for dinner, and its favorite lunch was children.

Elias would always say this was just a myth, but it was like our town’s Chupacabra or Jersey Devil. It was a legend that our town became famous for, yet the people who lived there were terrified of it.

But Elias wanted to go there, why?

“Elias,” I said nervously, with a tinge of curiosity. “Why, of all places, would you want to go there?”

“Well,” he said slyly. “You like leaves right?”

And those words were what started off the worst experience in my life.

But as I happily followed my older brother off into the darkness of those giant trees, I thought not of the Red-Eyed Demon but of the leaves in the clearing he was talking about. And he was correct about one thing. There was a clearing with enough leaves to keep me happy for years, but then something dawned on me—this was way too perfect. Could it be some sort of trap?

“Elias, I love the leaves,” four-year-old me said. “But can we please go home now?” Elias opened his mouth to say something—to this day I’m still not sure what, because then the whole world fell silent.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to describe it right, but the best way to think about it is like the silence before the apocalypse breaks out, before the storm hits, before everything goes wrong. Those leaves that had drawn us so easily out of our safety then swiftly disappeared like the morning dew does when the sun comes up. It was a mirage. A MIRAGE! That was when I realized that we were dealing with something more than a wild beast.

The devil that fooled us was magic. Then it appeared. The monster of my nightmares was real.

And this monster. Was coming. To kill us.

Its body was coal black but it didn’t seem fully there; it looked as if it was partly in a separate dimension, one with no hope or love. In this dimension there was only destruction and despair.

But the thing that scared me the most was those eyes. They were like gates to the underworld. They were burning, menacing vats of red-hot lava. This was an animal of pure death and rage; it was after nothing but blood, and it was thirsty.

“Run, Kairo!” Elias said hurriedly. “It can’t get both of us.”

I didn’t move. I wasn’t sure what he said was true and I certainly didn’t feel like leaving him.

“Please, Kairo, do it for me,” Elias said pleadingly. Then he pushed me toward the direction of our home and my four-year old legs did something I’d regret for the rest of my life. They obeyed and started to run.

Throughout my life I don’t think I ever ran as fast as I did that night. I only stopped once, and this wasn’t to catch my breath. It was because of something much, much, worse.

One singular, solitary, yet absolutely ghastly scream. Then four-year old me, finally out of those dark trees, fell down and sobbed. Even at that age there wasn’t any question of what it was.

Elias was gone. Forever.

Now, I’m an eighty-year-old man. I’m the only person who has seen the monster and lived to tell the tale. And sometimes on the anniversary of my brother’s death, if I am right at the foot of those trees, I hear that one ghastly scream.

And once a year on that date, I fall down and cry, I cry for my brother and for everyone who has died at the hands of this horror, and then finally I curse that devil for the pain he’s caused.

Why Elias?

Along the Docks

Digital photograph

Grade 8

JUNE 2025 Pen & Paper

Alegria Rojas

Scars

Poppy Thomson Grade 6

His Scars

His scars are like rivers on a map

Because they led him to the right place

Even if that journey was long Or if he had gotten lost along the way. He found peace by going off trails.

Her Scars

Her scars are like carvings on a tree They cut deep

But they tell memories, and tales words can’t describe. But the tree grows and those carvings will one day fade away.

Their Scars

Their scars are strokes on a canvas They are art, they are stories

Over time those strokes go away slowly

And those scars will look like a new canvas

That they get to paint.

But this time

They tell a different narrative.

Alegria Rojas City 2025

Normal

Asher Tulupman Grade 8

Sitting in that plastic chair, I looked at my mother’s pale face. She gasped and weakly scrambled to say, “I love you, Ansem.” But then I heard the flat beep of the heart rate monitor, and the doctors rushed in, trying everything to save her, to give her even one last breath. It didn’t work.

Wyatt and Dad started crying, but for me, nothing changed. The world kept spinning, my heart kept beating, and everyone kept moving. As we ate dinner that night, not a word was said. Tears were running down Wyatt’s cheek, and Dad tried to keep it all in.

After that, I thought something was wrong with me. Why didn’t I cry, why didn’t I miss her, why wasn’t I normal?

I woke up to Wyatt crying. He didn’t want to go to school, but he knew he had to. Dad was too busy. I hated school for the next few months. They all treated me like a baby and made me religiously talk with the advisor. But after the funeral, things were more normal; they were as close as they could have been to before.

The following week, we had a life celebration party at my mom’s wealthy friend’s house. People treated me as they did during the funeral, a baby. It got worse after Wyatt pushed me in the pool. I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I hated him after that.

During that night, I remembered the hospital, the uncomfortable plastic chair, her pale face, and the

words she muddled out, the doctors doing everything they could to keep her with us, and finally, the head shake from the doctor. I screamed into my pillow, “Why me? What did I do?” Then I bawled my eyes out.

I went to school the next day, acting like nothing had happened. As school went on, I missed the baby treatment more and more. I needed the check-ins. I missed it all. I wondered why it couldn’t go back to how it was. It all got worse and worse. I tried to be like Dad, hold it in and act normal in front of everyone else.

It took so much bravery to tell Dad how I was feeling, how I wasn’t normal, and ask him if it meant I didn’t care. He comforted me by telling me how it was okay, because I was too young to process all this fully, and that I cared for and loved her. Maybe I was normal after all and just missed my mom.

A Normal Day

Grady Pompa Grade 6

When I woke up that morning I assumed it would be a normal, regular day, full of eraser dust, pencil stubs and whatever annoying things they had planned for us. Unfortunately, I was wrong. Dead wrong.

“Rowan!” my mom called, her voice rocketing through the hall, easily scaring away any sleep I had left in my body. “Get down here and eat — you’re going to miss the bus!” My mind wandered to a place far away, and as my mind flitted further and further away from the task at hand, I thought of a time when my mom was happier than she was now; before she and my dad split up.

But before I could dig myself deeper into this hole, “Rowan!” my mom called again, clearly more frustrated than the last time.

“Coming!” I yelled. So I dashed down the stairs and wolfed down my breakfast (some now ice-cold toast) and rushed out the door to meet the bus. The bus ride was the same, and I mostly spent it dodging bullies and other grubby people. I was on auto-pilot the whole time, and so I only barely dodged rows of traps that other children left out for me and other kids; low hanging string or rope (invisible unless the sun shined perfectly through the windows), and marbles strewn across the floor. Finally after a couple hundred eternities our crabby bus pulled up to our crabby school and we all trudged down that same bus into those ironically cheerful doors reminding us of the stresses of the school day to come.

First class? Math. Second class? Study Hall. Third class? Oh wow, this is going to be so fun. Or that’s at least what I thought of this whole neat mess (oh sorrrry did I use an oxymoron? It’s not like we spent an entire 45 minutes

learning everything there was to learn about them). I’m also sooooo sad I’m feeling sarcastic today.

By some miracle and crazy luck I made it to the last period and I was sitting there, eyes glued to the clock when out of nowhere: “Will Rowan Willow please report to the main office? Will Rowan Willow please report to the Main Office?”

I was sure I heard snickers as I walked out of that room, but at that moment I didn’t care. What did I do? I was certain that I hadn’t done anything that the school had branded as trouble-making that day, but this didn’t help the butterflies in my stomach as I crept down the hallway.

The Main Office door creaked open in my hand and there waiting for me was an old lady who seemed full of wisdom and looked neither mad nor cheerful.

“You will be leaving school early today,” she said.

“Why?” I pondered, still worried I was in trouble. But no matter how I tried she would not give me an answer and just ushered me out the door. Outside my mom surprisingly wasn’t waiting. Instead, it was my grandfather and grandmother, who looked saddened. That was when I finally realized something was seriously wrong.

We drove quickly along one of the many roads stemming from the school building and pulled up beside a street stemming directly to my house, but then we took a wrong turn.

“Grandpa!” I exclaimed. “We took the wrong route.”

My grandfather didn’t answer and just stared solemnly down the road. I took the time to look where we were going and I saw a white building with a little red cross come into view. The hospital. The hospital. I was scared half to death when slowly my grandmother who had seen my face began to talk.

“Rowan, today your mother had a stroke…”

Weston Doyle Preoccupied

Digitally-altered photographs

Grade 8

JUNE 2025 Pen & Paper

Digital photograph

Grade 8

Nerushka Lopez Aponte Treetops

The Mirror Dream

Ellie Mae Sullivan Grade 6

Kristy woke up with an uneasy feeling in her stomach. A small voice in her head told her to open her bedroom door. The thought enticed her, and curiosity got the best of her. As she crept towards the door a strange sensation filled her.

When she opened the door she found a whole other world. It was an enchanted forest that just seemed to sparkle. The trees created a flowery canopy that shaded the forest floor, where many different wildflowers grew. That same small voice in her head told to explore, so she did.

The forest was beautiful, and multiple times she thought she might have seen a fairy. When she got to an open glade she was stunned by the pure beauty. Then suddenly, the ground beneath Kristy’s feet started to shake, and it caved out from beneath her.

Kristy fell down, and found herself in a stone room. The room was large, and it was made of polished black stone with jeweled accents. In front of her was a door. Again that small voice in her head enticed her to open it. As Kristy turned the doorknob, silver cracks split through the door. With that, the door shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces. Beyond that doorway was a room. At the back of the room there was a white vanity. The white of the vanity was the purest white Kristy had ever seen. The vanity itself seemed to be made from delicate snow drifts. Once again she felt the urge to move towards it.

Upon the vanity there were many things; crystal perfume bottles, blush, pale eyeshadow. But the thing that caught Kristy’s eye was a silver mirror.

The mirror was carved with many intricate swirls and patterned. It caught the light in so many directions, it was as if it was made from starlight. As Kristy was looking at it the polished mirror slipped through Kristy’s hands. When it hit the floor instead of crashing, it smashed into a million pieces. The strange thing was it didn’t make a smashing noise; it made a soft ringing one.

A sharp pain slit Kristy’s palm. A fragment of glass had sliced her hand, but there was no blood.

The ringing did not stop, and it increased in volume. Soon all Kristy could hear was the ringing.

When Kristy looked down, deep purple smoke was curling out of the shattered mirror. The smoke was slowly covering the entire room! As the ringing started to give Kristy a headache, the smoke sped up.

It was up to Kristy’s ankles, knees, and now her waist. When Kristy looked down she saw shadows dancing through the smoke. As smoke crept towards her shoulder one of the shadows grabbed her wrist!

More shadows pulled her into the smoke, the noise still ringing, Kristy slowly sunk into the void.

Kristy woke up with a start. Cold sweat was dripping from her body. Her alarm clock was ringing loudly. Thank goddess it was just a dream, thought Kristy as she got out of bed. As she was getting out, she noticed a small fragment of glass.

Arrows of Terror

Grady Pompa Grade 6

Elves aren’t always good. You may say that they are graceful, quick and clever, but under this shell of excellence, they are scheming demons inside.

Well, at least, that’s what Bog thought as their flaming arrows of terror streamed over his head. The trolls were being attacked by a legion of elves armed to the teeth and all Bog could manage to do was to stand shocked, gripped by an iron fist of cold fear. What could he do?

“RUN!” ordered Kai—Bog’s mother—“they’ll live to regret this.”

Bog complied with a heavy heart, and instead of trying in vain to resist the incoming onslaught, he forced his frozen legs to move, turned, and ran.

However he knew that the elves would never regret what they had done; those dreadful monsters had always, and would always, turn the blame on them.

But as the trolls’ wounded souls trudged slowly through the rugged landscape, Bog just felt relieved that it hadn’t been worse.

About twenty ticks later, their camp was in sight and they were escorted homewards by a few stocky trolls. Bog overheard his mother being interrogated by one of the lead trolls — a stout, grumpy, but honest-looking figure with a scruffy beard and an eyepatch over his left eye, and Bog snuck closer, curious, and eager to know what was going on.

“Attacking while we were on a diplomatic mission?” the eyepatch-wearing troll said angrily. “This means they’re done with negotiating, so therefore…” Bog didn’t get to listen to the rest of the furious statement as he was yanked by his collar from behind. A tall, cross troll towered over

Toltàlt, the co-chief of the troll’s settlement, and she was famous for “being a Trunchbull”, or, in other words, for being extremely strict.

“Eavesdropping on a vital meeting? That information is not for little ears to hear.” She paused as if for dramatic effect, before landing the crushing blow. “For punishment you will scrub the barracks, from top to bottom, with a toothcleaner.” (If you, for some reason, don’t understand the trollish dialect, a toothcleaner is similar to a human toothbrush.)

Bog’s heart sank even lower. An entire day stuck with Toltàlt? That did not seem pleasant at all. And on top of that, if he was stuck with her, then he would never figure out what was going on outside the troll’s camp—he would be left in the dark with a horrible fear of the unknown. He needed a plan.

After what seemed like an eternity, Bog had finished cleaning approximately half of the barracks and stopped, exhausted with an aching pain in his arm. He wasn’t exactly fit for a troll and he felt doomed when faced with this daunting task—and he hadn’t even figured out how he was going to clean the ceiling! He knew he needed to escape.

The window squeaked open a bit loudly for his liking, and he felt too clumsy for sneaking around, but he could see no other option. Bog had to know what was happening. He wasn’t a child anymore, and he felt like he deserved it. Bog was heading towards the main tent when he saw hundreds of trolls armed and marching in practice formations. As they moved, the grass was flattened behind them, creating instant paths, and Bog marveled at the power of his kin. Part of him wished he could join them, but of course they would grumble at his clumsiness and he would be laughed out of the tryouts. Kai would understand. Bog’s mother was the only one who

understood Bog. She valued loyalty more than aggression, and she had risen through the rankings in a way that inspired Bog along with countless others. She was the role model that kept him going.

Bog headed deep into the underbrush where Toltàlt’s prying eyes would miss him, and began to get comfortable. His eyelids became heavy, and before he knew it, he was asleep with a dark grey sky above him and lush green plants beneath his feet.

Bog awoke to sounds of war.

A long, mournful note from an elven war horn shattered the tranquility of the morning, and the mourning doves fluttered upwards, their chirps signaling the tragedies yet to come. Bog sprang up from his slumber. He stood, frightened and shocked, his petrified mind trying to decide what to do.

He stood, staring out of the woods, seeing the two forces clash, hearing shrieks of terror and death and clangs of metal against metal. Then he saw something even more horrific and terrible. He saw Kai lying on the floor — her limbs bent and broken, an elf holding a wicked-looking dagger over her.

Kai closed her eyes and braced for the impact, and Bog screamed with terror.

The elf looked, turned their head and smirked at Bog, mouthed the words you’re next, and lunged with the dagger. Down, down, down, down.

She was dead. In an instant. One moment she was alive and Bog was a child. The next she was dead.

And he was a killer.

Bog felt cold, furious rage boiling up inside him. He darted through the battlefield, grabbed his mother’s weapon, miraculously not getting hit by any of the elves, and began his rampage. His emotions powered every one of his movements, rendering him a wielder of death.

Soon the battle was over. But nobody had won. The elves had lost, but so had the trolls. There were no winners in war. Everybody loses. But Bog had lost the most. He had lost his inspiration, he had lost his childhood, he had lost his way, and he had lost his mom.

Bog couldn’t sleep that night. He had realized that he had killed as many as that elf that had ended his mom.

He had always known that elves aren’t always good, but now he knew much more.

Nobody was.

Digital photograph

Grade 8

Oola Breen-Ryan

Fire Escape,

Texter

Ellie Mae Sullivan Grade 6

The house was quiet. My mom and dad were on a date, my older brother was out with his girlfriend, and my little sister was at a slumber party. I was the only one without plans this weekend, the only one without a date or a party.

I was alone in my house. Billy came sliding in, breaking the silence. Billy was my corgi. He was chubby, silly, and adorable. He was one of the few joys in my life.

I got some funfetti snickerdoodles (Grandma’s recipe and my personal favorite) and put a kettle on for tea. I headed into the living room and turned on a movie to block out the storm. I felt calm but something was off about tonight. How could my entire family all have plans except for me?

I finally convinced my nerves to calm down and got sucked into the movie.

Tweet! I jumped up, my heart racing. It was the tea kettle. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a cup. I finished the movie but was still too jumpy to sleep. I cuddled Billy and started another.

Bzzz-bzzz. My phone beeped. I ignored it. I was sure it was nothing important, anyway. I continued to watch the movie. It was a great one, anyway—no text could be more important than what I was watching.

My phone kept buzzing, and it was getting pretty hard to ignore. I finally picked up my phone and read it.

You can’t ignore me!

Thinking it was a scam, I blocked the number and tried again to watch the movie. My phone started ringing and I finally answered. A faint yet screechy voice repeated, “You can’t ignore me!”

The voice was like an icy breath wrapping around my throat. I choked, hung up and blocked the caller again. Suddenly, the air became really cold. I heard a banging on the door. I tried to call my mom but my phone wouldn’t work, and none of my other contacts worked either.

“You can’t ignore me!” I heard the icy voice say once again. It was the exact same cold voice, but it was coming from outside. My phone was buzzing, and the voice was knocking on the door, begging me to open it. I had no idea what to do.

“Just open the door! You can’t ignore me!” My heart felt like it was gonna pump itself out of my chest. I made my way to the door. I tried to convince myself that the tea had made me sleepy and that this was just a nightmare. I squeezed my eyes shut then opened them again, opening them to find myself still in the nightmare. My phone buzzed and buzzed. The texter was still banging on the door.

Wait, the banging on the door had stopped! I crept toward the door and opened it, just to find a box. I picked it up and went back inside.

I started to open the box. I was going to get a look at what was inside when everything went blurry. One last text appeared on my phone, and there was just enough light left to read it.

Thank you for everything!

As the blurriness faded to black I heard maniacal laughter piercing through the darkness.

Then it was dark and quiet.

Sylvia Barbuto

She Was So Beautiful... Video

Alegria Rojas Waves of Waste Fabric, plastic Grade 8

The Voodoo Doll

Salma Mehra Grade 6

My family and I were all very excited for Halloween. Usually, on Halloween, people went trick or treating. But not in my family. Instead, we walked around our neighborhood in our costumes and sang an ancient Halloween song that was made up by my great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother. It was our family tradition.

My favorite part about our version of Halloween was the gifts. Instead of candy, we exchanged presents. Last year I got a jump rope that lit up. I wondered what I’d get this year.

I could not wait to leave school and do my Halloween traditions with my family. I was in fifth grade, so I left school earlier than my brother, Charlie, who was in tenth grade, but at the same time as my sisters. Linda was in third grade and Amelia was in fourth.

The second the last school bell rang I practically flew out of the building. I was so excited to get my gift. When I got off the bus I had a few cookies and rested up before the evening. When I woke up, I got dressed in my costume. I was a cowgirl! After my family had a big Halloween feast, we went outside and started marching and singing our ancient song. It was a blast.

Finally, my favorite part of Halloween was here. The gifts. My family and I all gathered around our dining table. First my sister Linda opened hers. She got a very pretty diary. Then it was Amelia’s turn. She got a new pair of ballet shoes. Then Charlie, who got a new book in his favorite series.

After all my siblings went, it was finally my turn. I carefully opened the delicate wrapping paper covered in ghosts. Under the paper was my gift. It was a voodoo doll. It looked exactly like me. Long brown hair, hazel eyes, and freckles. The funny thing about it, though, was that it seemed to follow my every move. I moved my head to the left and it followed me. I moved my head to the right; it followed me. I looked at my parents. But they were gone. So were my siblings. That’s when I saw it.

Then everything went black.

Avery Holtz Patch

Digital Photograph

Lights Off

Digital photograph Grade 8

Alegria Rojas

Day/Night

Emily Smith Grade 8

Eyes opened to the pink sky and trees, my silky long hair blows with the breeze.

Laying on the checkers etched into the blanket with sandwiches and fruit placed in a basket.

Past my view of the mountainous terrain the sun arises from its sleep in the plains. It glides across the sky painting its trail, turning the sky into a colorful sea, in which the clouds sail.

Lush green grass, polka dotted by rainbow tulips, stranded by a flood of fresh mud in which everything slips.

Birds singing their tunes on this forenoon but this dies away far too soon.

The cotton candy sky is replaced by a dark shining sea, sprinkled with scattered stars and a large moon that gleams.

Each star in the sky, dancing like a firefly, while the moon shines bright, like a light in the haze.

As the night overtakes, the world drifts away. This fanciful realm was not here to stay.

The colorful flowers and the luscious grass, shatter away as if made of glass.

Each shard tucked away to reconcile on another day.

But once again my eyes flutter open and everything disappears, no more birds chirping in my ears.

Laying in the comfort of my bed, so very soft I’ll return sometime to see where I left off.

Alegria Rojas

Stretch of Sound

Digital photograph

Grade 8

The Silent One

Tresor Kayumba Grade 6

When he is out, everything is cold and silent. No warmth for miles. And then he kills. Nobody and nothing is safe. You can’t hide, so you must run. Unfortunately, the outcome is inevitable. He will find you. He won’t just kill, though. He will obliterate. Once he finds you, it’s over. I’m sorry. You’re finished.

For Dylan, it was just a normal day. Well, not normal, because right when that final bell rang, it would be Halloween. It wasn’t normal, it was spectacular. Right now, Dylan was in his last class. Humanities. Mr. Smith was busy lecturing them on who knows what. Dylan wasn’t really paying attention. He glanced at the clock. One minute! He was counting down in his head. Ten seconds! Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one!

RING!

He stood up to go, but Mr. Smith called him over. UGH! He told him that his grades were lacking and he needed to improve them. Dylan didn’t care. It’s Halloween, chill, man! Mr. Smith let him off with a warning and Dylan sprinted towards the exit. The school was empty now, and he had almost reached the doors when he saw a shadow. Dylan screeched to a halt and turned his head around slowly.

“Who’s there?!” He was a little nervous. Dylan peeked around the corner. Nobody. He turned around to go out the door when black smoke started billowing out of the bottom of the doors and windows, engulfing him. Dylan was suffocating now, as he coughed and spluttered. Then, out of the darkness, an even more penetrating shade of black emerged.

He started running, and the mass chased him, gliding

along like a snake going after a mouse.

“What do you want?!” Dylan shrieked. He was backed into a corner now. The smoke was getting into his lungs, entering through his nostrils, mouth, and ears. It was intoxicating, as it corrupted his mind. Dylan was being controlled by the shadow, and he couldn’t escape the grasp of evil itself.

“I want to kill your soul,” the mass screamed. And then, all went black.

He was outside the school now, and was still being controlled like he was attached to strings from a puppeteer. Dylan was walked over to his best friends Mark, Leo, Harry, and Max. They turned and smiled.

“Hey guys,” Dylan said in a very forced, friendly tone.

“Hey,” Max replied. “Let’s go get into our costumes. People will start giving out candy any minute now.” And so they trudged off through the fallen leaves.

Dylan was at the door now and his friends went into Mark’s house one by one. Harry was last and suddenly, Dylan forced his mind to be in control.

“Harry!” he heaved. “Heeeeelp!”

“What the…..?!” Harry looked bewildered at Dylan’ face.

“Please,” Dylan croaked feebly.

“What do I…..?!” Harry’s face was growing paler, and paler. Then, Dylan shook his head and looked around.

“You good?” Harry asked weakly.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Dylan asked. Harry just shook his head and walked in.

They all started climbing the stairs and when they got to the top, they all went into separate rooms to change. Dylan walked into a bedroom and suddenly, he felt his head spinning. He was himself again!

“Why did you release me?” Dylan asked, breathing hard. The black cloud wasn’t a cloud anymore. It was in the

vague shape of a human.

“I am not yet in my final form and you are strong. I will give you and your friends a chance to fight me, but beware! I can control any of you. Choose your strategy wisely,” the mass cackled.

“Well how are we supposed to find you?” Dylan asked, taken aback.

“You will know when the time comes, but in the meantime, enjoy your Halloween, because it will be your last! HAHAHAAHA!”

He zoomed out, shrieking and laughing along the way.

Dylan’s mind was racing as he and his friends sprinted down the street. He had told them what happened, and they were looking for protection.

“Trash can lids, quick!” Max yelled.

“Good idea for shields,” Mark replied. He gathered up some lids, and Leo found sticks and poles to use as melee weapons.

Dylan and his friends snuck around town for a bit, looking for their villain, but they couldn’t find him. They grew tired.

“This is taking forever!” Leo groaned.

“Wait!” Dylan said. “I feel him.” Dylan looked around and then pointed north.

“Let’s go,” Mark said, impatiently. They made their way in the direction Dylan told them to go, and soon, the town hall came into view. They crept behind a hedge, going closer to the building.

“There’s the dude!” Harry whisper-shouted.

“Keep it down,” Max warned.

“Let’s do this,” Dylan said confidently, though he felt like a jumble of marbles inside. They snuck into position right behind the human mass. Only, it didn’t look like a

mass or a human now. It was a beast. Something in between a werewolf and a lion. It was on all fours, sniffing the ground, while its limbs trailed smoke, and its eyes glowed a piercing orangy fire. It reared up on two legs and roared. Or was it a howl? Dylan couldn’t tell. All he knew was that it needed to be stopped. Mark walked out casually and the beast turned.

“Where are the rest of you?” the monster spoke.

“They bailed, but I’m here,” Mark said.

“I sense you lie, so I’ll ask again. WHERE ARE THE REST OF YOU?!” the beast screamed angrily.

“NOW!” Mark yelled.

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” they all shouted at the tops of their lungs. Dylan was first, wielding a tree branch and trash lid.

“Get back, you monster!” Leo demanded.

“I am The Silent One and you will fear me!” the Silent One screamed back. He grabbed Dylan by the feet and slammed him to the ground.

“ARRRGH!” Dylan shrieked in pain. Mark and Leo came at him next. Poles held high, they charged. The Silent One swatted at Leo, but with surprising agility, he evaded the attack, and countered. He struck him straight across the face and he howled.

“Curse you wretched humans. I WILL RIP YOU LIMB FOR LIMB AND EAT YOU WHOLE!” The Silent One was furious now, and Mark took advantage of his rage and agony by hitching a ride on his back. It was pure chaos now as everyone was fighting and yelling.

Dylan got up, saw his friends fighting, picked up his branch, and charged. He was in full battle mode now, and he was mad. He struck The Silent One over and over, leaving him with cuts and gashes, oozing blood and some other dark substance. Dylan was rampaging. He found a

pile of rubble from the battle and chucked bits of it at The Silent One. One hit him in the eye, gouging it out, and another came straight at his chest, carving a cut that almost split him in half.

“AHHH!” The Silent One was dying and screaming in agony.

“Finish him off, Harry,” Dylan breathed.

“With pleasure,” Harry replied. He raised his log and swung. With one final effort, The Silent One sliced with his claws at Harry’s face, and then he was smashed flat by the log, blood spurting everywhere.

“Let’s get back home,” Max said. Everyone agreed and they walked back together, hand in hand.

They became more than heroes in that fight, though. They became family. Brothers. And brothers always have your back.

“Bye, guys!” Dylan called, as they all parted ways.

“See ya!” Mark called back.

Once they were all gone, Harry turned around and headed towards the graveyard. He opened the creaking gates and entered. He walked to a patch of grass with no tombstones and started to change. His skin was melting away, leaving black gas underneath. His limbs trailed smoke and his eyes rolled away into the darkness. Behind them was orangy fire burning in the depths of his dark face.

“Master! I call on you. Return from your resting place so I can serve you and so you can kill once more. RETURN, I SAY, RETURN!” Harry (or what was left of him) had a crazy grin on his face, with that dark substance oozing from the corners of his mouth.

“You are a loyal servant. Do whatever it takes to free me from the grasp of death. FREE ME!”

The Silent One had returned.

Nerushka Lopez Aponte Hidden

Digital Photograph

Grade 8

Colored pencil and pen on paper

Grade 8

Reya Halper Lady of the Stars

reaching

London Acunto Grade 8

The galaxy is huge, a perpetual night. But woven into the complexities there lies a plentitude of light. The splatters of light turn into splatters of hope that maybe life exists, but we don’t yet know. We are not grateful for the life we shall live on this earth. Instead we focus on the life lightyears away with the hopes of natural birth. The splatters of light soon fade into a destiny, while the old earth is crumbling away, and soon walking on the moon is not enough and our pride for our planet has gone away. We do not know if life yet exists but still, we wander about the black abyss trying to find something, boy, are we clueless. Stop wasting your life trying to reach for the stars just let yourself see who you really are. You are not an astronaut, happy as can be. You are an astronaut, wishing to flee. You have a mission: to seek those splatters of light. To step on them with your foot, to touch them with delight. But, the truth is, the splatters of light are not splatters anymore. They are spheres now, momentous and aplenty, galore. Is earth too boring for you? Have you seen all the sights? Have you been to all the places? Have you walked through nine lives?

Space is fascinating, but we have enough. The earth is so big, loaded with all kinds of stuff. There are plenty of things you haven’t seen, there are plenty of things you haven’t done, so take a little break, and just be happy under the sun. So now, everytime I look up at the stars, I don’t dream of what or who could be. I dream of what or who we are. The world we can’t see but we know thrives. Stop reaching for the stars, and go live your lives.

Asher Tulupman

Slasher

Oola Breen-Ryan Grade 8

Abigail was walking home from her job that she hated, and, as she debated going home versus picking up dinner, tripped and got her foot stuck in a storm drain.

The rain was picking up now. “Shoot,” she muttered, and tried to tug her foot out of the grate, but it wouldn’t move. A taxi swerved past her. She grabbed her foot and pulled, succeeding only in twisting her ankle. How did this even happen? The grate wasn’t nearly big enough to trap her foot width-wise, but it was at an angle. Was this how she was going to die, stuck in a hole on the side of the road? She thought about her grandparents, her sister, her newborn niece. She remembered that she hadn’t texted her closest friend for a week. She hadn’t seen her parents since they moved to California last year.

As if she’d somehow manifested it with her thoughts, just then she managed to tug her foot loose. As the anxiety subsided, Abigail laughed and looked down at her foot. Honestly, she was the only person in New York City who could get it stuck in a storm drain.

She was about to walk away when she noticed the newspaper, trapped in the drain. It looked like someone, maybe while waiting for the bus, had folded it into a boat. The bottom half was drenched and illegible, but the ads section caught her eye. “Horror ghostwriter needed!” the ad said. “Looking for a talented author to write slasher novels. Email me at cinnamon120@gmail.com if interested.” Huh, Abigail thought, and that’s when everything started.

She emailed that night.

“Hi,” she wrote. “I’m a twenty-three-year-old who works at a graphic design company, but have always aspired to be an author. I grew up on classic horror films

and am very interested in your ghostwriting offer. I’ve attached my resume. Thank you!”

Abigail figured that her email would get lost in a pile of other applications, but this was what her therapist called “putting herself out there”.

Almost immediately, she got a reply.

Weird, she thought. Had Cinnamon been sitting at their computer, just waiting for a response?

“Hi Abigail,” it read. “Thank you so much for your interest! You’re the perfect fit for the job. I would like a novel manuscript completed by December, and then you can send it to me. At the bottom of this email are a few pages of my writing style for you to reference, and a document containing my ideas for this novel. I will pay you in monthly, $10,000 installments via check. For my privacy and yours, we can’t meet in person, but I wil mail you your monthly payments and we can continue to correspond via email. Thank you.”

Abigail frowned. Was this really how ghostwriting worked? She’d done some research into it before sending the email, and the client was typically supposed to at least talk to the ghostwriter. Maybe Cinnamon was just so famous it was unsafe for them to share their identity?

Well, she thought, what’s the harm in trying?

Abigail clicked on the document. There was a bulleted list of ideas. It seemed like Cinnamon wanted her to write a “gory slasher novel” involving a “murderer” and “several victims who are friends of the killer”, using “lots of descriptive detail”.

It was generic, but already Abigail was visualizing the story in her head.

A man, angry at the upper class he is a part of, going on a killing spree. Pearls, diamonds and splattered blood maybe he bought his weapon with his parents’ trust fund. Abigail opened up a document and started typing furiously. He ax-murders his fellow socialites en masse at galas and

functions.

Her phone pinged—probably a text from Lane—but she ignored it and continued writing.

The next six months passed in a blur. She would spend hours working on her story, coming up with complicated, interconnecting plot lines.

Abigail visited her sister in a cafe midway through December. “Abby!” Lane yelled when she saw Abigail, giving her a half-sided hug—her infant daughter was in her other arm.

“Hi, Lane,” Abigail said, hugging her back. “How’s little Perry?”

“She’s great—7 months as of last week,” Lane said. “How are you?”

“Great. I got a job as a ghostwriter in July, and I’m working on a horror novel right now.”

“Who are you ghostwriting for?”

“I…I don’t know,” Abigail admitted. “We’ve just communicated through email.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Lane asked. “God, Abby–I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to know who your client is. How do they pay you?”

“They mail checks to my apartment. Is it really that weird? Maybe it’s just a privacy thing.”

“Abby,” Lane said, “you only hire a ghostwriter if you’re famous or have something to hide.”

When Abigail sent her first draft, she expected some constructive criticism. Maybe a few edits on her document, some punctuation revisions. Instead, Cinnamon responded with a very brief email. “Make it more descriptive. I want their deaths to be memorable, something that will stay with the general public. I want this novel to be unlike any other horror novel they’ve read.”

Huh, Abigail thought, I can do that.

She went back in and, when there had been just blood

before, she added in guts. She changed the murderer’s method—instead of just hacking people apart and killing them instantly, Matthew would torture them until they went insane, and then send them back into functions to murder even more people and ruin their family’s reputations. Only then would he kill them.

One evening, as Abigail added in yet another descriptive torture detail, she had a sudden urge to run to the bathroom and vomit. She did, almost slipping on the yellow floor tile. As she held her hair back, she realized something. She’d just written something so gruesome, she puked.

“This is it,” she muttered to herself. “Cinnamon, you’d better accept this draft.”

As she sent it, she had a second of doubt–had Lane been right?–but shook it away.

For some reason, at the beginning of January, newspapers stopped coming to Abigail’s house. She’d been subscribed to The Washington Post and The New Yorker, but both subscriptions mysteriously ended a few weeks after she sent her manuscript to Cinnamon.

When she tried to log into her accounts on social media, she was blocked by countless walls of “your account has been disabled”. When she tried to create a new one, she received messages like “Please try again” and “Need help? Message our support team”.

But then Cinnamon emailed her with a new idea for a novel, and she got swept up in that, forgetting that she had virtually no idea of what was going on in the world.

Years passed. Cinnamon continued paying Abigail, but nothing ever got published. By her 30th birthday, she had 5 completed novels, but none that were good enough for an agent. “You’ll make it even better next time,” Cinnamon told her via email.

At some point, her friends had stopped agreeing to meet up with her. She still saw her sister and niece every few months, but most of her time was spent in her small apartment, writing gory death after gory death and wondering if, when she’d seen that ad seven years before, she should have ignored it and kept her job that she tolerated. In some ways, this was worse—why had she thought she liked the horror genre? It was horrible and kept her up at night.

But, every time she tried to bring this up to Cinnamon, they would reply with something vague like “maybe after this manuscript is done”. She kept writing. Her pay was good, and it wasn’t that she didn’t like writing, just the genre Cinnamon seemed fixated on. The little moments of friendship or peace in her novels were what kept her from outright quitting.

While Abigail celebrated her 51st birthday on the other side of the city, a small child sat on the curb, fiddling with an old newspaper. His parents were in a lengthy conversation with another couple, and he was bored out of his mind.

He started to fold the newspaper into a boat, like his babysitter had taught him. He didn’t know this, but the newspaper was old, from about 28 years ago. The headline read “Tulcan Mansion Terror: Bloody Massacre at the Influential Tulcan Family’s Gala”. The murderer— an unknown man in a ski mask—had taken seven people hostage in the coat closet of a mansion during an upperclass social function, tortured them with an ax until they lost it, and then let them loose back into the party, where four more people died. Then, he came out and killed almost everyone else. “The tragedy of the century,” people said at the time.

The child didn’t read any of it, so he finished his paper boat and set it on the curb.

Abigail had a small celebration with her parents, who flew in from California, and Lane, Lane’s husband, and Perry. It was nice. She ate cake and laughed for the first time in years.

By now she had 15 novels patiently waiting to be published. She was in between manuscripts, still waiting for Cinnamon to reply. 28 years later, they were still her client, mostly because of a strange, gut feeling that quitting would only be bad for her.

Her latest story was about a woman who hid in the woods and only killed lost hikers using sharpened rocks and sticks. It was gorier than some of her others, but she thought someone who appreciated the slasher genre would like it.

“You can’t keep living here,” her dad said as they finished their last slices of cake. “Do you know the amount of violence happening in the city? Far too much.”

“She writes about that, remember? I don’t think she cares,” Perry, who was now almost 57 and working for Google, said. Everyone around her had these promising jobs, while Abigail was still working for the same employer she’d worked for when she was just out of college. She didn’t even enjoy it. How pathetic am I? she’d spend hours asking herself, lying in bed.

“Did you hear about that one murder a few months ago? Horrible,” her dad said.

He began describing it. Abigail froze.

There’s no way–no, that’s not possible–it can’t be—

She couldn’t hear him over the anxious, terror-gripped pounding of her heart.

But it didn’t really matter, did it? Because she already knew what happened next.

Abigail told her family that she needed to go to the bathroom and, when she got there, sank to the floor. Everyone she knew had warned her about taking a

ghostwriting job from a person who wouldn’t even tell her their real name, but she stuck with it. Abigail almost laughed at herself. What was the worst that could happen? she had asked herself, almost 30 years prior.

In a panic, she opened up her phone and frantically typed a response to Cinnamon’s latest email. “I QUIT. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.” Without thinking, she sent it.

But as she lay in bed that night, still analyzing every interaction she’d had since that fateful day, she realized that Cinnamon had always mailed the checks to her apartment.

Abigail sat up, sweating. The room was dark around her. She reached out and frantically pulled on the chord of her lamp, nerves practically buzzing.

She jumped out of bed, checking under the bed—just to be careful—and in closets. Nobody there, but for how long? She grabbed her suitcase, flung it open, and started stuffing clothes into it, then ran–stumbled, rather–down the stairs, suitcase bouncing behind her.

Once she was in the lobby, she took a deep breath. She was safe. She could leave the city, maybe stay with Lane or her parents. She could call the police and send them every single email. Abigail didn’t care if she would be arrested for being an accomplice (albeit an unknowing one). She would be safer in jail than anywhere else, where Cinnamon could find her.

Of course, he had already found her, and was waiting by the door to the apartment building, clenching a sharpened rock in one hand and a rolled-up manuscript in the other.

Henry Winkelmann

Rex Spinner Seeing Stars

moon’s glow

Reya Halper Grade 8

the moon rises, and a soft goodbye is whispered to the sun, casting gentle light over the quiet earth. its glow washes over trees, illuminating the edges of shadowed paths, where whispers of the night linger, and the air holds a stillness, broken only by the rustle of leaves.

clouds drift lazily across its face, hiding and revealing, a dance of veils that shifts with the breeze. in this soft illumination, the world feels both vast and slight, as if the moon knows each hidden secret, each quiet longing that stirs in the dark, each chasing for the dying star everyone fauns over.

moments are suspended in a delicate balance, where thoughts wander and dreams awaken, the heart finds solace in the cool light, a reminder of what lies beyond, a silent witness to the flood of life beneath its gaze.

the moon, a constant in the shifting night, invites contemplation, urging us to look beyond the surface, to embrace the stillness, to find our place in the quiet expanse, as it holds our stories, woven into the fabric of the sky.

Reya Halper

La Luna

Digital illustration Grade 8

Hot Stones

Digital photograph

Grade 8

Alegria Rojas

Charlie Sylvia Barbuto Grade 8

We’ve been here before. My mother and I were fighting across the hall. “Mama, I swear I am a good person!” I hollered.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore! Seriously, all you care about is your idiot boyfriend and your chaotic friends,” she yelled back.

“I hate you!” I stomped out of the room. My mom believed that I was a bad person. Yes, my boyfriend was a jerk, and my friends didn’t always do the right thing, but that didn’t mean that I was a bad person. It was senior year, I already knew I was going to Dartmouth, and I just wanted to have fun.

I woke up the next day dreading school. I already knew it was going to be a bad day when I poked my finger while putting on my earrings. My boyfriend picked me up in his Ferrari Testarossa. He looked upset.

“A day before Halloween, James cancelled his party. He’s the only kid in the grade with guaranteed access to alcohol.” While complaining, he drove way faster than he was supposed to.

“C’mon Charlie, why don’t we just hang out, just the two of us? We can make cookies, and watch the new Nightmare on Elm Street,” I pleaded.

“Cookies? What a dumb idea. Besides, your old lady never lets you come over anyways.” Charlie chuckled to himself the rest of the car ride. I thought the cookies were a cute idea.

October was always cold in Brooklyn, but especially when Maya Bridges was around. She gave everyone the creeps. She had long brown hair that covered her face, and horrific posture. Apparently she had voices in her head, and her mom was the only one who can quiet them, so she got to have her phone all day. Charlie called her mom a service

animal. All three of us were in the same homeroom. There was a seat next to her, but I was scared she was gonna hypnotize me. So, I just sat next to the kid who eats glue instead, because Charlie sat with his friends.

“Yo, James! Why did you chicken out on having the best party of all time!” Charlie shouted.

“I have to watch my sister and her friends that night. Someone told my dad that people are gonna drug the candy this year.” James looked pretty upset.

After that Charlie made some disgusting joke about one of James’ sisters friends. Then Maya stood up and walked to the front of the class.

“We can have the party at my house, there will be alcohol. My house is quite big, and always clean. Just don’t go into the kitchen. Mother doesn’t like when people are in the kitchen. Don’t mention Father, he died tragically. And most importantly, do not break anything,” Maya said.

The class went silent. So, Maya smiled. Her teeth were nowhere near white. I had never seen them before. Charlie stood up and began to clap. Maya threw her hair in front of her face and went back to her seat.

“Nice job, weirdo! What’s a better way to spend your Halloween with a psycho and her ugly daughter. Did you really think people were gonna come to your pity party?” Charlie said. He kicked the back of her seat, making her nose bleed. Her mother was cursing Charlie out on the phone.

“I’ll go, I guess?” I said. I can’t believe those words came out of my mouth.

“Me too,” one of my friends, Selene, said.

After that three other kids said yes, but Charlie didn’t. He just glared at me. Why would he even be upset? He said no to the cookie idea. I had ignored him for the rest of the day until he had to drive me home. He didn’t bother holding the door open for me or wait for me to buckle my seatbelt.

“Charlie! Just hear me out! I’ll tell my mom about how weird Maya is, and then she won’t let me go to the party. Then I’ll call Maya apologizing saying ‘that my mom wouldn’t let me’ and Maya won’t be mad at me. After that my mom will feel bad and then I can come to your house.”

Charlie processed this for a second and then smirked.

“Annie, you’re a genius.” He wasn’t angry anymore and he slowed down.

My plan was perfect, but I forgot how much my mom hates me. She surprisingly wanted me to go. She told me to never judge a book by its cover. Which was pretty ironic coming from her. The worst thing about the situation was that I was going to have to tell Charlie what really happened. I decided to write him a sweet note. I hearted my “I’s” and wrote in cursive.

When Charlie picked me up this morning he read the letter, and the smile on his face faded. He began to drive like a maniac, swerving from side to side and cursing. I decided to say something to calm him down. “Charlie, we can go to Maya’s for like five minutes, and then we can go back to your place.”

Charlie didn’t say anything afterwards. He just nodded. I had never wanted my school day to not end before, but there I was. It seemed each class had flown by. I began to pray that maybe I would get detention or something so I would have to stay after school. The worst part was I could just easily not go, but I was afraid that Maya would hurt me.

So, there I was standing outside Maya’s door holding Charlie’s hand. Her mom answered the door.

“You too are pretty late! The fun has already begun!” Her mom gave us a smile. It seemed like she and Maya went to the same dentist. I closed the door and took off my shoes. I greeted some people, and Charlie whispered in my ear.

“Watch this!” He then proceeded to throw his shoe

perfectly at a picture frame, which caused it to crash down and break. A couple of kids laughed, but most people’s jaws just dropped.

“Maya, what was the sound? Do I need to come around?” Maya’s mom shouted from across the room. Maya just stared at the mess and began to cry. I felt bad and began to clean it up.

“Baby, don’t get confused. Maya’s got a mental problem, not a disability. She’s perfectly capable of cleaning it up herself,” Charlie said. He thought he was really funny, but no one laughed this time.

“Shut up,” I said quietly.

“Speak up, I can’t hear you,” Charlie said.

“I said shut up! Just because your parents don’t give you any attention doesn’t mean you can harass others to get theirs!”

I went too far… no one knew about Charlie’s family issues. Charlie was a jerk, but he didn’t deserve what his parents did to him. Charlie stepped back and tried to leave, but the door was locked. He stared at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. There was blood dripping from my hands from the shattered glass I tried to clean up, and Maya’s house looked like a horror scene.

Maya’s mom came in and saw the mess, pointed at Charlie, and directed him into the kitchen. I vaguely remembered Maya saying something about how we weren’t allowed to go to the kitchen, but I just shrugged it off.

We spent an hour just playing games, and it felt pretty normal. Maybe my mom was right about Maya. She wasn’t as bad as I thought. I’d spent my time actually having fun, instead of worrying about where Charlie was.

“Everyone, dinner time is finally here. Come along and eat, my dears!” Maya’s mom said. We all sat around the table, but I couldn’t find Charlie.

“Excuse me, miss? Where’s my boyfriend” I asked.

And she gave me the same old smile, the one with yellow and brown spots, but there was some red now.

I had a big spoonful of the soup. It was delicious! I kept eating it. Everyone else started eating too. It was phenomenal! A taste I’d never had before. Maya and her mom began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“I don’t think you know our secret ingredient.” Maya said, and dropped her soup onto the floor. I noticed an… eye! Not any eye, but Charlie’s eye! Everyone screamed at the table.

“So… who wants to be dessert! The ladies will have to take off their skirts.” I think you can probably guess by now who said that one.

The worst thing about all of this was, my boyfriend would be the last thing I had ever eaten.

Ellie Alexander

A Candle’s Light

Digital photograph

Grade 5

The Cart

Ellie Mae Sullivan Grade 6

The day before Halloween, the town of Salem, Massachusetts was bustling with excitement. An old cart made its way into town. On the side, swirly, purple paint read “Madame Moonetski’s Wonders”. A huge crowd gathered outside to meet the cart.

Suddenly, the cart’s door opened up and a lady with long black hair and pale skin, draped in a silk shawl, walked out.

“‘Ello, people of Salem,” the lady said with an accent that was unfamiliar to all, jewels and beads bouncing around her. “I am Madame Moonetski, owner of this traveling attraction.” Madame said that she ran a traveling odditorium with things including fortune telling, skeletons of weird creatures, and even a unicorn horn!

People filed into the caravan to look at the treasures and wonders.

“Oh, please,” said James to himself, “give me a break.” James was fifteen years old and did not believe in Halloween or anything like it.

“You,” Madame Moonetski pointed a finger at James, “come with me.” She led a reluctant James into a separate room. She told him to sit down in a seat on one side of a table, while she sat down in the other chair.

“You should not question the magic, James, it does exist, you know.” Madame Moonetski looked deep into his eyes. James was getting uncomfortable. He did not like this lady.

“Yeah, real, I’m gonna leave.” James got up to leave but Madame Moonetski blocked his path.

“You best be careful, boy, or else tonight, you may suffer severe punishments,” she warned him. Her tone

James out a bit. Madame let him leave, but not until she warned him once again to be careful.

James hopped on his bike and headed home. He could not believe that Madame Moonetski. She’s probably making the whole thing up for her business, he thought. As he biked home he couldn’t stop thinking about that weird cart and that even weirder lady.

Suddenly he felt as though something was watching him. He slowed down slightly.

Kik-klack! One of the tires on his bike hit something and he flew off the path and into the bushes, his bike landing a few inches away, just missing him. A low growling came from behind, chilling James to the core. Crunching leaves signaled that whatever made the growl was coming towards him. James stumbled up trying to dust himself off. Then he caught sight of the creature.

It was big and hairy, and it had huge fangs. The beast launched at James. James ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He flew through the bushes and thorns. Even though they pierced his skin he kept running, knowing the true pain he would feel if he stopped.

Then James’s tired legs gave out and he crashed down through the branches and into the muck and mud. As the beast pounced on him he heard a woman’s voice say, “You should have listened.”

James felt his whole body freeze up and he heard evil laughter piercing through the forest.

Then there was nothing. The next day Madame Moonetski had a new exhibit. It was the petrified boy.

Outer space

Bright, dark

Expanding, growing, darkening, Lifeless, rogue planets drifting endlessly

Interstellar

Henry Winkelmann Oola Breen-Ryan

Interstellar Streetlamp

Grade 5

Digital Photograph

Grade 8

The Reflection

Foam head, magazines, mirrored film, cardboard

Grade 8

Nerushka Lopez Aponte

I’ve Worn Other People’s Faces

Sylvia Barbuto Grade 8

The needle went through the highest point of my cheek just so it could reach the height of the model on my feed I took off a part of my face and I wore a part of someone else’s.

I got rid of the dark circles under my eyes and wore someone else’s eyes instead. Because instead of learning to love my flaws, I learned to love someone else’s perfections

I wore someone else’s freckles because I despised the bareness of my face. I covered every flaw just so I could look like her.

I bleached the dark parts of my hair because I only found beauty in the light of hers. I curled mine on the days when straight wasn’t beautiful, and straightened it when curly was out.

I bought all of her clothes, but they didn’t fit my body the same way they fit hers. The clothes that enhanced her curves shone a light on my body that this critical world was never meant to see. So now I sit in the bed of a hospital, waiting to get her body.

The pain, bruising, & years of shame were worth being beautiful, I broke myself apart just so I could look like her because I fear that she’s worth loving and I am not. If I look like her, will the world see how beautiful I am inside and out?

And when I scroll to the next video, and see someone I want to look like even more, will the beautiful become hideous? Do I need to wear other peoples’ faces to become beautiful?

If my eyes told a story, the same way her eyes did, And if my skin had freckles instead of scars, the same way hers did

And if my hair fell so perfectly, the same way her hair did And if my body was perfect, just like hers,

Would I be able to look in the mirror without crying?

And after all of my work: All the trends I followed, All the makeup I smeared across my face, All the products I purchased, I’ll look into the mirror and realize that my face is not beautiful because the face on my body isn’t mine.

I’ve worn other people’s faces.

Dreams

William Esteves-Cooper Grade 6

Dream: A shattered world

Fragmented reality

Ruptured fantasy

Swirls of emotions

And colors behind your eyes

But alas, a trick

Immense or minute

Flexible things that can be Anarchy or peace

Or in between things

Neither happy nor downcast

Tranquil nor chaos

Dream: A shattered world

Fragmented reality

Ruptured fantasy

Vivian Winkelmann

My Most Memorable Vacation

Vivan Winkelmann Grade 8

I was sitting on my bedroom floor neatly folding the items of clothing I had picked out of my drawer to pack into my suitcase. A week before, my best friend, Elena, had called to tell me amazing news.

“Hey, Amelia! Want to hear something great!?” Elena said, trying and failing to contain her excitement.

“Sure, what’s up?” I asked, confused.

“My boss just called and said that one of the other flight attendants that was scheduled for Mr. Delgatto’s trip got really sick and would be out of work for at least a couple of days, and he wanted to know if I would replace her!” Elena shrieked through the phone.

Mr. Delgatto was one of the richest customers at the airport where Elena worked as a flight attendant.

“That’s amazing, Elena, I’m so happy for you!”

“That’s not all,” Elena said, before taking a deep breath. “Mr. Delgatto offered to fly one person on his private jet with him to thank me for being so flexible!”

I jumped up and down excited to hear the four most amazing words that were about to come out of her mouth.

“So,” Elena said. She paused. “Want to come?”

I squealed with excitement.

“Okay, sounds like a yes. I will pick you up on Saturday morning, see you soon!” Elena said before hanging up.

I couldn’t contain myself. The entire week I laid out all of the things that I wanted to pack for this mysterious vacation. I mostly packed warm clothing, because I assumed we were going somewhere hot; Mr. Delgatto had a reputation for going to tropical places. I laid out my favorite swimsuits, neatly folded them, and stuffed them into a packing cube. Once I had stuffed all of my clothing

into a tiny suitcase with a smudged sticker on top that had originally said Amelia, I laid in my bed, extremely excited.

On Friday night, I couldn’t contain my adrenaline. After packing my carry-on and laying out my outfit for the plane, I slipped into my satin pajamas and lay in my bed wide awake imagining all of the possible places we could be visiting. Eventually, I dozed off while thinking about Hawaii.

I woke up at 4:00 AM to the non-stop ringing of my alarm clock. I jumped out of bed, took a shower, brushed my teeth, and got dressed. I impatiently spammed Elena’s phone, asking what time she would arrive while I stood in front of the door, one hand holding my suitcase and carryon and the other holding my phone as I frantically typed on the keypad.

After a while, I sat down and leaned on my neck pillow, waiting for Elena. All of a sudden, I heard a knock at the door.

“Amelia, let’s go!” a voice whispered through my apartment door. When I opened the door I saw Elena grinning from ear to ear in a navy blue flight attendant’s uniform with a little plane stuck to it.

“Nice pin,” I said sarcastically while locking up my apartment.

“Don’t worry, I brought you one too!” Elena said, giggling, as she stuck a matching plastic plane to my shirt. We both sat patiently and silently in the Uber on the way to the airport. Once we arrived, we walked to our own VIP gate, where Mr. Delgatto and the pilot were standing.

I introduced myself to the pilot and Mr. Delgatto. I followed them onto the plane and found myself a seat.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Delgatto, for letting me fly with you guys! But if you don’t mind me asking, where exactly are we going?” I politely asked him.

“Well, dear, it is a pleasure to have you aboard!” Mr.

Delgtto said with a nice smile. “We are currently on our way to Bali. I have some family there I am going to see.” He pulled his glasses down to continue reading the newspaper.

I was so excited that we were going to Bali. I smiled at Elena. Although I was super excited to be going somewhere nice, I was not excited about the twenty-two-hour plane ride from New York to Bali. For the first five hours, I slept because it had been exhausting at work. I was a full-time chef and had an extremely long week, so this vacation was badly needed.

After I woke up I started on some work and wrote some emails for two hours. After that, I did some research on cooking competitions and restaurants and finally searched for some recipes in the hope of finding a new item for my menu, which took around another three hours. Once I was done with my research, we had just reached the ten-hour mark. We started to hit some turbulence.

I assumed it was normal because Elena’s facial expression did not change. I knew I could trust her because she was a frequent flier.

For about thirty minutes the plane stopped shaking and moved smoothly. Then, all of a sudden, the plane started to shake a lot.

Mr. Delgatto looked startled and confused, because he had been in a deep sleep before this. Not long after, the plane began to shake even more. The seatbelt sign above my head flickered on and the pilot gave us an intercom message: “Good evening folks, it seems that we have a little turbulence. I advise that everyone, including staff, take a seat and fasten your seatbelts until we pass through this rough spot” he said, in a calming voice. Elena scrambled to a seat and fastened her seatbelt.

But from then on it just got worse. The turbulence didn’t stop but increased. The plane

was shaking so much I had to put all of my things away and slide them under the seat so they wouldn’t fly across the floor. Elena was sitting next to me and we held each other’s hands in an attempt to find some sense of safety.

After the plane’s shaking increased, another message from the pilot went through the intercom.

“Hello again, folks. It seems as if the turbulence has not passed. Just for safety precautions, I am currently trying to direct the plane further down because it seems that there is an unexpected thunderstorm forming around us. As of now, there is no need to panic, but just for safety measures, I would like to remind everyone where the extra parachutes, oxygen masks, lifejackets, and exits are located.” As the pilot carried on explaining the location of all the necessary things needed to survive an accident, Elena and I held eye contact, trying to keep it together and not cry.

After another couple of minutes, the pilot announced that the attempt to move away from the storm was unsuccessful and we would have to try to make it through the storm without the plane being destroyed in the process. After the pilot finished his announcement, Elena and I threw our arms around each other and started crying.

Before we knew it, Mr. Delgatto had shot up from his seat and was slowly making his way to the back of the plane, while trying to avoid falling over random objects in the aisle tossing and turning on the floor. Mr. Delgatto grabbed a parachute and tried to make his way to the exit.

“Mr. Delgatto, stop! You can’t leave us to die!” Elena said, sobbing.

“Mr. Delgatto,” I said, trying to convince him not to leave, with tears rolling down my face, “if you open those doors, the change in pressure will crack all of the other windows around us. It will cause the plane to fall, and even

if you do make it out of the plane, you won’t survive the storm.”

He turned around, looked at me and said, “I am sorry, honey, but I am not ready to die. You have my prayers.”

He unlocked the exit and jumped out of the plane. Immediately after, the windows burst open. Elena’s and my ears began bleeding because of the pressure change. The only thing keeping us from flying out of the plane was the seatbelts. I held Elena in my arms as we both sobbed at the realization that we weren’t going to survive.

When I looked out the window, I stared in shock at the top of the parachute caught in the engine of the plane, Mr. Delgatto hanging from it, motionless.

As the plane progressively began to spiral towards the ground, Elena and I stared at each other, and even though I couldn’t hear a thing, I could read her lips.

She was saying over and over again to me, let’s go see Bali.

Dust

Clara Scotto Grade 8

Whispers of magic airbrushed with dust all form a distant cluster that we call our own.

Grazes of an illustrator and, in part, enchanter institutes existence

The black paintbrush swipes over the heavens finding a few sectors unnoticed without so much as a second coat abandoning the gaps for human kind to discern.

The difference gleams through generating radiance spreading gaiety through our dimmist midnight stirring the mortals to awaken and discover honesty within the snowglobe of a world.

The spell of dawn just recently cast upon them reaches down to touch the apex of the slumbering crescent casting it elsewhere.

The fireball disguised tempting the crepuscule for a mere wink scarcely regarded. It fears the hour when the satellite grasps at the door and knocks for its turn to glisten

Aaron Denny Dumbwizi

Grade 7

A little boy named Aaron was in their car with his dad. Then suddenly, boom! The cars were beeping loudly, and Aaron hit his head. His dad was severely injured and was hospitalized, while Aaron just had a little bruise on his forehead.

Aaron loved his dad because his mother had died just a few minutes after giving birth to him. So his dad was the only person that Aaron had.

But, unfortunately, he succumbed to his injuries. Aaron was only ten, so he couldn’t even understand the concept of death. He had asked the doctors to wake him, but they explained to him how severe death can be and what it really is. Aaron’s dad, Kevin, was really passionate about becoming an astronaut and he told Aaron that it was his childhood dream to be one. But because he grew up poor, he never got the chance to study and train.

Aaron wanted to fulfill his father’s wishes through him, to become an astronaut and make him proud. A few weeks after the crash, Aaron was put up for adoption and lived in the center for a year and a half, until a bougie, rich couple who couldn’t conceive chose Aaron.

He was really happy at first, but he told himself that nobody could replace his father. He was incredibly rude to the couple but they still chose to adopt him. When he finished packing up all of his belongings, they brought him into their house with open arms. When Aaron first walked in, he thought, I know I have rich friends with big houses, but this is beyond massive! Aaron had adopted siblings, which was kind of hard for him because he grew up as an only child, but they started to get along. When Aaron began to go back to school, his new parents enrolled him in

the best private high school in the state! Aaron didn’t make any friends throughout his time in high school. He just focused on his major studies, which were physics, aerospace engineering, and all math subjects.

By this point Aaron was applying for universities such as MIT, Harvard, Yale, Stanford, and Cornell. He got accepted to Yale, Stanford and Cornell. He chose to go to Stanford because it was the closest to him, and was in his state.

He majored in math and got a PhD in Physics and engineering. Aaron was finally qualified enough to become an astronaut. He sent an application to NASA for training. They accepted him, but there were no sponsors to help pay for his training, so he had to turn to his adoptive parents. They happily said yes because they saw him as their own child. When he finished training, he learned that his first ever trip to space would be to the International Space Station (ISS). He had months to prepare and continued to train as hard as he could to do his job well on the trip. When it was time to board the aircraft, Aaron and the other crew members climbed in and buckled up in preparation for the G force.

His parents were watching the takeoff live. When the aircraft started to go up, the engine burst in flames, burning everything and everyone in it. Aaron was the lone survivor.

He was hospitalized, and a few days later, Aaron sadly succumbed to his injuries.

Ellie Holtz

Just Like That

Henry Winkelmann Crash Site Pencil

Vivian Winkelmann

Silencing Sexual Assault

Plastic model, acrylic, fabric, dirt

Luna Ambrosi

The Waters of Soólkin

William Esteves-Cooper Grade 6

The rotting cupboard doors shrieked, juddering in the wind from the smashed window. Half of a door, stripped of its paint, did little to keep out the blade of the freezing night. The rusted metal roof howled in agony at the pounding rain. And a little child curled in a corner of her house shrieked with anguish, pressing her hands to her head as though they were stopping the world from splitting in half.

Michi had splitting migraines for as long as she could remember. They often came with dreams, from fairytale daydreams to horrific nightmares. However, every dream had water in it. Whether it was waterfalls gushing down, streams gurgling over rocks, seas pummeling bluffs with endless waves, or serene ponds rippling with the wind, water was everywhere. Every dream ended the same way. Michi fell into the water, and like a feather falling through the empty sky, slowly sank until she drowned.

Her parents tried to help her. They took her to every doctor, healer, physician, and soothsayer, but none of them knew what to do. Except one.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot help,” the soothsayer said.

“Why?” her parents replied.

“This child is…very special. She seems to have a mental, physical, and a seemingly otherworldly connection to The Thirteen.”

“Who are The Thirteen?” her parents asked, growing more and more anxious.

“What is The Thirteen? It is an ancient power, hidden deep at the heart of the mountains of Soólkin.”

Back at home, her parents fretted, pacing around their tiny, one-room apartment.

“The mountains of Soólkin!? That old lady expects us to go there?!?” her mother shrieked, tugging at the ends of her hair.

“She said that it’s the only way to cure her,” her father replied. He was trying to look calm, but it was easy to tell that inside, he was falling apart.

The mountains of Soólkin were the most treacherous mountains in the quad-nation. Her paths were covered in rubble from the frequent avalanches that could be set off by the lightest touch. You could take a shortcut through the caves, but the dim light and maze-like caverns caused most, if not all, to lose her way and stay there until they die of hunger, thirst, or depression. No one knew what was on the other side of them.

“W-what did she say to do once we found it?” Michi asked.

“She didn’t say, honey,” her father lied. He was trying to protect her, but the truth was terrible.

The Soothsayer had said, “ The Thirteen will be found at the edge of an abyss. Throw your child into the abyss, along with a chicken heart and a dash of lavender. If you fail to do this, The Thirteen will find you, and do much worse to you and your child.”

Michi’s parents, along with everyone they knew, were terrified of the Soothsayer, and every prediction that she had ever made had come true. One time, she predicted that multiple sheep would get attacked by wolves. The sites of the attack were bloody (a little properly placed beet juice), but everybody believed it. She predicted a fire in the church (an untended candle, placed in the pews) and a tree fallen across the road (simple ax work). The Soothsayer had made all of her own predictions come true, yet everyone hung onto her every word.

So they set off, the three of them. They each took a

burlap sack bulging with food, a bedroll, and a waterskin. They didn’t own much, so horses weren’t an option. They began the long trek to the mountains. They hiked all day and eventually reached the base. They decided to stay there until the break of dawn. That night, Michi had another migraine.

The sea pounded the sand, ceaselessly breaking the rocks. Michi stood a few feet away from the water. Behind her were dark woods, and the only transition from sand to forest were a few dying reeds. The tide started to rise, and Michi stood there, getting pummeled endlessly by the waves until she drowned.

The journey through the mountains was surprisingly easy. So easy, in fact, that Michi’s parents were starting to grow worried. Every trail was flat, wide and straight, and there were no chasms or divots. The one time they were forced to go through a cave, it was well lit by glow worms and luminous moss. Eventually, the trail led them to a voluminous cavern. All light suddenly stopped. Michi’s father lit a torch. With the dim light, the three of them could see a giant hole in the floor. It looked as though someone had ripped all matter from this hole. Next to it, they could barely make out the outline of a figure.

“This must be The Thirteen,” whispered Michi’s mother. She locked eyes with her husband and gave a solemn nod.

“Let’s sleep here for the night,” Michi’s father decided.

As Michi fell into a restless sleep, her father and mother each kissed her one last time and then tossed her into the abyss. She fell for a long time, and as she fell, she had her last dream. I have written it out for you here. It was titled “The Waters of Soólkin.”

When she finally reached the bottom, she slowly, slowly, drowned.

Henry Hart

Space Dust

Digital illustration on paper

Grade 6

Las Esfera (The Orb)

Clara Scotto Grade 8

Conocido por nosotros

Como un mármol grande, redondo, de cristal

Que deriva seguramente a través de la Vía Láctea

Bailando con el polvo moteado de una galaxia

Indistintamente tejiendo el tejido de nuestra existencia

Ya no es capaz de dividir

Dando vueltas alrededor del Sol

Nunca parando, Siempre moviendo Compartiendo vida

Entralazándose entre la grava

Que nos une

Como el día se convierte en noche

Lentamente seguimos adelante

Known to us

As a big, round, glass marble

That drifts surely across the Milky Way

Dancing with the speckled dust of a galaxy

Interchangeably weaving the fabric of our existence

No longer capable of dividing

Circling around the Sun

Never stopping, Always moving Sharing life

Intertwining amongst the gravel

That unites us

As day turns to night, We slowly keep going

The Final Destination

Clara Scotto

Grade 8

(a found poem based on a particularly prophetic and horrifying section of Elie Wiesel’s famous Holocaust memoir, Night)

Evil spirit only in the darkness

Howling terror in a black sky

Madness had infected all Endless and absent

Suffocating barbed wire

Beating

Only a few more days

Terrible fear Panic tore us apart

Believed the scream Burning our flesh

“Keep quiet” “Shut up” “Madwoman”

Breaking point Silence

Broken free

Midnight awoke again Fear gnawing us

Devouring, hysterical, Flames We gave up

Lucie Haskell The Window

Digital photograph Grade 6

Alegria Rojas

Bird’s Eye

Digital photograph

Schizophrenic

Luna Ambrosi Grade 8

Everleigh says that she was born in space. She says her parents are stars, and on Christmas break, she takes a private ship into the universe to visit them.

“She’s obviously schizophrenic or something,” Justin says to me. It’s lunch, and we’re watching her embarrass herself in front of the whole ninth grade. She has earbuds in, her eyes are closed, and she’s swaying back and forth in some sort of dance in the middle of the cafeteria. People are pointing and laughing.

My gaze finds Justin again. I shrug. “Personally, I think that she’s perfectly sane—she just doesn’t care what other people think.”

She opens her eyes, sighs heavily, and takes her earbuds out. She then walks calmly to a table and sits down. She opens a book and begins to read.

Justin raises an eyebrow. “Nope. Schizophrenic.”

The bell rings and students begin to dash out of the cafeteria. I don’t. I have science next period, so I honestly could care less when I get there. I find myself at the back of the crowd. I turn around, and the cafeteria is empty. Except for Everleigh. She’s still sitting there reading. I wonder if I should tell her lunch is over.

I sigh and begin to walk over. I’ll just tap her shoulder, gesture that the room is empty, and leave. No one is here, so no embarrassment for me.

I get to her and reach my hand out. Before I can touch her, though, she says, “Hi, Isaac.”

I bristle. She is still turned around, so how does she know it’s me?

She turns around and stares at me. I’ve never really gotten a good look at her before. Her eyes are black with

little specks of purple and blue. They make her look not human; I didn’t know that eye color existed. Maybe they’re contacts. Her hair is straight, black, and probably the smoothest I’ve ever seen. It’s in a long braid running down her back. She has one birthmark on the tip on her nose. I gather myself. She’s still staring into my soul.

“H-hi. Um. I’m just trying to tell you that lunch is ov—”

“Oh, I know,” she says, smiling. “I just really don’t care. You, however, are late for class.” She swivels back in her chair and continues to read. She’s right, I should get to science, but… something in me kinda wants to stay and talk to her.

“Whaddaya reading anyway?”

She turns back around at me and grins. “Nothing.”

“Huh? Cmon. You can tell me.” I smile. She laughs. “No, really. Nothing! See?”

She shows me the book she’s reading. There’s nothing on the page. She flips through the book and all the other pages are blank, too. She shows me the cover, and just like the contents, there is nothing there.

Justin’s voice echoes in my head: Schizophrenic. I nod. “What’s the point of that?”

“Well, I found that it would be way more fun to just write your own story. If there’s nothing there, it can be whatever you want it to be! Right now, I’m reading about a girl named Nova who was taken away from her star parents and tossed onto earth. Like me! I’m on a bit of a cliffhanger right now. But last week I was reading about a lizard named Lionel and his friend, Scuuby the rat.”

“Interesting.”

“Here, you try.” She places the book into my hands and watches me.

I stare at the blank page. I don’t know what she wants me to do.

“Read to me,” she says.

“I… There’s nothing…” I pause and take a deep breath. I begin to make up a story in my head.

“Once upon a time, there was a girl named Everleigh and a boy named Isaac and they are very different and both late to class. The end.”

Her brow furrows. “That story was awfulistic.”

“You mean awful?”

“Well, yeah, but if you add ‘istic’ to the end of a word, it makes the meaning even more intense. Like, awful times ten.”

“Oh. Well, I am lateistic to class.”

She laughs. “You’re a natural. Go to class.”

So I go.

Ellie Holtz

Fragile

Digital photograph

8

It’s Time to Move On

Vivian Winkelmann Grade 8

Now there is time and Time is young. And what you said really stung, But you must know it is not worth it, To think of it every day. We are on this earth. We need to move on from what has been done, You have no excuse, Literally none. There’s no going back, We need to move on, No need to apologize, I’m already gone.

I have made my peace, It is time to make yours, There’s always consequences, Which you seem to ignore. You need to take accountability, There’s so much more to live for.

I have opened up to you, and you have opened up to me, But none of it is something we could discuss over tea. I have forgave, but not forgot, You hit me with a wave, it pained me a lot. It’s time to stand up, and walk out the door, I need to back up, I can’t take this no more. You have pushed me so far, I struggle to breathe You have given me scars, that I fail to see. You hurt me so bad, that my heart has a crack, At this point I’m not mad, I can just never go back. It’s time to improve, go on with my life, Even though I feel I have been stabbed with a knife. You cannot forget all the wrongs you have done, Take me for an example, Neither of us won.

Loveless & Prophets

Claire Ponden

Grade 5

Someone loves me, I hope Will someone need me? I wonder

Do you love me? I ask

Minds reeling with pretty words Telling the futures of those close Haunted by themself and spirits

Digital photograph Grade 8

Reya Halper Valentine

Alegria Rojas

Snowset

Digital photograph

Grade 8

Changing Seasons

Kaitlyn Mesiya Grade 7

The morning sun rises above the horizon

The pinks, reds, and oranges paint across the sky. Warm hues that warm the ground and the air, The last chill of winter banished north. The final icy crystals disappearing, revealing the green grass trapped for months below the surface. The seasons are every so slowly changing like people. The new kid in school nobody knew. Different from and not quite sure how to fit. His friendly smile, an offer of help, And, over time, classmates to friends. Turning to a smile of shared secrets, a comfortable ease.

A surprise he knew I’d like, just because he was thinking of me. As the stems of daffodils push through the soil, the seeds of love blossom. His hand brushing against mine, a hug that lasts a moment too long.

The final bell of school rings, summer once again!

To the beach we go, spreading our towels across the sand. We lay under the warm sun, planning our summer adventures together. Suddenly I get up, grab his hand and pull him to his feet.

I start running down towards the sea, he starts chasing after me. Laughing and splashing in the waves. At that moment the world around me disappears. The people become a blur, the noise silenced.

It feels like we’re the only two people in the world. The words I’ve waited so long for, like raspberries that appear as if from nowhere. The sweet fruit entangled in the vines, prickers make it risky to just grab ahold. Thorns in the midst of sweetness demand careful manuevering. He turns to me, revealing his true feelings.

“I’ve liked you since the day you first arrived, with your nervous smile and quiet manner. But I wasn’t sure if you felt the same way about me. Being with you makes me happy, and I never want to be apart. It feels like we were meant to be.”

Much like the changing of seasons, not able to see it happening day to day, but only over the course of time. We had to wait, to grow, to blossom together, to see where this could go until the perfect moment when we could reach out to take hold of the relationship we had always wanted. And although the seasons will always change, right now, in this moment, I’m hopeful for a summer that never ends.

Alegria Rojas Spiral Out

Digital photograph

Grade 8

Rex Spinner

Nature’s Bath

Marker on paper

It Will Be Okay

Rex Spinner Grade 8

She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, rust stains dripping down it progressively. They seemed to get longer and more orange with each passing day. She knew that the house had bad ventilation and that so much steam wasn’t bad for old mirrors, but there wasn’t much that she could do. Who knew how to make vents nowadays? She caught a glance out the window and saw as the grass wilted slowly, getting brown and crunchy like old leaves used to in the autumn. Late fall and it was still so warm. The air was stagnant, and it was hard to make ripples under its overbearing pressure.

Purple light from her lamp streamed into the room, making everything feel like another world. As she slipped into the bathtub, one foot in front of another, she grabbed a pair of old gardening shears her mom used to use, but no one saw the need for them anymore. She didn’t know a single person who wanted to go out in the hot sun and shave down what could be considered hay at this point.

Stars flitted around the water, and as soon as her foot got close to touching them, they shrunk into miniscule, undetectable balls of light, and then reappeared somewhere else. A tease. She knew they were the same because they stayed the same color, different from the rest, even if they were just a few hues apart.

She splashed water up and hit a nearby plant. Some of the water ricocheted off the leaf and hit a candle. The star in that splash was flung out. She made a grab for it, but just as they did in water, they shrunk down into a tiny speckle in the air, and then fell into the water with a splash that shouldn’t have been created from its small size.

Once again she reached for the garden shears. A star

was resting on it, pulsing a bright orange, but it was easily flung away by the gentle air pressure of her hand reaching. Slowly she brought the shears upwards. To her neck, and past the birth mark on the back of it.

She grabbed her hair out of the water and started to hack away at it with the garden shears. Tiny stars spilled out of the cut hair ends and into the water like the strands were bleeding.

He reached into the water and finally picked one up. It split into a bunch in his hand, the colors shifting around, and the shards leaked through his fingers like water. The old stars that had hid in the bathtub, showing only in the water, appeared once more and danced around the new stars that looked like they were undergoing mitosis. They lifted him up, igniting every nerve they touched.

He was pushed out of the bathtub, floating on a blanket of things he couldn’t feel. The lights switched to a bright, sterile white color with a loud click. His head spun and his ears rang. The stars beneath him pulsed wildly, growing and losing points.

They multiplied faster and faster until he was trapped against the ceiling. The stars constricted on him, pushing and poking at his new skin. They traveled up his neck just as the garden shears had and surrounded his head. His hair started to grow again and the stars tried to push it back into his scalp, to no avail.

Once it had grown to twice the length it had been previously, the stars disappeared and he hit the floor with a resounding thud. The only sound was that of rustling leaves and the water draining from the tub.

Vivian Winkelmann

Shadow Fronds

Digital photograph

Grade 8

This Way to the...

Nerushka Lopez Aponte

Colors of Autumn

Digital photograph

Grade 8

Oscar Lehnerd-Reilly

Apple Juice

Sylvia Barbuto Grade 8

(inspired by Noah

Kahan’s “Orange Juice”)

Eloise and I had the exact same childhood, and now we’d grown up to be complete opposites. I was still living in Cleveland, Ohio, while she got out of here as soon as possible. She lived with her boyfriend in upstate New York. He didn’t treat her well and only fed her addiction. Since we were fourteen, she’d been struggling with alcohol addiction. Being poor in Ohio does that to you. I tried to help her as much as I could, but I couldn’t anymore now that she was far away.

I was poor myself, but I found another outlet besides alcohol. Mine was music. I’d been singing since I was a kid, and getting a guitar for my birthday was one of my greatest memories. I’d written some songs, but not the kind that people wanted to hear. That didn’t matter—I wrote to get my feelings out, not to make millions. I was working on a song for Eloise. It was mostly all of the questions I had for her. The biggest one: why did you go? I understand that this part of Cleveland is pretty crappy, but I didn’t expect you to leave me here to drown in it alone.

In lighter news, I’d finally gathered enough songs to make an album. My only fans were the people who knew my name before I started writing, but that was enough to make a man happy. My sister Jessie wanted to throw me a party for all the people who supported me. I told her it wasn’t necessary, but she insisted—I didn’t have the heart to say no. So there I was, sitting in my living room, surrounded by the people I loved, but Eloise was the only thing on my mind. Maybe my next album would be dedicated to her.

I was snapped out of my thoughts when I saw my old kindergarten teacher approaching me. I could tell she was already a couple of drinks in because her braces were stained red. She approached me in a bit of a stumble.

“Oh! Oh! Caleb! You were one of my brightest students, clearly! I mean, a whole album, wow!” Her enthusiasm made me laugh. She was always a sweet old lady—I mean, she was old when I was a kid; God knows how old she was now.

“Thank you, Ma’am. It ain’t much. I really don’t know why—” My voice trailed off. I heard something. I heard Eloise laugh. I knew it was hers because I’d heard it my whole life. I followed the noise a bit. My teacher was still hollering at me, but I couldn’t hear her over that laugh. There she was—at my party for my album. I hadn’t seen her in nine years, but there she was. My head was filled with emotions: anger, confusion, and mostly grief. I stood a couple of feet in front of her, like an idiot. For a moment, the party dimmed down a bit. It moved slower.

As she turned to me, the only words I could muster were, “Why’d you go?”

She furrowed her brow and scratched the back of her head. She looked anxious, started tapping her cup.

I peeked down into her cup. I was relieved to see it was a Pepsi.

“I… uh, don’t really know how to answer that,” she said. I waited nine years to ask her that question, and she couldn’t even answer me.

“Then, why’d you come?” That was the second question I needed answered.

Again, she hesitated. I wished the answer was obvious. Her eyes darted across the room and landed back on mine.

“I’m a different person than I was before. Still poor, very poor. I’m working on it. I work two jobs and live in a crummy apartment, but I’m sober—five months now. And I realize that leaving Cleveland made you a stranger, but it was worth it because if I didn’t leave when I did, I don’t think I would’ve made it out of here sober.” There was pure sincerity in her voice. Still, it stung when she called me a stranger. Eloise was right—it’s hard to get out of this part

of Cleveland, especially if you’re in the mental state she was in. When she was sixteen, some guy a couple of years older offered to take her out of town, and she jumped at the opportunity.

“No, uh, I mean—why’d you come to my party?” I felt like I was going to be disappointed by her answer, but I had to ask.

“Like I said, I’m a different person. I think I can handle some neighborhood party without getting wasted anymore.” Her words made my brow furrow a bit. She referred to my party as a “neighborhood party.”

“What, you think this is just a neighborhood gettogether?” I asked, practically fuming. How could my childhood best friend show up to my party and not even know it was mine? “It’s my party. It’s for the release of my album. You would’ve known that if you cared. You would’ve known if you bothered to call these past years. Maybe if you pretended to be a good friend for once in your life—you’d have known that it wasn’t a ‘neighborhood get-together.’ You haven’t changed one bit.” My voice was sharp, but I was on the verge of breaking down into tears.

Eloise looked at me for a few seconds, then left through the crowd of people. I was scared I wasn’t going to see her again. I watched her weave through the crowd and stop at Mikey. Mikey was my brother’s best friend—I loved the kid, but he wasn’t going to help an alcoholic stay sober.

They talked for a couple of minutes, and I stood there watching them. I knew I shouldn’t have flipped out on her, but all these feelings I’d had about us just came out. She laughed at whatever Mikey said. Why did she laugh? My stomach dropped as I watched Mikey fill two Red Solo cups with cheap booze. She wasn’t seriously going to drink it, was she? She’d only been in Cleveland for two hours, and she’d already relapsed. I watched her drink it like it was water.

My sister Anna saw me upset and took me to another

part of the house to distract myself. She looked at me with sympathetic eyes.

“Are you okay?” Her voice was soft and genuine— different from Eloise’s voice. Eloise was monotone, sounding like she was about to crack at any moment.

“Why do I still get nervous when I see Eloise drink?” My question was vague, but Anna knew exactly what I was talking about.

“Because you care, and you grew up here. You’ve seen many people go into a spiral, and you’re scared it’ll happen to her.” Her answer was vague, too, but I knew exactly what she meant. I looked over at my guitar. I just wanted the party to end, but at the same time, I didn’t want to say goodbye to Eloise. I strummed my guitar until the party slowed down.

Now only about ten people remained at my house. Anna and I started to clean up. I walked over to the kitchen and saw Eloise at the table. Her head was slumped down, and there were a bunch of cups surrounding her. Her eyes were glazed over. She was drunk—not the good, carefree kind, but the kind that makes the room spin. She looked at me, like a mess.

“You’re right. I haven’t changed. I really thought I did. I really thought I could come back home without drinking, but I am so weak.” Her voice showed emotion— vulnerability. She couldn’t look me in the eyes.

“Well, I haven’t changed either. I’ll take care of you tonight, just like I used to,” I said sincerely, maybe even hopefully. She didn’t say much. She just put her head down on the table. I cleaned the cans and cups across the table.

“Here, drink this. I bought it for the kids, but now they only drink pricey energy drinks and sodas. It’s all yours.” I handed her a tall glass of apple juice. For once, Eloise took her time drinking something.

Digital photograph Grade 8

Vivian Kelley Ripples

Digital photograph, pencil

5

Mila Acunto Magic in the Wind

The Shimmer of the Earth

Clara Scotto Grade 8

The glittery sky fell upon me in shards each so small they looked like specks of dust on a white canvas

I knew in the forenoon it would dissipate the only remnants a handful of flakes that left a souvenir from the hours of darkness before where I was the only witness

There was nothing exceptional about this occurrence but it felt magical as the white powder descended to the land right on my flushed, porcelain cheeks

It faded as quickly as it had arrived leaving a small wet puddle in its place

At dawn, I could sense the residue of glacial air it left in its wake and I recalled the past occurrence of dark so beautiful that even Mother Nature herself would commemorate the period when nature shimmered

Sand Rex Spinner Grade 8

I have been dissolved and shaken

Victim of granular confection

Sorted, and placed in the “less than” pile

I do not shake the jars of sand I see I want to mix them

I want the bigger and smaller beautiful grains

To be intertwined and communicating

I wonder if the millipede feels the same, If he feels too distant from the centipede

I wonder if poison ivy feels bad for its chemicals, For its self defense

If it feels bad for being the only one

Strong enough to defend against predators

With each inch of its being

I wonder if birds fear humans

More than they fear cars

I wonder if the stars would show their color if they could

If when we looked up

We would be met with a hue range unimaginable

I would mix all of the beach if I could

Run my fingers across each unique grain

Shell, rock, glass, plastic, fossil, plant

And make it meet itself

Alegria Rojas

Starsun

Charlotte Mulvehill

Grade 5

Star

Bright, bold

Floating, glowing, longing A big yellow dot in the sky Sun

Nora Mulvehill Behind the Scenes

Alegria Rojas Freedom

Digital photograph Grade 8

Maxim Michniewicz Al-Jabr

Book, fabric, paper, tea

Grade 7

Ellie Holtz

Berry Stippling

Digital photograph

Grade 8

Ode to the Strawberry

Nora Mulvehill

Grade 7

O Sweet,

O Juicy, O Marvelous, O Ruby Red

The taste of romance.

You are an organ that beats for beauty

With your little green hat and tinier dark stars. You have control over my mind and life after first bite. All things flee once you enter my mouth. You can be found fields, pies, sealed in chocolate. You offer a glimpse of childlike innocence. When all is well, the drip of crimson juice slides down my face glimmering in the summer sun.

I just adore you so.

O, Strawberry

Digital photograph Grade 8

Clara Scotto Lost

Denny Dumbwizi Couney’s Babies

Mixed media

Grade 7

I Would Die for You

Maxim Michniewicz Grade 7

Jonathan loved Mary. Most days, he would slip tiny notes onto her desk, but on a few special days, he would sneak a box of chocolates in her cubicle instead. Despite his advances, Jonathan couldn’t muster up the courage to confess to her; he was too shy and meek. However, the main reason was that in Jonathan’s eyes, he didn’t deserve her.

A year ago, Jonathan left the stove on while his fiancee, Ava, was sleeping. When he returned home from work, he found the ruins of his house on fire. The only thing left of Ava was ash. It was Jonathan’s fault. He left on the stove and she left him forever. The guilt never left him. Every day, he feared that the same thing would happen to Mary, so he decided to never love again.

The next day at work, Jonathan received a note on his desk. He was shocked to see it. Jonathan was not aware that anyone could love someone like him. He was still a murderer. He killed someone dear to him and he would never, ever let himself forget that. As though spurred by his contemplation, the wind pushed open the card in such a way that the words could be clearly seen. “Dear Jonathan, I love you. Every night I lie awake thinking about the joy of our soon-to-be union. The moment I saw you, I was enamoured by your pre—”. Abruptly, Jonathan placed the letter down. He had seen enough. The handwriting was Mary’s and even though he loved her, he believed he would make another mistake and lose her forever like he did Ava. So, he ignored it. It would be best for her.

But Jonathan couldn’t get her out of his mind. Everything about her enticed him, from her looks, to her personality, her smile. He couldn’t get her out of his head. So a day later, he worked up the courage to tell her. She agreed. She truly loved him. All was right in the world.

Firewater

Digital photograph

Grade 8

Vivian Winkelmann

oh little sunshine

Claire Ponden

Grade 5

oh little sunshine you paint the skies with bright light fleeing from the moon

This year’s edition of Pen & Paper, “Morning Has Broken,” is intended to walk the reader through the twilight of the human condition (DUSK), into utter darkness (MIDNIGHT), and then, gently, bring them back to the light (DAWN). It ends with an absolutely stunning spread: a captivating image of the ocean set on fire by the rising sun, taken by one of our graduating students, and an arresting haiku, written by one of our youngest contributors, which captures the renewing beauty of the morning. 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.

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 147 enrolled students in total (83 in the Upper School, Grades 5-8) and 53 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