Looking Back:
The Art of Growing Up
Sometimes, to appreciate how far we've come, we need to revisit where we began. In this issue, our editors have reimagined their childhood creations. From whimsical illustrations to heartfelt stories, we’ve journeyed back to reconnect with our younger selves and celebrate the growth that shaped us.
Contributors: Emily C, Davina J, Jamie L
THE CIRCLE
Davina J
This story is undated, but as it was found in a pink spiral notebook written in brown crayon and terrible cursive, I can confidently estimate I was around seven. That was when we learned cursive, after all, and when my teacher informed me I had to stop writing in it because even I couldn't read my assignments.
Which makes this story a decade old. Oddly, it didn’t feel that long ago. I can still see the influences of this story. Jack moaning “oh brother” is strongly reminiscent of The Magic Treehouse. My obsession with fairy circles and portals probably came from The Land of Stories. And the four-sibling dynamic was probably inspired by Little Women.
Starting this story, I aimed to maintain that chipper tone of stories for young readers. I wanted to write something my seven-year-old self would have loved. I was worried. I didn’t have siblings. I haven’t been a seven-year-old in a very long time. And I haven’t read Magic Tree House or The Land of Stories in a while either. But these kids poured out of me like a blizzard. I couldn’t hold them back even if I wanted to. Within an afternoon, this snippet was done, and I’m considering pivoting from horror into writing these bumbling losers indefinitely. I hope you love them as much as I do.
Age: 7
“What is this?” Asked Lizzie looking at a circle. “It’s a circle!” said Jack’s sister Lizzie. “Yes but what kind?” asked Selena another one of their sisters. “Could you stop them?” Jack asked their youngest sister Angle. The kids were staring at a circle of ivy. The kids are heading home from school, well, they were. They went into the woods because Lizzie saw something weird. “This is weird.” said Angle. Then all three girls start talk at the same time. “Oh brother!” moaned Jack. This is what he got for spending time with his little sisters. Jack is 8, Angle is 7, Selena is 6, and Lizzie is 5.
“Do you think something is weird?” asked Angle. Jack frowned and gulped. “Look!” said Jack “everyting we saw here is a circle!”
“Yeah.” said Selena. “First we saw a circle of trees, then we saw a circle of bushes. Then we saw a circle of mushrooms around this circle of ivy.”
“I have a feeling something bad is going to happen.”
Added Angle.
And it did!
Age: 17
The thing was, Jack liked living next to the woods. He liked the cool weather, the cute squirrels, and taking long walks to think deep thoughts. It made him feel like a detective pondering a case, especially when his scarf trailed behind him in a way very reminiscent of Sherlock Holmes’ coat. But moving to live next to the woods meant driving up two states – leaving behind Mrs Olsen, his friends, and all the library books he hadn’t finished yet.
In short, Jack was pretty determined to hate St. Wilmington, no matter how cute the squirrels were.
Moving to St. Wilmington also meant he had to walk his sisters to and from school, which sucked.
“I don’t see why you can’t babysit Lena and Lizzie,” Jack complained. “You’re not that much younger than me.”
“What would you even be doing if you weren’t ‘babysitting’?” Angie was seven, but she had mastered the art of twisting her face into a look of absolute contempt. “You don’t have any friends yet, nerd.”
“I do!”
“Oh yeah? What are their names?”
“Er…” Jack wracked his brain. “...Earl! Yeah! Earl… Warren!”
Angie raised her eyebrows. “The Supreme Court Justice?”
“His parents are really into the government!” Jack protested. “And how do you even know what that is?!”
“I read.” Angie turned away dismissively. “Lizzie! Don’t pick the flowers!”
“But they’re pretty!” Lizzie had a bouquet of daisies crushed in her chubby fist.
“You’re killing them, idiot,” Angie said, marching over. “Give.”
Lizzie’s face flushed red. Her eyes crinkled, cheeks puffing up. Oh brother. Jack groaned.
“Leave her alone, you’re making her cry.”
“She wouldn’t cry if she wasn’t such a baby.”
“Duh, she’s like, four.”
“You’re being mean,” Selena said quietly. Selena was generally quiet, quite polite, and very sweet. Secretly, she was Jack’s favourite, if only because she knew to leave him alone when he was reading.
Angie faltered. “Whatever,” she said, looking down at the ground, and coming from her that was almost an apology.
Jack sighed. Crouched down to comfort Lizzie. Only to find a very distinct Lizzie-less hole in their little circle. “Guys?” He said slowly, voice climbing up an octave. “Where did Lizzie go?”
A childish shriek of laughter answered his question. “That came from the woods,” Selena said. Jack took off, feet pounding against the crisp leaves. The sounds of cursing and a backpack thumping against the ground could be heard behind him before two new sets of footsteps followed.
Angie quickly overtook him. “Mom’s going to kill you!”
“And whose fault is that?!” He yelled back, already wheezing.
“Yours, loser, you’re the one in charge!”
Jack geared up to yell back, but Angie stopped suddenly, sending Jack crashing into her. Selena crashed into him, and the three toppled to the ground.
The forest floor smelled like pinecones and ageing leaves. Jack groaned, spitting dirt out of his mouth. Lizzie was crouched like a crab, mulishly examining something before her. “It’s a circle,” she said wondrously.
“What kind?” Selena scrambled up, kneeing Jack’s diaphragm in the process. He groaned, curling up into a ball. This is what he got for being a good brother?
“Both of you are stupid,” Angie grouched, shoving Jack off her.
“That’s a bad word,” Lizzie said airily.
“You think that because you’re stupid.” Angie stomped over to stand beside Lizzie. “Huh. That is weird.”
Jack flopped onto his back. His side ached. The sun felt pleasantly warm on his face. That was pretty rare in the forest – the sun’s usually hidden behind bunches of trees. Hm. He opened his eyes.
That’s… odd. There’s a perfect break in the leaves above him. Like a circle was cut right out of the foliage.
“It kind of looks like a crown,” Lizzie said, still persistently observing the ground. “Like, a crown of ivy.”
“Have you guys noticed there’s a lot of circles here?” Selena ignored her, pointing. “See, we’re in a circle of mushrooms. And there’s a circle of bushes around that.”
Lizzie clapped her hands together. “That’s so cool.”
Something uneasy curled up in Jack’s gut. “I think we should go.”
His tone must have made it through Angie's typical hatred for anything Jack-related, because she tugged at Lizzie’s hand. “Let’s go. This place is super lame anyway.”
Lizzie yanked her hand out of Angie’s grip. She gently lifted the circle of ivy and placed it on her head. “A crown, see?” She said, delighted.
Jack shivered. The wind was blowing harder now, and it suddenly felt very cold. “Sure, it’s really pretty. Let’s go home now, okay?” Except he found his voice getting blown away in the wind. The leaves were swirling around them, a perfect helix. Lizzie screamed, and when Jack scrambled to his feet, he saw the edges of her yellow dress disappearing, Lizzie herself carried away by the wind.
“What was that?!” Angie shrieked. Selena shrieked too, but when Jack launched himself towards she was gone too.
“We have to get mom and dad!”
“There’s no time!” Angie yelled back. “We have to follow them!”
“What? How?!”
Angie’s face hardened, determined. “Trust me,” she said, holding out her hands.
Jack didn’t think. He clutches her hands in his, and feels something inside him break away, the two scattering, scattering, gone.
READATHON BOOKMARK
Emily C
Firstly, I swear that 6-year-old me did not intend to draw boobs on Little Red Riding Hood!
For this column, I decided to recreate this particular bookmark because it’s one of the few childhood artworks that I still vividly remember drawing. At the time, I was dissatisfied with the way I had drawn the head—the circle was too small and line was too dark—so I drew it again…and again. Suffice to say, my design did not win the bookmark competition for the school’s readathon. No matter, at least I have an interesting childhood artwork to revisit… ELEVEN YEARS LATER.
The Practical Improvements: Where do I even begin? Riding Hood is (thankfully) no longer holding her grandma’s house like a balloon on helium. The wolf now has three visible limbs instead of zero. And the shoes…actually the shoes aren’t that much better. But still, I am so proud of the improvements I have made as an artist over this decade. I often think about how drawing is a “skill”—the product of repeated practice over time—more than a “talent,” and it’s really interesting to see this idea in action.
More Thoughts & Feelings (because this was not made by AI, mwahahaha): This project was actually quite healing for me. Compared to junior year, I’ve created a lot less art this semester because I decided not to pursue AP Drawing after AP 2D, and college applications have taken up so much of my mental energy lately. When I started working on the updated bookmark, I didn’t know where I was going exactly, but I trusted the artistic decision-making that I’ve developed over the years. I gained inspiration from some incredible Riding Hood illustrations online, tried to imitate the composition and elements of the original bookmark, and just went for it. Even when I decided to erase and completely redrew Little Red Riding Hood (which proved to be a good choice), the process felt very smooth and enjoyable. Also, I drew most of this while on a turbulent plane and a shaky bus! Huge thanks to my fingers for holding true.
All in all, I’m glad that this issue of Pen & Palette challenged me to reflect back and look ahead with a hopeful perspective. I think younger me would be astonished to see her vision come to life. Maybe we ended up winning the bookmark competition after all.
NEIGHBORHOOD STORY
Jamie L.
This was a pretty fun rewrite, which surprised me. The original piece was from only four years ago, written for an assignment about vivid memories in freshman year if I recall correctly. I’m somewhat amused that my tone of voice doesn’t seem to have changed much despite the time that has passed, and maybe a bit concerned about what that says about me. The changes aren’t great, but I’d still like to believe I improved in my descriptions and use of punctuation a little. I didn’t really start creatively writing until later, in junior year, and that strikes me as such a shame now. Still, this experience of recreation makes me want to try a little more in the future – years and years further down the line.
Age: 13
I once had a friend who had a friend, and for her sake, we always begrudgingly tried our best to get along with each other. At least, I was hesitant at first. He wasn’t the type parents would call a good influence, but we were equally devoted to keeping our her happy.
Spending time with the two of them together was refreshing in the way walking out of a movie theater on a sunny day was; harsh, and with the sudden reminder that we lived in different realities yet were still connected in some way. It became a habit for the three of us to walk home together after school as we became volunteer teachers for a band training program for the local elementary schools. Sometimes we’d stop at the Pharmacy for drinks, or maybe at a Starbucks. What was always a constant was what we held close while walking. For him, a skateboard that was well-worn and well-loved, and for me, my instrument, the bane of my existence and the skin of my palms. One day, we had decided to alternate these items (my friend held the skateboard closely, maybe a bit too close for something on the ground as often as it was, and he held my instrument after I guilt-tripped him with red, blistered hands. That meant I, however, held nothing in the end). It was as usual when we arrived at my driveway, tired from a 15-minute walk in the blazing sun and laughing about whatever stories conjured up on the spot. There was a brief pause as we stood there silently, about to go through with the usual motions of a goodbye. All too suddenly and with no warning, and with a shocking casualness, my friend bends at the knees and lightly pushes the skateboard across the road. The road with which there are still cars speeding across. Our breaths audibly hitched as a white jeep’s front wheels just barely brushed past the end of the skateboard before it reached the other side, bumping into the curb on the other side with barely a sound. It survived. I’m not too sure that their relationship did afterward, though.
Age: 18
I once had a close friend who had another close friend of her own. For her sake, the two of us always begrudgingly tried to get along. I was hesitant at first, as he wasn’t necessarily the type parents would call a “good influence” – sneaking drinks, staying out late, being a noisy nuisance – but at least we were equally devoted to keeping her happy and content.
Spending time with the two of them was refreshing in the same way walking out of a movie theater on a sunny day was: harsh and with the sudden reminder that we lived in different realities, yet were still connected to each other in some way.
It became a habit for the three of us to walk home together after school; we were all volunteer teaching assistants for a musical training program for local elementary school kids, led by our band director. We would often stop by the Pharmacy for unhealthy snacks or the nearest coffee shop for sugary drinks. What was also a constant was what we held in our hands during our walks back: for him, a well-used and well-loved skateboard; for our friend, a light trumpet case; for me, a decades-old bassoon case that would leave my hands red and blistered.
We alternated these items on a random Tuesday when our friend forgot her trumpet. She held his skateboard closely, too close to her chest for something as often on the ground as it was, I’d thought. He held my bassoon after some pointed whining about the pitiful state of my palms. (I held nothing in the end.) It was all going as usual when we arrived at my driveway first, tired and sweating from a 15-minute walk under the blazing hot sun, uniquely unforgiving in the way only Californian summers could be. We stood silently, a brief pause before our ritual goodbyes and parting.
All of a sudden, our friend bent at the knees and lightly pushed the skateboard across the road – the one on which there were still cars speeding across. Our breaths had all audibly hitched when a white Jeep’s front wheels just barely avoided the end of the skateboard as it reached the other side, bumping against the curb without a sound. It had survived, miraculously enough.
I’m not too sure their relationship did afterward, though.