Portraits of Thirteen

I. I used to confuse coffee grounds with the dirt in flower pots, the earthy scent overtaking the musky flowers. A bird nest lies on a shelf in our garage. I do not have the heart to close our garage door at night, to move the nest: the blue eggs unhatched, cushioned in the leaves— unable to escape their home. II. More pressure, my teacher says. I tilt my index finger, clasping the bow skimming the strings of my violin. The amount the bow hair should bounce ingrained in muscle memory. Increase the bow speed. I find the fine line between a gritty sound and the tip of my bow flying off the strings. The rosin puffing gold dust onto my music sheets, onto the black lines, the swirls of the clefs and key signatures, the stickiness finding homes in crevices made by the screws in my music stand. III. I trace the patterns of rock on my shower wall I once believed told my life’s story. I saw my cat, grey stripes curled in a ball, pressed into the tiled wall. Arbitrary like a raffle, fate carves into the rock with the right set of sharp tools. IV. When I was six, I dreamt of a crimson path. Barefoot, I walked on eggs— red, runny yolks. The eggshells poking my feet, the path has no end. Sabrina Guo, 13Oyster Bay, NY Anya Geist, 13Worcester, MA

Self-Portrait: Breath of Ghosts

We never used our fireplace until Hurricane Sandy snapped the power lines. Heavy rain and wind whipped around our dark house as the night grew colder. Our flashlights, the steamy breath of ghosts in the dead of winter. My father’s match struck a stack of miniature ebony logs and turned them alight like the bright orange wings of a monarch butterfly, the dark body of the room made thicker. Over the flame, we boiled water and cooled it just long enough to soak our feet— calm ripples and soft circling soothing us as the night wind raged. The house stayed black, but I memorized how many steps the stairway held, the exact height of each step. Sabrina Guo, 13Oyster Bay, NY Caitlin Goh, 13 Dallas, TX

Stone Soup Honor Roll: April 2020

Welcome to the Stone Soup Honor Roll! We receive hundreds of submissions every month by kids from around the world. Unfortunately, we can’t publish all the great work we receive. So we created the Stone Soup Honor Roll. We commend all of these talented writers and artists and encourage them to keep creating. – The Editors Scroll down to see all the names (alphabetical by section), including book reviewers and artists. FICTION Srija Biswas, 11 Sally Cheng, 12 Rubina Davila, 13 Elise Dilci, 13 Sammy Fisher, 10 Clara Soledad Jones, 10 Emily Yen, 10 NONFICTION Amani Dhillon, 13 Ava Kisch, 12 Sterling Streatfeild, 11 Alyssa Wu, 12 Peimeng Xu, 10 Justin Zhang, 11 POETRY Talia Bernstein, 11 Madeleine Koelbel, 12 Michael Liu, 12 ART Grace Williams, 12

Why are friends like that?

What is the point of friends? Are they supposed to make you laugh? Cry? Are they there for you? Are they kind? Hard-working? Do they give up? Do people like you just because you’re rich? Will you ever truly know why your friend is being your friend? Lydia Iliff, 10Sewickley, PA

Stone Soup Honor Roll: May 2020

Welcome to the Stone Soup Honor Roll! We receive hundreds of submissions every month by kids from around the world. Unfortunately, we can’t publish all the great work we receive. So we created the Stone Soup Honor Roll. We commend all of these talented writers and artists and encourage them to keep creating. – The Editors Scroll down to see all the names (alphabetical by section), including book reviewers and artists. FICTION Lena Aloise, 10 Heidi Nguyen, 11 Sienna Rapaport, 10 Owen Von Weihe, 13 NONFICTION Bethany Karlinsky, 11 Lambros Kledaras, 11 Sheryl Xie, 12 POETRY Federico Lynch Ferraris, 10 Sofiaa Brogan Fink, 10 Scarlet Song He, 8 Alyssa Wu, 12 Lucy Zanker, 13 ART John P. Anson, 9 Aerial Chen, 11 Grace Williams, 12

Elana (Part Two) A Novella

You can read the first installment of Hannah’s novella, which placed third in our 2019 book contest, in the April 2020 issue of Stone Soup. The final installment will appear in our June 2020 issue. CHARACTERS – In order of appearance ELANA (Uh-LAY-nuh) A young furow girl who is the Chosen One MS. SMIT Elana’s science teacher, who later reveals a secret identity HENRY A tiny, green-haired fairy who guides Elana CASEY FLUMPTON An evil rock star and Elana’s mortal enemy ASTREA, DANIEL, HERA, ALLEN, and SOPHIA Henry’s friends TWEETLE and TWOOTLE Casey’s messengers TOONA A Neptune devil MRS. RICHARD Elana’s writing teacher MOM, DAD, MARY, DAISY, JOHN, FIONA, and EDGAR Elana’s family KĀLEKA CAKE (Kay-LEE-kah), TAFFY CRUSTULUM, MEL LIMBUM, SUGAR SWEET, CHOCOLAT TREAT, COCO SCELERISQUE, and VANILLE GLAÇAGE Gingerbread workers in the Palace of Honey GALETTA A snappy owner at a bakery in Sugar Top BUBBLES, GUMMER, LICORE, and CHOCO Workers at the Background Theater SPOTS Coco’s pet dog PRANKSTER Vanille’s pet cat HALLOWEEN and EASTER Bubbles’s pets FILLINUS The ambassador of light HAU’OLI A girl who befriends Elana in Casey’s palace PHILADELPHIA Hau’oli’s pet rat CAPTAIN HAWKINS The police chief MR. REMY and MR. SAGARD Two police officers VI (continued): The Background Theater At the end of the hallway was a theater, but without any seats for an audience. Instead, on stage, everybody was creating beautiful sets. There was everything from fancy houses to beautiful landmarks and unforgettable natural scenes. Elana stood amazed. She had never seen such beautiful backdrops! She looked at Henry, smiling, then noticed that Henry looked completely dazed and unresponsive, which puzzled Elana. What was wrong? Suddenly, all the gingerbread artists scurried over to Henry. “Henry’s sick!” one of them cried out in despair. During the commotion, Elana had wandered over to the sets. Suddenly, there was a deafening crash. To Elana’s horror, she had spilled a paint bucket onto a drying masterpiece! Everyone’s attention suddenly turned to Elana. She turned red. What are they going to do to me? Elana thought to herself. Just then, an angry gingerbread confronted her. “What did you do to my masterpiece?” he shrieked. Elana looked at Henry helplessly. She wished Henry would help her. She was confused What happened to Henry? What was going to happen? Will I ever get back into the cozy hotel room? What am I going to say? Elana thought frantically. Then she thought about the Palace of Honey. She thought about how everybody there knew Henry. Even a gingerbread here had cried, “Henry’s sick!” Suddenly, a plan formed in her mind. “I’m friends with Henry,” she shouted. “You’re friends with—?” the gingerbread man started. “Henry,” Elana finished. Everyone just stared. “I really am!” Elana continued. “What’s your name?” A gingerbread woman asked. “Elana,” Elana said. Everyone gaped at her. “Uh-” Elana paused. “What’s the big deal?” “Well, the Chosen One is Elana,” said a slim gingerbread man with a fake smile, “but I had no idea she was such a cute little chubby-cheeker.” “Well, that’s me,” Elana admitted, ignoring the gingerbread man’s name-calling. What is he talking about? Elana thought to herself. I don’t even have chubby cheeks! “So you’re the one that Henry was talking about!” said the angry gingerbread with the wrecked masterpiece, who suddenly seemed more friendly. “So, what’s your name?” Elana asked the gingerbread, changing the subject. “Gummy, but call me Gummer—I like that better.” “Bubblegum. Bubbles for short,” a gingerbread woman said. “Licore,” another gingerbread man introduced himself. “Choco,” (pronouncing it Choe-coe) the slim gingerbread said, then chuckled and added, “you cute little chubby itsy-poo!” Elana tried not to glare at Choco, because she felt awfully annoyed. She quickly felt better when Bubbles gave her an I-know-how-you-feel face and understanding nod. “Is that all?” Elana asked. “Yes, Coochi-poo,” answered Choco. Elana was burning with annoyance. She was sick and tired of being called names and so confused by what was happening to Henry. She felt like shouting out to Choco how horrible she thought he was—you skinny, fake-smiling, name-calling cookie!—but she knew it wasn’t right. Her mind was bursting with words that she could use to describe Choco. Instead, she took a deep breath and inquired, “Henry’s sick, right?” “I don’t know, Itsy-pie,” Choco replied, handing her a book. “This book is about paint-fainting. Read page 57 and tell us if anything is helpful.” VII: Curing Henry Elana took the book from Choco’s hands. Then she flipped to page 57. After that, she began to read to herself. CAUSE OF PAINT-FAINTING SICKNESS The paint-fainting sickness is caused by a chemical in heavy frosting paints; it is called Europitha (EErope-ee-tha). Europitha can cause fairies to become entranced and then faint after smelling the paint at least five times. The Europitha is deadly for all fairies. A chemical in fairies’ stomachs called Nishto (NISHE-too), interferes with the Europitha and makes a deadly gas. Scientists are trying to figure out why the gas makes the fairies faint, but the mystery still hasn’t been solved yet. Elana looked up from the book. “Done,” she said as she rubbed her finger on a page. “Find anything useful?” Choco inquired. “Fairies have Nisht-” Elana started. “Yeah, yeah,” Choco interrupted. “That’s what I thought. Read page 58 and tell me something important.” Elana wondered why he had said “tell me something important,” not “tell us something important,” but she obeyed Choco’s orders. HOW TO CURE THE PAINTFAINTING SICKNESS Curing the paint-fainting sickness is a very hard job. There are 53 steps in all! This is the easy way to use in case of emergency. Cover your patient with a handkerchief. Touch his or her throat lightly and then check pulse. Rub his or her stomach gently and pat his or her head. Pat his or her right thigh gently, then the left. WARNING: Don’t cradle your patient during the operation. If needed, put your patient on a table to help them balance. “Done,” Elana whispered, because Licore had fallen asleep due to boredom.

To Those in a Cage

Ravens were my favorite, with their midnight feathers full of mystery, dreams, and the whisper of age-old spirits. I loved the hummingbirds beating their wings at what seemed to be the speed of sound as they sipped sweet nectar, fast and free. Doves reminded me of all of my wishes, of peace and love, of a happy future that seemed so attainable. Even pigeons fascinated me, the way they thrived in public places, unwilling to back down, even to humans. Reality was a bright-blue sky. I floated on wings made of dreams. As I feel my dirty sneakers greet the pavement, I notice the people around me. Somehow the pigeons on the sidewalk are freer than I’ll ever feel. The people are a cage, and I am a pitiful bird, rocking back and forth, reaching out for the comfort of a bright-blue sky that never comes. Every step means suffocation. I am lost. The cage doesn’t notice. But I don’t notice the other lost souls either. The cold faces that make up the looming bars of my cage and block out all else feel like strangers. Even the ones I am oh-so-familiar with. My mother’s judging gaze, my peers who I know judge me, even my friends. They are all strangers, surrounding me. So I mumble “sorry” and move deeper into my cage. I prefer the meaningless excuse of “sorry” to voicing my own opinion. It is what people want to hear, Expect to hear. Saying it doesn’t mean I’m “too nice for my own good.” In fact, I’m selfish. So selfish I don’t even deserve to be writing a poem about birds in cages. Because I’ve never been caged. But some people have. This is for them. This is for the people who create the cages. This is because I want them to see that they’re hurting people. Don’t you understand how painful it is? With every action, you place another bar of abandonment in a cage big enough to house millions of hurt, lonely souls. I know you don’t mean to hurt people. I believe beings are good at heart. But we make a lot of really bad mistakes. We are terrible and wonderful, and these inconsistencies make up our being. I wish I could shed my skin and human doubts and become a flying, soaring spirit of song, joining the birds that made their true home in the sky. I would fly with wings made of songs that aren’t happy or sad, good or bad, but a hopeful sort of in-between. I would fly like the birds I admired so much, but on wings that remember I was once caged too. So I can fly over everyone who needs a little hope. So I can show them—you’re not alone. I’d fly over everyone Because maybe everyone has a cage of some sort. Naomi Angel Farkas, 12Los Angeles, CA

Real Life Checkmate

Evelyn is teased for trying to join the Boys’ Chess Club Meet Evelyn Thompson. In kindergarten, she tore down the micro-soccer field in a dress and Mary Janes. By first grade, she could play Bach on the piano as smoothly as a river. During second grade, she smoked all the kids in her class playing checkers, and as she started sixth grade, she joined chess club. Evelyn walked confidently through the door of the Colorado Boys’ Chess Club. She didn’t mind the looks the nearby boys flashed at her. If it mattered to them that a girl was walking through the door, that was their problem, not hers. Once the boys saw her performance, they would forget about the dividing line that existed between genders. Evelyn soon found out she was in real-life checkmate. When she introduced herself, Logan, a tall boy with untidy, dull-blond hair shouted, “Evelyn—what type of pretty-girl name is that?” The other boys burst into laughter. Evelyn sat awkwardly and tried to laugh, but only a grunt escaped. These boys had a different sense of humor, a kind that stung your heart. Before the chess games began, Liam whispered to Evelyn, “Good luck, powerless pawn.” He then turned toward the boys and said, “Who’s going to teach Evelyn a lesson?” Logan, the team captain, stepped forward. “I will.” He mocked Evelyn by flipping his tiny strands of hair. She ignored him and made her first move: knight to c3. Logan moved his pawn to h4. The game went on and on, each grainy, wooden chess piece progressing slowly across the black-and-white board. Finally, Evelyn called out “checkmate,” certain she had proved her right to play in the chess club. Mason raced over to her. “You’re a cheater, Evelyn. Logan has never lost a game.” “Neither have I,” Evelyn replied nonchalantly. “She’s a cheater. I saw her,” Logan declared. *          *          * Later that day, Evelyn collapsed on her bed. No one had the right to accuse her of something she didn’t do. Chess was about strategy, and she had simply outplayed Logan. Evelyn did not want to go back to the club—she was treated like a mouse, and the boys were hungry cats. But, if she left this club now, these boys would know they could scare off other girls in the future. Evelyn wanted to change their minds. But how? Her eyes filled with tears, upset at the situation, and even more that these boys could make her feel this way. *          *          * When the time rolled around to go back to chess club, Evelyn skipped it. That afternoon, she headed out, her dog, Kaia, several steps ahead. They were walking to the park to play fetch and then to drop off a weekly meal— lasagna—for Mrs. Gates. As Evelyn was about to throw Kaia’s ball, she spotted that head of untidy, dull-blond hair. Uh-oh. Logan. Evelyn dropped the ball she was holding and pulled Kaia in the other direction, but it was too late. Kaia was already barking at Logan’s Labrador. Logan looked up and recognized Evelyn immediately. What bad luck. Logan waved—a surprising gesture given what he’d done to her in chess club. He started walking toward Evelyn, his Labrador now headed for Kaia, Kaia headed for his Labrador. Big mess. Dogs barking. Should Evelyn run? No. She wasn’t going to be intimidated. Should Evelyn run? No. She wasn’t going to be intimidated. “Hey,” Logan said. “Why weren’t you at chess club today?” The answer was so obvious—why didn’t he understand? “Why would I go to chess club and tolerate your awful behavior? I didn’t cheat, which you already know!” Evelyn shouted. “Uh . . .” Logan stammered. “Why did you treat me that way?” Evelyn snapped. “Look, I used to be a loner. No one liked me, so I started acting like the others. I don’t know how the boys would react if I stopped teasing you; they might kick me out of the club. I have to be like them,” Logan said. Evelyn looked Logan up and down. He seemed truthful. She was quiet for a moment before speaking. “It sounds like we’re both unhappy in chess club. But you can’t treat me like that, not even if all the other boys in that room will hate you.” She then tried a different move. “Maybe we can team up.” Logan’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re crazy. How can we do that?” “We just have to think about this as a chess problem.” The two began to brainstorm. Evelyn was certain they would find a solution. On the way home, Evelyn was hopeful and even excited. She was so focused on chess club that she forgot to drop off the lasagna dinner—and received a phone call from a very unhappy Mrs. Gates. *          *          * It was time for chess club again, and Evelyn’s stomach was twisting harder than ever before. She looked at Logan. He looked at her and nodded. Her throat clenched. But then she imagined a new sign hanging above the chess club’s door that read: Colorado Boys’ and Girls’ Chess Club. Evelyn started: “I’m here to do the same thing as you, play chess. We all deserve to be on this team, but it doesn’t feel like a team . . .” “It isn’t a team, powerless pawn,” Liam interrupted. “We’re the kings, and we rule.” He cracked up, and Hugo high-fived him. Evelyn was about to continue when Logan jumped in. “What’s the problem with having Evelyn in our club?” “She belongs on a girls’ chess team; we don’t need her help,” Ben said. “Chess isn’t won just by a king or a queen. You have to use all of your pieces. Don’t we want to be the best team possible?” Evelyn shot back. Logan stepped to Evelyn’s side. Mason glared at

I Am Me

Who am I? It depends if you are asking me. My peers know only a rendition of me. An aloof me. Do I even have friends? It depends if you are asking me. My peers know only a rendition of me. An aloof me, whose only friends are baubles and pens. What do I know? It depends if you are asking me. My peers know only a rendition of me. An aloof me whose only friends are baubles and pens, and who doesn’t know how to properly use her head. But what if you were to ask me? Who am I? I know not a rendition of me. I know a kind girl, with many friends, who knows to survive with only a pen. Lilly-June Gordon, 12New York, NY