Editor’s Note

This issue explores the extremes in nature—from the terrifying peaks of the mountains and the towering peaks of ocean waves to storms capable of wiping out an entire group of soldiers. The stories, poems, and art here all remind us of the awe-inspiring power latent within the earth, water, plants, and rocks that surround us. The Earth has seen it all. As Zeke Braman writes in his poem “Mountain”: The footprints that have faded leave their story, The birds have an article that they will share, The trees have old legends Of kings and queens and knights, The ground has an account The Earth holds and remembers our stories—in the form of fossils and artifacts, of course, but also in the landscape itself, which we have so drastically changed. We have transported plants and animals from their natural habitats to new ones. We have dug lakes and built mountains and created snow. And now, through climate change, we are causing fires to rage, oceans to rise, and storms to flood our cities. What “account” will the ground have of us in the next decade, the next century? This month, I encourage you to explore the landscape around you—however ordinary it might seem—and to find the extreme, and also the beauty, within it. Till next time, Emma Wood

The Crow

The crow flies across the sky away from all troubles, the wind whipping through her wings. She basks in the sun as if it were a precious gift. She doesn’t have a voice like a scream piercing through the air. Her voice is firm. Never complacent. Yet docile. Like a vulture, she only takes what no one wants. Everyone thinks crows are menacing and go to graveyards, but they are kind like vultures. Whenever she comes down to perch, she knows the sky will always claim her once again. Aiah Morris, 12Burien, WA Ziqing Peng, 11Nanjing, China

Mountain

Pine needles cover the ground, Life chirps and peeps from cracks in the Earth. These mountains rise high, Scraping space. Lizards and bugs infest the leaning trees, The elder branches of the oak, Fir, And birch Wave their spidery fingers at the sky As if waiting for an answer to a prayer. Paths twirl and unfold like ribbons, Tracing the past generations’ steps to the peak. Clouds encircle the summit as if dancing. Markers are set to tell you that many people Have been here to rise above. Trees make a thin blanket against the buffeting winds That scour everything And withdraw suddenly. An old house at the back of the mountain Gives you a personal secret You keep to yourself. Your ancestors scaled it. You want to follow their invisible ghosts up to the top And see the valley spread out like a patchwork quilt, And a feeling of big/small makes you want To become part of the mountain yourself, To become one with the wind and trees and birds And stories that the locals tell. You want them to surround you And enclose you. The footprints that have faded leave their story, The birds have an article that they will share, The trees have old legends Of kings and queens and knights, The ground has an account Of the gossip passed by the people of the mountain. You want to call this home. Zeke Braman, 9Acton, MA Enoch Farnham, 12Edmond, OK

The Asteroid Attack

A sudden rain of asteroids turns a normal school day into a terrifying experience Light glimmered on the vast plains of France and on the sparkly stones that lay around like lazy cats. The stones rose angrily above the ground, glistening in the sun’s radiant light. Endless fields danced in the glorious, full light emanating from the brilliant ball of fire above the crystal blue sky that stretched as far as the eye could see. Blurry rivers sang around gleaming, round stones, creating elegant rippling sounds that filtered through the immense plain. Grasses tingled in the clear morning air; the wind flowed like rain through the long expanse to field after field after field. In the far blue distance, mountains arose like clouds soaring across an endless sky. Sheer white snow sparkled, sending thousands of points of diamond light across the plentiful land. Erect stones and points jutted from the mountains; the steep hills looked ominous even from such a long distance. Splotches of brilliant green sparkled in the crooks of mountains far away—dew glinting and opulent green hills soaring through the landscape. A few scraggly caves jutted through the fertile soil; the dark, dreary, dim center hidden from view by craggy and rugged cave walls that whispered in the wind. The landscape blended together into one big mush of land; the colors blurred, but the regions themselves were very different. Thus, a single farmer could get lost in unknown territory; the spaces were so vastly different, whether plain, river, mountain, or valley. As dawn seeped across the sky like milk pouring into a bowl, a young girl carefully climbed out of her microscopic bed. She tried, ever so carefully, to prevent the dusty wood floors from creaking. Her name was Evangeline; her hair was as pure as dark chocolate and her eyes as green as the plentiful valleys that surrounded her home on her parents’ farm. Her hair swept across her shoulders like waves rolling onto the beach in the far distance, every single strand falling into place as if her hair moved not as many single strands, but as one whole. Her skin was the color of the grainy sand that spilled around the cliffs and the fields, a dark tan color. Her skin was as soft as a feather and warm and silky to the touch. Her eyes gleamed emerald fire as the sun shone brilliant, warming rays down through the dusty windows onto her face. She was elegant, although her body was rugged and powerful after many long, hard days of tending to the farm in the warm summertime. Evangeline crept across the old wood floor like a quiet mouse. Dust spilled in the air as she placed her feet carefully down; it billowed around her like a storm. She slipped across the tiny house and onto a chair in the cold, damp kitchen. There were no windows in the creepy room, no warm light that spilled and danced through the glass. She walked over to the dusty wooden cabinet that contained her breakfast for the whole week. Inside, there were vegetables and fruits of any color and size imaginable. A rainbow of color filled the whole room like a mist; the fresh produce gave light to the suffocating darkness of the room. She grabbed six strawberries, two oranges, and one carrot for her measly breakfast. Oh, she thought, I wish I could have pancakes like all of the other kids at school. She danced back into the spiraling light, dismissing the thoughts from her head. I should be grateful for all I have. The door creaked and seemed to twist as it was opened by her sand-colored hand. Evangeline knew that the door would not hold for much longer as she quietly clicked it shut. She flew out through the meadow, running at a tremendous speed. She had always been excellent at running; if running were a class at school, she would have already aced it. The grass under her pounding feet swished; it tingled and glimmered with dew. The dew that once resided on the grass was flung into the air; rainbows spread across the grass as the sun shone its blinding, gleaming light through the tiny pearls of water. Evangeline looked back at her parents’ farm—one day to be her farm. The crops placed in neats rows were shriveled in the sun; the green sprouts were not visible from the spot where Evangeline stood. A feeling of dread crept into her stomach on tiny paws, seeping, pouring into every bone in her body. How can we survive any longer if our crops keep dying? Evangeline wondered fearfully. There was not enough money in her family to keep their farm and their house; they would have to move far away into the distance that seemed untouchable. The ominous mountains rose threateningly like mouths full of sharp teeth waiting to bite her at any second. Evangeline did not want to move away from her home, or all of the landmarks so familiar and friendly. Except for the mountains. The mountains always posed such a threat to Evangeline; whenever she looked at them, their terrifying looming over the land and the way they seemed to whisper ominous things had always made her feel as if there was no hope, that the world would soon come to an end. To cross them, as many did, would be the ultimate horror. The other people in Evangeline’s school seemed to love the mountains. The rock formations seemed so fragile but fierce. Interesting minerals poking out of rough stones to peek at the glorious world around them. Sloping hills that wound up the sides gently crafted by a mysterious water source long ago. Minute, trickling streams that wound through the mountains like pieces of thread. Exotic mountain plants growing through cracks in the rocks. Light danced through the warm windows and spread through the classroom like a tsunami of glitter. To Evangeline, they were dangerous, deadly, full of monstrous

Stone Soup Honor Roll: March 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 Layne Dawley, 10 Nora Heiskell, 11 Quinn Kennedy, 13 Diya Mukherjee, 13 Ever Sun, 9 Soraya Takhari, 7 POETRY Max Corthésy, 10 Riley Killen, 8 Lucia Murdoch, 12 Adele Stamenov, 10 Jungwoo Wi, 10 ART Elise Ko, 9 Selina Ni, 12 Kathleen Werth, 10 Grace Williams, 12  

William’s Journal

After years of digging for artifacts from World War III, James finds something valuable “Still nothing?” asks Peter, his nose pointed down at me like a beak. He has an aura of disdain floating around him. Peter is never happy because he’s having a hard time with cancer, and the doctor said that his days are numbered. Leave me alone, I think to myself. I’ve been digging in this hot, dry dirt since five a.m. And I just want to go home. But I just say, “Yep, still nothing.” I have a job at a dig site to find clues from a battle in World War III. My father said that it was one of the bloodiest events in history. He served as a ground soldier and when he came back, he was never the same. He started taking drugs and gambling to buy more drugs. He sold our house to buy more, and we went into poverty. My mother ran away with me when he had sold almost everything we had. She got a job and raised me by herself. And now I have a job at a dig site studying the war that drove my dad insane. It has been a mystery for 18 years now what happened to the soldiers that were here. A storm came through and when it passed, all that was left was mud. The same mud that I am getting paid to dig through for the museum. “You can go home now, James,” says Peter, his voice shocking me out of my thoughts. “Better luck next time.” I walk to my car and drive down the empty streets to my house on the corner of 13th street. Thirteen, I think. People always said that 13 was unlucky. And I have not had any luck at the dig site. “Welcome home, James,” says my wife, Betty. “Daddy! Daddy!” scream my two children. “Hello,” I say. “No luck again.” “I’m sorry,” says Betty. She is pudgy and has a round, kind face. “Come, let’s eat dinner. I hope you have better luck next time.” The next day I get up at five a.m. again and drive down to the dig site. The dig site is a grassless stretch of desert. I work for about five hours without finding anything. Until— For the first time, I strike on something other than dirt and mud. It’s a metal box. I have seen countless numbers of these in museums. It’s probably nothing. But I still feel excited. The box has a lock. It is rusted. With three strong hits with my shovel, the lock breaks. Inside is a little book that looks like a journal. Could this really be from the battle? What if this has the answers to the mystery? “I found something!” I yell. Peter and a few other men come running over. “What is it?” asks Peter. “I think it’s a journal,” says one man with a shovel. “You men go back to work. James and I will look at this journal.” And that is when my job at the dig site started to get interesting. *          *          * Peter and I walk briskly down the hall. Thoughts run through my head: Could this really be from the battle? What if this has the answers to the mystery? What if this could be the thing that gives me the money to send my kids to school? All of this crosses my mind while we walk down three flights of stairs and open a door. Peter flicks on the lights to illuminate a large desk at the end of an otherwise plain room. “Let’s take a look at what you found,” says Peter. He places the small book on the desk, and we both sit down. The suspense is killing me as he slowly, slowly moves his hands toward the book and opens it. Inside are thin yellow pages. At the top of the first page, it says: General William’s Journal, June 26th Peter and I look at each other in awe. “Could this be the thing we have been looking for?” I say to Peter. “Yes, yes. I think it is.” June 26 This is the first time I have recorded. The fighting has been at a standstill. Both my side and the enemy’s are not getting anywhere. I am just about to go play cards with Tucker, Bartholomew, and Sam. After that, I am going to send a small scouting party to check on the enemy’s position. Tucker is going with the scouting party. The end of day bell rings. The day went by so fast. I found a journal, and it has some answers. “Tomorrow we’ll continue to look at this journal,” says Peter, and we walk out the door. *          *          * As I walk to my car, I think of the good news I can tell my wife and kids. For months, I had nothing good to tell them. Today, I would finally have something good to say to them as I came through the door. When I drive into my driveway, I see the faces of my two little children peeking out at me, and I smile. They will go to school. I walk through the door, and my children run at me. “Did you find anything?” they ask. “Yes, my darlings.” I say. “Well, come on, sit down and tell us,” says Betty, and I do. The next day, I meet Peter at the dig site. He says we should go look at the journal now so we could find out more. So we go down to the studying room and read some more. June 27 The scouting party I sent was spotted and killed by the enemy. Tucker is dead. It is time I taught those scumbags a lesson. I am going to send a full attack on the enemy. We

Stone Soup Honor Roll: February 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 Steven Cavros, 9 Oliver Cho, 12 Mylan Gardner, 10 Simon Oyama, 11 Michelle Ying Zhang, 11 POETRY Siddhi Bhaskar, 12 Bliss Chua, 8 L. Hudson Kau, 12 Lauren Kendrick, 11 Delaney Sherr, 13 ART Analise Braddock, 8 Steven Cavros, 9 Elise Ko, 9  

The Old Woman

A woman passes through each season of life Once, there was a little girl with two pigtails. She was a joy to all those around her and was constantly happy. Her backpack was a bright red, and her shoes were a colorful pink. Her small feet carried her across a new street, and she skipped and skipped her way toward a woman who wore a placid face and held a silence that even the innocent little girl could hear. The woman didn’t look up, but instead kept on raking those beautiful autumn leaves. The girl passed by with the smallest glance at the strange woman and then skipped all the way to her first day of school. At school, she learned and learned and played and played. The girl lost her pigtails and then her ponytail and finally had her hair down straight. She was one moment the happiest person on Earth, then the next moment crying through school. She was in a constant state of tears and laughter and much-regretted idleness. She stopped her skipping after a year and started running after three, for bullies ran fast. But in time, she slowed down to a walk. Her red backpack was lost and so was her green one, and at some point she had none. And finally, after all that change, winter came, and she went down the street again. She was nervously walking, tripping over her heels and carrying a stack of books. She headed toward the old woman whose face remained unchanged except for her hair, which had become grey. By then, the woman walked with a limp but still kept on shoveling and shoveling snow. Her tired rags were dirty and smelled of a stink that made the girl remember a much darker time. However, the grown child had only a whispered thought of the sad woman. She instead looked toward the future. In college, she learned and studied some more. The grown child became a young adult, and then a lady. She learned the rules and the laws of the world. After some time, she understood unfairness and started growing attached to the independence of adulthood. Her days were filled with another round of battles. She was shunned, hated, loved, disliked, envied, and many more things. Her hair was dyed a bold red, and her bitten nails suddenly became shiny and covered with a new layer of polish. She tripped less and developed a gracefulness. But, once more, the seasons changed, and spring came. The dead branches littered the ground and the new blossoming of flowers could be seen everywhere. The birds sang a lovely song, and the sun shone over the land once again. The girl, now a woman, headed toward her new job and walked with solemn dignity. The street was silent except for the clicking of the elegant heels that the young woman wore and the shuffling of worn shoes. The owner of those shoes was the sad woman who was picking up large fallen branches. She had finally become old. Her hair was turning white and wrinkles had appeared on her skin. Her limp had turned into a stumble, but she kept working with a stubborn resilience. The young woman didn’t even look at the old woman anymore. She kept her head held high and walked onward. The young woman worked and worked and learned manners too. She made some new friends who took her a long way, and she grew a bit more. The woman’s heels turned to boots, then to sandals. Her evenings, once filled with parties, eventually became dates. The woman soon turned into a bride and then to a wife and, at some point, a mother. And after all that growing, it turned to summer, and the mother strolled onto the same street. The sky was a bright blue, and the birds were singing a happy song. The mother took slow, deliberate steps with her stomach the size of a balloon. Her hair was curled and had lost its red tint. Her face was full of happiness and a glow surrounded her. But the glow did not reach the old woman who still stood on the street. She was slowly trimming the bushes. The old woman had shrunk to the size of a child. Her face drooped, but her eyes still held defiance in them. However, the new mother saw nothing and continued walking toward motherhood. The days turned into nights and then into days. The mother was filled with worry and happiness and sadness. Her baby cried and cried, and she wept and wept—for one moment the baby grew too fast, and the next the baby seemed to not grow at all. The mother always gave up each evening and started anew each morning. The baby turned into a girl, then a woman, then a wife and finally a mother herself. The new grandmother looked upon her children and grandchildren and thought about how far she had come. Her hair turned grey and her eyes dull. And slowly, again, the winds blew by, and the weather became cold, for fall had come once more. Leaves fell softly onto the ground. The grandmother walked with a deliberate ease through the wild weeds and puddles. The bushes and trees were overgrown, and leaves littered the ground. Near the side of the road lay an old wooden rake. A rake that she knew was part of some long-forgotten memory. There was a sad song in the wind. A song that told a story. The grandmother suddenly stopped and listened. She didn’t hear words, but instead, a soft lament that swayed the trees. She looked around and sought for the reason to mourn. There was no one around. No funeral was arranged, no memory, nothing of the woman remained except the voice in the wind. The grandmother stared at the empty road and realized who was missing. Her heart shattered and tears streamed down her cheeks. She wept on the