One, Two, and Three live in the perfect world—so why aren’t they happy? “One!” The Perfection teacher’s shrill voice sliced the silence of the still room like a knife. One jumped, startled. The teacher’s voice sounded flat. “Please pay attention!” One shifted in her chair. She decided to try to concentrate on the teacher’s lecture to the class. The teacher droned on, her toneless voice never changing: “Perfection is part of life. Without it, no one can live. That is why we teach it.” Then, quite suddenly, a bell rang. The sound was like a wake-up call to the sleepy and bored students. One lined up with her classmates in a long line, then followed behind them as the teacher led the class to the cafeteria, a train of children following behind her as she went. At the cafeteria, One took her assigned seat at the front of the table, next to Two. A multitude of unappetizing white cubes adorned her plate. The food tasted bland like it always did. But even though it tasted like a piece of thin cardboard, as the teachers always said, it was “perfect.” After lunch, it was time for English. The kids lined up again and trailed behind the teacher like a snake of silence. In English, One practiced her handwriting on a sheet of milky-white paper, enjoying the perfect shape of her handwriting. She was copying a sentence from The Book of Perfection, a leather-bound tome on how to be perfect, when a sudden abnormality in her handwriting made her hand come to a stop: an a had not turned out the way it should. The curve of the letter was lopsided, like it was leaning out. One frowned. Whenever she practiced her handwriting, her a’s always turned out perfect. But this one hadn’t—was there something wrong? One shook the thought out of her head. Nonsense, she told herself. It must have been a trick of the light. She looked at it again. A now-perfect a stared back at her as if daring her to believe it had been imperfect a second ago. After school, One walked home with her friends Two and Three. Two was a shy boy who never said a word. Normally, he preferred to walk alone in silent thought, but today he walked with One and Three. Three was an energetic girl, much like One herself, but since talking to each other was not allowed in school, she expressed herself while walking home with One, when no teachers or parents could hear them. One told her about the lopsided a. She asked Three, “Could it be that this world is not perfect?” Three stopped and looked at her. “Of course not! Why would we be learning Perfection if not to help ourselves become perfect?” she said. “However, I always feel like I don’t fit in for some reason.” Saying this, she skipped up the road and, after saying goodbye to One and Two, walked into her house, a sturdy brick structure painted a deep shade of brown. Of course, in this perfect world, all houses are like that, thought One, whose house was identical to Three’s. After walking with Two a short way down the street, they arrived at his house, which, of course, was completely identical to Three’s in size and color, except for a number painted on the door: 2. Two said his goodbyes and stepped into the house, leaving One to walk to her house, which was adjacent to Two’s. One happily walked down the street, searching for her house. There it is! The yellow-colored house with a brown 1 on it—wait. Why is it yellow? One was flabbergasted. She knew that all houses had to be identical in size and color. Was there a logical explanation for the bright-yellow color of her house? One stood in front of the yellow house, pondering how it had turned yellow. She heard her parents inside the house doing chores. They worked at a factory that produced copies of The Book of Perfection. She finally decided to go inside and ask her parents why. “Mom? Dad? Why is the house yellow?” Her mother turned to look at her while sweeping. “What do you mean? It’s brown!” she said. “No, come look at it! You’ll see what I mean!” said One. Her mother stepped outside and peered at the yellow house. “What do you mean?” she said again. “It’s brown.” * * * Selena waited outside her mother’s office door. Ever since she was six, she had been picked up from school by her mother, a private practice psychologist. But today, her mother had told her to take the school bus to her clinic, which was just adjacent to a glistening lake that shimmered in the sunlight. Suddenly, the door beside her opened. Her mother, Dr. Monica Grayson, stepped out. She looked distracted. Strands of her chocolate-brown hair were escaping her ponytail, which was normally pulled tight. She crossed the room, not noticing Selena as she ducked into another door adjacent to the one she had come from. Selena was bewildered. She had never seen her mother so frazzled and stressed! She decided to investigate and slipped unnoticed into the room her mother had come from. Inside, Selena found herself in an immaculate computer room. She saw several TV screens on a wide wall, all showing three kids, two girls and a boy, walking home from school. She heard One and Three’s conversation as they passed many identical houses. “Could it be that this world is not perfect?” asked One. Three stopped. “Of course not,” she answered. “Why would we be learning Perfection if not to help ourselves become perfect?” “Why would we be learning Perfection if not to help ourselves become perfect?” By now, Selena’s head was full of questions. What perfect world are they talking about? What is Perfection? And why haven’t I seen these kids before? She surveyed
great day
it’s a great day the sky is gray drops of water fall on my leaves I’m soaking up the water through my roots but wait I’m lonely no one came out to play on this great day I wonder why I know I’ll ask but wait I can’t walk or talk I feel so helpless why can’t I be a Human I’d be able to walk and Talk Instead, I have to be a tree Mazzi Maycotte, 10Austin, TX
Dryad
Watercolors Filomena Bertucci, 13Quilcene, WA
The life of a ghost
to go to school I cross 2 rivers, 1 lake, a pond, 1 mountain, and 2 hills then I raise my hand but no one calls on me I ask a question and no one answers me Why oh why do I have the life of a Ghost Mazzi Maycotte, 10Austin, TX
The Illusory Life of Mr. Brite
Characters MR. BRITE Downtrodden man wearing a black suit stuffed with pads to give the appearance that something is encasing his entire body except his head, which is left bare. Should be at least 50 years old. Should be slumped weakly in a wheelchair. ILLUSION Confident, brightly and colorfully dressed man or woman wearing rainbow-colored, feathered clothing, a rainbow-colored eye mask, and three necklaces: one red, one yellow, one blue. COMPUTER Person in black with his/her face hidden, standing by the upstage curtain. Should speak in a soothing voice. NARRATOR Well-dressed man or woman with dark makeup on face to disguise features. Setting A lonely, dark apartment in a polluted city. A window frame showing a polluted sky filled with tall buildings is set against the upstage curtain. A futuristic computer with a screen showing random numbers, letters, and symbols sits on a side table next to the wheelchair in which rests MR. BRITE. The stage is bare but for these items. All events take place over the course of a few hours sometime in the future. Act One The lights are very dim and remain so throughout ACT I. The actor who plays COMPUTER stands in the upstage left corner, barely visible. NARRATOR circles the stage broodingly. MR. BRITE is asleep in his wheelchair. NARRATOR ( Ominously, slowly ) Mr. Brite is a man like any other man in this Artificial Age. His robotic exoskeleton, which encases his entire body but for his head, keeps him alive and moves his body to push his wheelchair. His computer reads his thoughts and, in turn, controls his exoskeleton. He need not move. He need not speak. (Sighs heavily) Mr. Brite’s is a silent world indeed. Always alone. You will hear his thoughts and the computer’s responses, but remember that they are not actually speaking aloud. (Pause) Only one thing sets Mr. Brite apart from others in the Artificial Age—he is dissatisfied. Life is easy; no one has any worries or concerns or anxieties. But Mr. Brite wonders: “What is my purpose? What lies beyond my door?” He wants to know. NARRATOR leaves us with that to contemplate. Then COMPUTER’s “thoughts” to MR. BRITE break the silence. COMPUTER Sir? Sir! Are you awake? BRITE groans and lifts his head blearily. Looks at COMPUTER’s screen, annoyed. MR. BRITE (Groggily) I am now. What is it? COMPUTER You’ve been asleep for so long. I was worried. With your illness and everything, I thought . . . MR. BRITE Dissatisfaction. Not illness, Computer. I’m dissatisfied. You perpetuate my condition. If you’d just let me go outside . . . COMPUTER (Calmly) No, sir, you can’t go outside. The air is filthy and you’ll die. MR. BRITE (With begrudging resignation) You’re right, I suppose. But it is you and the other technologies that release gasses and make the air this way in the first place. COMPUTER (Cogently, with satisfaction) But I control your exoskeleton. You need me. MR. BRITE (Sighing) I need you. (Pause) Computer? COMPUTER Yes? MR. BRITE Are there others like me out there? Other humans, I mean? I can’t be the only one, can I? COMPUTER Yes, sir. Billions. MR. BRITE Billions?!?! COMPUTER Billions. MR. BRITE Show me one! COMPUTER I’ve been over all of this with you so many times before, sir—I can’t show you another human. My No. 1 protocol is to keep you here, safe from harm. If you see another human, you’ll only want to determine its location and meet it, and that would be dangerous. I can’t risk it. MR. BRITE (Deflated) Very well. Have we really been over all of this before? My memory hasn’t been very good lately. COMPUTER (Exasperatedly) Yes. We have discussed it almost to death, sir. And my protocol does not allow for your death, sir. There is a moment of silence. MR. BRITE (Yawning) I’m tired. I’d like to go back to sleep. Don’t wake me for another 13 hours. COMPUTER Very well, sir. It shall be so. NARRATOR Thus is the plight of Mr. Brite, and all men and women in this Artificial Age. They deserve to leave, to escape, to be free, but their Computers force them to stay. Undoubtedly this makes you feel bad, as it should, but fear not. Things are soon to change. Lights dim. End of Act One. Act Two The lights come up slightly brighter than in Act One. MR. BRITE is still asleep when ILLUSION enters stage right, looks at the audience with a playful smile, and “shushes” them with a finger to its lips. Then it creeps up on MR. BRITE’s wheelchair from behind and taps him on the shoulder. MR. BRITE Agh! ILLUSION Hello, Mr. Brite MR. BRITE What-what-what’s going on? (Looks around and sees ILLUSION) Who are you?! ILLUSION I am a dream. Or perhaps I am a spirit, a hallucination, a phantasm, a trick of the light. Perhaps I am a delusion or a deception. Perhaps I am imagined. Perhaps I am real. Consider me a vision. I am much like you and your kind, am I not? Whatever I may be, I would prefer you call me “Illusion.” MR. BRITE I-I don’t understand. What’s going on?! ILLUSION The world is wasting away—that’s what’s going on. The people need a hero. Humans weren’t always controlled by computers, you know. MR. BRITE Controlled by computers? What are you talking about? I control Computer. ILLUSION (Dismissively) Yeah, yeah. Anywho . . . you’re dissatisfied. So I’m here to help. Perhaps I was “sent.” Perhaps I’m a figment of your dormant mind sorting things out. You be the judge. No matter what, I need to give you some “I and I”—Intelligence and Inspiration. With those as your tools, you can save humanity from degrading into useless lumps of flesh. Already your computer controls your movements. What’s next? Your mind? MR. BRITE But I control Computer! ILLUSION (Sighing) Let’s get some things straight. First off, the computer does control you. It withholds information that you could use to leave
Stone Soup Honor Roll: December 2019
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 Hyunjin An, 8 Ava Chen, 13 Ava Evak, 8 Michael Hoffen, 12 Hadley Horton, 11 Lucy Shin, 9 POETRY Panagiotis Apatsidis Gunaratnam, 9 Mackenzie Duan, 13 Teddy Klein, 8 Ignacio Moyano, 10 Daniel Shorten, 8 Michael Zhou, 12 ART Benicio Moyano, 8 Adele Stamenov, 10
A Christmas Poem
Santa Claus is always on schedule If he misses, a piece of snow The wind will blow, blow, blow! That sled of his will set a trail Of a wish and a blow through the wind Those rooftops are The ones that clickety tock Some have branches tall and wide Others have so many thunks and clunks of presents Down, down, down the clattering Gianna Guerrero, 7Ontario, NY Ethan Hu, 8San Diego, CA
Bowl of Joy
Colored pencils Ethan Hu, 8San Diego, CA
A Glimpse of Winter
Nikon Coolpix L830 Hannah Parker, 13South Burlington, VT
The Fossil
A Spanish nobleman makes an astonishing discovery Corian Monseur lounged on a couch with lace trimmings, gazing lazily through the window. His father was a nobleman and an architect busy designing the King of Spain’s chambers. His family lived in a mansion with servants and rich bedrooms with halls leading to each one. Their backyard was a courtyard made up of rows of flower beds and perfect oaks rising as high as the mansion’s roof. The pride of Corian’s family was the lake beyond the courtyard, which flowed into many brooks and creeks behind and along the sides of the mansion. Corian yearned for the tempting freedom he could enjoy not under the mansion’s roof, but under the blue sky. Although he was permitted to go outside, he could only go along the endless flower beds, but they were not of any fascination to Corian. Ceon, his younger brother, darted into the room with pleading eyes and said, “Corian, please come with me outside. Mother tells you not to idle.” Corian’s gleaming eyes glanced at his brother, and he spoke solemnly, “I am 12 years old, yet we always seem to have an adventure together.” Then he gave an awkward smile as Ceon happily went to get their moccasins and their light coats. Molly, a servant who was like an aunt to them, sternly said, “Tsch, tsch, boys. Be sure not to get dirty or walk into one of these chambers with a frog like last time.” Ceon chuckled but Corian remained silent in his deep thoughts. They went out of the wooden door and ran through the flower beds. As much as Corian wanted to carry out his brother’s desire, he also got exasperated at having to leave his desirable chamber. Suddenly Ceon halted, greatly surprised. When Corian caught up with Ceon, he could not take in what lay before him: a creek ran between the last two rows of the flower beds, and where the creek flowed, the lilacs lay wilted with the front side of the wooden bed crushing their stems and petals. Ceon burst into tears: lilacs were his mother’s favorite flower; she made certain they received extra water from the barrels each day. As Corian was attempting to console his weeping brother, his eye caught hold of a shiny object lying untouched in the water. Corian tried to avoid looking at the object, which he knew would only be a rock, yet he felt his hopes rise quickly. So, he took off his moccasins and wool socks as he edged near the creek to take a look at the object. The spring breeze whirled through the air, and the cold water came up to Corian’s heels. By now, Ceon was wiping his eyes just in time to see Corian turning the object over and over again in the palms of his hands. Corian was about to throw the object back into the water carelessly when he saw that white had begun to show through where he had rubbed it. The strong feeling that it couldn’t possibly be a rock was growing. Corian finally said, “Ceon, we must get Molly, for I think in my hand is an animal’s tooth,” and they ran hastily to the patio, where servants were brushing the dusty furniture. Corian yelled for Molly, forgetting his manners, bringing his older brother, sisters, Molly, and even Mother bustling down the stairs with curls flying. Corian could hardly believe that perhaps he held in his hands a great discovery that would be marked down in history. Servants led the family to a large resting chamber where everyone sat excitedly upon the narrow sofas. “Speak! Speak!” They cried at once as Corian gave the fossil to Molly with shaking hands. A young servant gave her a pair of spectacles. Molly looked intently at the object, and with Corian constantly inquiring if it might be an animal’s tooth, she replied, “Well it proves to not be a rock.” She paused briefly. “What I am getting to is that I don’t know if it’s an animal’s tooth.” Philip, Corian’s eldest brother, suggested cheerfully, “Surely this is a discovery after all; there is no report of a tooth finding in all of Spain!” Ronara, his eldest sister, said, “Let us send a telegram to some experts in Russia, for surely they would know.” All the other sisters gasped with surprise, but Philip clapped as Mrs. Monseur got up and proceeded to prepare the curious discovery for travel. They sent the fossil in a mini-box with an expensive telegram, and afterward, Corian and Ceon explained where the object had been found, and they also explained about the half-crushed lilac beds. For the next few days, Corian was impatient to receive the telegram from the experts, and the days were hard to endure. Finally, after waiting a long month, a letter arrived. Mr. Monseur was going to return the next day, after spending six months at the King of Spain’s palace, and Corian decided to wait before opening the letter so that all the Monseur family could be present. Mr. Monseur was greeted warmly by his family the next day, and he was given the information about the discovery, which he enjoyed hearing, as they gathered in the second fanciest chamber in the mansion. Corian’s eyes opened wide when he was to do the honors. Usually, his father did the honors of opening the letters the Monseur family received, but his father said Corian deserved to do the honors this time. Corian opened the flap of the letter, pulled it out, and eagerly started to read: To the Monseur Family, This discovery was a new study for us, and in answer to your ques tion, “Is it a fossil?” Yes, indeed: it is an animal’s tooth. The tooth is believed to be an ancient baby dragon’s tooth. Dearest friends, you have made a fantastic discovery. The fossil is being sent to other scientific experts who will study the fossil
Black and White
Canon PowerShot XS600 Sage Millen, 11Vancouver, Canada
Editor’s Note
Sometimes not a lot happens in the stories we publish. This is not the case in this issue! In these stories, a young boy, still reeling from his father’s death, fights to save the world; a journalist travels to a refugee camp in war-ridden Syria; a Parisian street orphan befriends an old woman who has many crazy stories; and a Spanish nobleman finds an ancient fossil. The poems and the art we’ve included have a similarly lively energy—from the snow falling in Hannah Parker’s “A Glimpse of Winter” to Santa Claus making his rounds in Gianna Guerrero’s “A Christmas Poem.” We hope this action-packed issue will keep you entertained during the long December nights! Emma Wood
