Acrylic Nataly Ann Vekker, 12Towson, MD
My Hand
My hand moves endlessly On the piece of paper. I am writing on and on. Words spread across the paper rapidly, Floating like puffy clouds Pushed by wind Towards San Francisco. My thoughts race high and low, My hand struggles to keep up. My story is coming to life. Devon Mann, 11San Anselmo, CA
Cafe Terrace at Night
One cold, hopeless night in Paris, a homeless orphan girl meets a mysterious woman The only noise that night in Paris was the soft tapping of my flats against the cobblestones. It got louder at some parts of the road and softer at others. Sometimes it was fast: a short, discreet sound; other times, slow, like a grandfather clock ticking away the hours. My hair flew out behind me like a blonde sail, as did my frayed white dress. It wasn’t quite white, though. Years of living on the streets of Paris had turned it a light, caramel-colored brown. My hands, smeared with soot and sweat, clutched a handful of stolen coins. I ran my fingers over the words and pictures, reading them without seeing them. Faster and faster I ran, with no real destination in mind. I was feral, desperate, untamable. I looked up at the sky as I scampered through the dark alleyways. The bright stars stared back at me, their beautiful luminescence stunning my eyes. They were the only light in my life, the only light to guide me. Suddenly, a wave of sorrow passed over me, so strong I cried out. Images of my mother, draped in red robes and minkfur scarves, filled my mind, as sharp and clear as the cinema. I didn’t care how deplorable she was, how deplorable my past might have been. I remembered looking up to her; she was the only thing I’d had. She had been my life. Until she died. I felt a glut of tears well up in my eyes and didn’t stop them from pouring out onto my flushed cheeks. Rubbing them away with dirty hands, I crumbled to the cobblestone street. I felt the cold hardness of it through my dress. As I curled in a tiny ball on the street, a hollow clunk thudded down the road, sounding like a rusty cowbell. Without looking up, I envisioned a man with a large bushy mustache, graying on the edges, his stomach bulging from a black suit. Right now, he would be reaching up and checking the time on a gold pocket watch engraved with his name, Henri. The soft light of the lamp above him shone down, turning him into a ghostly figure. “Mademoiselle.” I looked up, startled by the high, nasal voice. When I saw the woman standing above me with a smirk plastered on her face, I jumped up. She wore a tattered gown that must have once been beautiful, but now the jagged hem was stained red. Here, my imagination got the better of me; I pictured the woman smearing her dress in a child’s blood. I shivered, though the humid air made my sweat trickle down my back in rivulets. The woman’s eyes stared at me, willing my mouth to say something. I could not utter a word. I just took in this lady from head to toe. Her face was wrinkled and old like the pages of a well-loved book, her eyes shone, and her silvery hair coruscated in the moonlight. “Can ya talk?” she asked with a glint of confusion in her eyes. She had an aura of faded beauty around her. I could tell she had once been a figure of stature, of honor. But now she was an unsightly old lady. Her silvery hair was ugly and full of split-ends, her boxy hands stretching out the fabric of her silky white gloves. She had hideous black boots that were muddy and slick with rainwater, boots that must have been three sizes too big. Nevertheless, I was a naïve child, and I loved her almost immediately. “Yes, Madame, I can talk,” I told her. Brushing my blonde hair from my face, I tried to smooth my dress and seem as formal as possible. I doubt I did, though, for my shoeless feet were dirtier than her boots, and my skin had a layer of grime that made it darker. “Good,” the woman announced firmly. “I was beginning to think ya couldn’t.” She extended a hand to me, and I was surprised to see it only had four fingers. There was a small stump where the ring finger should have been. Alarmed, I shot my hand back, staring into her deep eyes. She laughed heartily. “Lost in a scrimmage with some pirates. Long story. Anyway, I’m Clementine. Call me Clem.” Clem smiled, rotten teeth stuck in her mouth like tombstones. I smiled too, my flushed cheeks lifting. I nodded my head, my mind slowly processing what I had heard. Before I could ask anything, Clem inquired, “What are you doin’ out here on a night like this? And what’s yer name?” I frowned. “I’m Alice,” I told her sharply. My life was like that cactus in William & Son’s Apothecary. It had seemed so beautiful and sublime that I had stumbled into the store to touch this unique specimen—but when I did, one of the hidden, protruding spikes stabbed my finger, drawing a small drop of blood. When my few and short-lived friends got to know me, they got to know my spikes, my sharp, prickly spikes that I tried so hard to keep hidden. Clem raised one perfect eyebrow but didn’t ask anything else. Inside, I thanked her for not being like the gendarmes who always had a million questions at their disposal. “Well, Miss Alice,” Clem pondered aloud. “I am wonderin’ if you’d like to come with me just down the street to Café de Minuit. They have great coffee if yer old enough.” My stomach flooded with joy, always enticed by the thought of free food. “Yes, Madame Clementine, I mean, Madame Clem. Yes. Please. Merci.” I spoke that last word louder, for my stomach growled, and I could not let this kindly old woman hear it. How kind, I thought to myself, admiring the one golden ring on her thumb. It was perfectly smooth and surprisingly dull. It wasn’t the solid gold I noticed, though,
Halloween Moon
Nikon Coolpix L830 Hannah Parker, 13South Burlington, VT
Sky Blue Hijab
A journalist travels to a refugee camp to report on the Syrian Civil War I twist the fake wedding ring on my finger nervously. It’s a cheap copper ring that I superglued a rhinestone to. Back and forth. Back and forth. It’s supposed to arouse sympathy if someone tries to kill me. It’ll convince them that I have someone back home I love and need to get back to, my colleagues had assured. Though it’s likely that I won’t be killed by an assassin. If I do get killed, it’s more likely to be by a bomb or a missile. I’m pretty sure my ring won’t convince anyone to refrain from blowing up everything in a five-mile radius. Unless it’s a magical shield ring. You never know. The countryside spreads outside the window. I peek outside, but the dizzying height quickly gets me sick, and I close the window blind. I don’t have time to get sick. Plus, the airline doesn’t seem to have any barf bags. Syria. Syria. I have to get to Syria. To the war. To the story. I grip my saddlebag so that my knuckles turn white. I go over the plan in my head. I will land in Lebanon. I will go to the Sweet Tooth Cafe where I will meet my unnamed accomplice. She will sneak me into Syria (I wasn’t able to procure a visa to Syria; Lebanon was the best I could do), where I will get a hotel room and spend the night. Then, I will begin to investigate and write. It’s 2018. I’m a freelance war reporter, on my way to report on the Syrian Civil War. The conflict began a long way back, in 2011, when demonstrations escalated into a full-blown war against the government. I’m still not sure what to think of this entire messy situation. I sigh as a voice over the speakers announces that we will be landing soon. I check my dull grey hijab one more time. I’m not quite sure if it’s necessary, but it’s better to be overdressed than the opposite. It’s horribly messy and has been tied without technique, but this will have to do. I organize the coarse cloth one more time, then turn my attention to the task ahead. * * * Two hours later, I finally arrive at the Sweet Tooth Cafe. I see a young woman in all black at the corner table. She has to be the one. I’m slightly shocked that she’s so young. The girl couldn’t be over the age of 22. I join her and show my identification. She gives me a slight nod. We buy cupcakes. My mysterious accomplice gets vanilla, and I get chocolate. Both have strawberry-flavored frosting. Then she leads me to her car. The moments from then on are unmemorable and fleeting; I’m so caught up in my nervousness and adrenaline, I can barely remember anything. I fall asleep within 30 minutes (all that worrying is tiring!), and she wakes me after 30 more. “انه نحن ,” she says. We’re here. I look around. I thought it would be harder to cross the border, seeing that it’s illegal and all. Either border control is very lax here, or my guide is an expert. “اليزج اركش ,” I say. Thank you. She leads me out of the car, and I find myself in an alley behind a hotel. I grab my saddlebag and suitcase, and my guide drives off. I take a good look around. Dusty street. Tin trash cans. I make my way to the front of the hotel, the wheels of my suitcase making loud clunk! noises as they roll over pebbles that line the street. The hotel is admittedly shabby. The war has taken its toll. The fluorescent lights flicker periodically. Dust has settled on the furniture. The rug is worn, and the man behind the counter looks like he has been to hell and back. Scraggly beard, glasses askew, clothes that may as well have been worn for years. The war has made it hard for ends to meet. “كب الهأ ,” he mutters tiredly. Welcome. “ كتدعاسم يننكمي فيك ” How can I help you? I ask for a hotel room. He complies. After five minutes of paperwork, I get my keys and make my way down the hall. I open the creaky door to a dusty room. The beige wallpaper is peeling, and the curtains and bedsheets are threadbare. I sigh. I change, wash up, strip the bed, then pull out a blanket I packed. Exhausted, I slump onto the bed, and five minutes later, I’m out cold. * * * The next day is overcast, with the scent of rain in the air. It’s cold, and I am reluctant to leave my warm cocoon of blankets. I sigh as I get up. Back on goes the hijab . . . and jacket . . . My first stop is the refugee camp. Hundreds of people are huddled inside thin blue tents, stationed in the dusty, barren valley because they have nowhere to go. The stench of the poor living conditions pervades the still air and bodies that surround me. Wailing babies, infected wounds, dehydration, hunger, and fear fill the scene. The list goes on and on. I approach a young woman caring for a screaming baby. She hushes and sings to him, but to no avail. The woman’s chocolate-brown hair sticks to her face in the perspiration and humidity. In sadness, I look at the baby’s ribs poking out. I begin to ask her if she’d be comfortable with being interviewed, but then I see her face. She is already taxed with caring for her family, and she is afraid of me. Her brown eyes widen, and she quickly looks away. She is not the one. I thank her and walk away. Next, I walk up to
Fighter Jet
Colored pencils Ethan Hu, 8San Diego, CA
There Goes the Sun
A strange man appears in Robin’s house one day and attempts to enlist him in the battle to save the Infinity Realm Robin stared at the orange plaid subway seat across from him, thinking about his father. How he always liked listening to “Yellow Submarine.” How after all that Robin had been through, his dad’s favorite song was still played all across the world. The subway seats went fuzzy as visions and voices swam into focus. It was as if he’d been transported somewhere else entirely without moving an inch, somewhere strange and unpleasant, yet oddly familiar. And as quickly as it came, it left, and he found himself staring at the empty seat cushion, where he saw only fabric and thread and heard only the grinding of the subway wheels. Robin almost fell out of his seat. His head was spinning. He felt like he was going to be sick. As the car took a long lurch, his trumpet case nearly slid away from the grasp of his feet. He lifted it to his lap and went over the notes to a C Major scale in his mind until the speaker called out the stop for Ms. Merry’s neighborhood. Robin collected his things (and with them his thoughts) and readied himself. He had decided not to mention what had just happened to Mrs. Merry. He didn’t think she would believe him. He wasn’t sure he believed it himself. He wobbled off the subway and into daylight. The sun against his skin felt like an electrical shock. How was it that he felt so weak and vulnerable? Robin climbed Ms. Merry’s marble steps and passed the colorful flowers lining them. Birds chittered in the trees. He felt more at home here than anywhere else. The front door was never locked, so Robin stepped into the foyer and listened as the boy before him finished his lesson in the study. He smirked; it was nice to hear someone who was worse at trumpet, even though that wasn’t the nicest thing to think. Ms. Merry welcomed him into the study. Her kind eyes smiled warmly as she offered him a plate of freshly baked cookies. “What did you think about your homework?” she asked. “Was it hard? Was it easy? Do you think you practiced enough?” Robin’s voice felt higher than usual as he replied that he had done his homework and was quite satisfied with his efforts. Ms. Merry’s eyes peered, and her smile was just a little too tight. She always knew things, he thought. “How’s life been lately, Robin?” she asked. “Dim,” Robin answered, suddenly taking a profound interest in the patterned rug. “Oh,” answered Ms. Merry, her tone flat. She tried to catch his eyes but found he couldn’t look at her. “How was the subway today?” she asked. Robin didn’t like lying, but he liked his trumpet lessons with Ms. Merry. So he lied. “Boring.” The lesson was wonderful, as always: his favorite diversion (and perhaps the only one that worked) from all that had happened in the past year. If he concentrated on the flow of air through his tightened lips, the notes on the page in front of him, and Ms. Merry’s sweet, sturdy voice in his ear, the knot in his heart loosened. Only to return, of course, on his train ride home. Home. It was a funny word, home. The place, the people who made up home were no longer all there. Home was no longer home without the missing piece of the puzzle. Washed away by the aching in his heart, he nearly missed his stop. He brushed the gathering tears from his eyes and jumped over the gap between the train and the platform and ran to his front door in the bright daylight. He let the front door swing shut behind him, and he listened to the silence of the house. His mother was still at work, he knew, but he listened, anyhow, just in case a footstep fell or a faucet ran. And then he did hear something; it was so striking and alien his body jerked backward and his heart pounded. The upstairs shower was running, splashing down the drain. Horrifyingly, a booming voice rang out, singing slightly off-key to “Yellow Submarine.” There was something about the voice that made Robin not reach for the phone. Robin felt his legs drift toward the stairs as if he weren’t really in control of them. As if his curiosity had shoved his fear out of the car door and taken hold of the wheel. The shower was switched off, and the singing got louder. Holding a chair high above his head, Robin kicked open the door. The outline of a dark figure with a large stomach in a towel shone through the opaque curtain. “Yellow Submarine” kicked into its chorus once more, and Robin wondered if it would be the last song he’d ever hear. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?” Robin shouted and found his voice was steady. The song came to an abrupt halt. “Robin?” the man in the shower questioned. “Dad?” Robin was confused. He couldn’t be here, could he? “No. General X is my name. I am the leader of the Infinity Army.” “The what?” “If you’ll step outside for just a minute whilst I change, I’ll show you.” Robin waited in the hallway as shivers passed through him. “I’d like to be, under the sea, in an octopus’s garden, in the shade!” echoed from within the bathroom. Somehow, having this strange guy in his house felt familiar. A couple of verses later, General X emerged from the bathroom. He had a glistening round face and set into it were a pair of baby-blue watery eyes. He wore a navy blue uniform with numerous badges pinned to the front. This attire made him look very official. “So, what is it?” Robin asked. “Oh, yes, the Infinity Army.” General X put his
Stone Soup Honor Roll: November 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 Josie Ervin, 12 Alice Greene, 8 Sam Hanson, 13 Kris Li, 11 Maya McDaniel, 13 Matthew Miller, 11 Valerie Song, 11 Jacky Xue, 11 POETRY Edward Biggins, 8 Aspen Clayton, 9 Oskar Hockmann, 11 Fiona Mikita, 10 Bo-Violet Vig, 13 Amy Yan, 7 ART Talia Chin, 8 Ludivine Martin, 9 Ignacio Moyano, 10 Grace Williams, 12
Which Way Car Wash
Canon Rebel T4i Nicholas Taplitz, 13Los Angeles, CA
Wobbly Teeth
Wobbly teeth are like broken legs on an old creaking white chair. Griffin Romandetta, 13Apex, NC
Green
After moving from a small town in Canada to a big U.S. city, Gale struggles to adapt Gale was a late sleeper. She had always been. It was just her way of responding to the weekend. But for some reason, she felt as if she wanted to get up now. And what made it odder was that it was the last day of summer vacation. Typically, she would have crammed as much late-sleeping into the day as she could, but no. She was getting up right now. Gale rolled out of bed (getting her blankets tangled around herself in the process) and fell to the floor, letting out an involuntary groan. She sat up and looked around. Her room was clean and tidy as always. On one side of the room there were two windows, both of them a quarter of the way open, and beside her bed was a green crate that served as a bedside table. A few feet away from the foot of the bed, mounted on the wall, was an ugly white wire shelf. On it were all sorts of things, from kindergarten artwork to baseball trophies. Gale turned on her fan. Summers in Houston could be hot. She then pulled on a T-shirt and jeans and yanked her long black hair into a ponytail. Gale thumped down the stairs, clearing the last four in a massive leap and checked the breadbox for sliced bread. It was the only kind she would willingly digest. “Gay-o,” yelled Violet, Gale’s twoyear- old sister, as she charged into the kitchen. She wrapped her arms around Gale’s legs, preventing her from moving. Gale, ignoring her human barnacle, pivoted and grabbed a jar of peanut butter. Early on, she had learned that it was no use asking her sister to stop. Violet would just laugh maniacally like a tiny Disney villain and hold tighter. Siblings were odd that way. Gale layered her peanut butter about an inch thick on her toast. She had a bit of a peanut butter problem. She bit into her toast and instantly found her teeth stuck together. After finishing her toast, she licked the peanut butter off of her fingers to make sure they were clean. Gale pried her sister off her legs and dashed outside to enjoy the warm summer air and flopped down onto the grass. She missed her old home. Gale hated living in Houston. She just wasn’t a city person. They used to live in British Columbia, Canada. “They” being Gale, her mom, and her dad. Violet hadn’t been born yet. Her home had been in a small town by the sea. It rained all through the year and never snowed. But she loved her old home. She remembered the chipped brown paint of the house, the front door with the big silver knocker, and most of all, the big balcony where she used to imagine that she was a wildlife photographer. She had always been more secure with animals than her friends. She was different from them in that. While they all dreamed of being astronauts and police officers when they grew up, all she wanted to do was to be romping through the woods with her friends, the animals. They had lived on the outskirts of town. Their house had been surrounded by pines. Back on the west coast, conifers were everywhere. They were lush green due to all the rain. Green, the color of the docks with all the boats moored to them. Green, the color of the sea. Green, the color of the grass on their lawn after a rainstorm. Green was everything back there. She needed to be walking through the woods, rain pattering on her hood, legs soaked. She remembered her friends, the gray jays. Whenever she went outside, she would bring a couple of nuts in her pocket in case she saw one. Then, she would hold out her hand; they would land on it and start poking around. They would pick up the nut and fly away. Fly away. They would fly away just like she flew away to Houston. She had always preferred sailing. Gale’s family had owned a small canoe. By the time she was eight, she knew all the strokes and could paddle effectively. By the time she was 10, she was allowed to go out on the ocean by herself. She would bring her fishing rod, but always spincast with it. She refused to learn any other technique. Back then she had a routine. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays were for homework. Thursdays were free. Fridays were for baseball practice and Saturdays were the games. But her favorite days of all were Sundays. Fishing days. In the morning, Gale and her family would go to church. Afterward, she would dash outdoors, untie the boat from the dock, and paddle out as far as she could. Then she would start fishing. She could almost smell the salty air, feel the paddle in her hands, see the fish swimming in the murky water. That was her old life. “Gay-o”! yelled the unmistakable voice of Violet. She stopped when she saw the expression on Gale’s face. “Miss home?” asked Violet, wrapping her pudgy arms around her. “Yeah,” said Gale. “Yeah, I do.” Sascha Farmer, 12Northampton, MA Oishee Sinharay, 11Pennington, NJ
Lighthouse
Watercolor Oishee Sinharay, 11Pennington, NJ
