Often, the work in our issues is just as concerned with animals and the natural world as with humanity and civilization—not by choice, but by necessity: it reflects our contributors’ interests. But, in this issue, people and civilization (cities! cars! castles!) are the main subjects. Patrick Lusa’s poem “Numbers” captures the hustle and bustle of everyday life; Anna Shepherd’s story “Twenty Questions, Twenty Answers” explores the complicated-but-close relationship between two sisters; and Mia Fang’s digital portrait “Lady in the Willows by the River” (on the cover) places a person squarely in the center of our usual cover landscape. We hope you enjoy reading and looking at the many other works that appear in this issue, and that you leave feeling inspired to send us some people- and car-filled stories, poetry, and artwork.
Lady in the Willows by the River
Mia Fang, 13West Lafayette, IN
Bird in the Clouds
Nikon Coolpix L830 Hannah Parker, 13South Burlington, VT
Chinese Calabash Girls
Chinese Calabash I, Chinese ink, watercolors, and calabash Chinese Calabash II, Chinese ink, watercolors, and calabash On my second calabash, I drew a Chinese poem written by Wang Anshi, a famous prime minister of the Northern Song Dynasty. The poem describes the Spring Festival in ancient China. Here is the poem in Chinese and its translation in English. Spring Festival Eve by Wang Anshi (1021-1086) Written during the Northern Song Dynasty (960-1127) 元日 （北宋）王安石 爆竹声中一除， 春风送暖入屠苏。 千门万户曈曈日， 总把新桃换旧符。 Firecrackers are shouting goodbye to the last year, In warm spring breeze people drink tusu wine. Thousands of households greet the bright rising sun, Replacing each couplet on the door with a new one. Ziqing Peng, 10Nanjing, China
Joyous Ensemble
In Shenzhen, China, the night before my first performance on tour with the Joyous String Ensemble, one of the youngest string ensembles in the world, I dreamt of a plum. Up close, it was a combination of pink, red, and orange. In front of me, two paths intersected, forming a shape like a cross, with an aqua pond in the middle and a spectacular fountain hovering in midair that had flowing, agile water, spouting melted diamonds and crystals. I looked down and was surprised to see that I was floating above the glass path, which encased running water with huge koi and calypso fish. They swam smoothly and gracefully, whipping their tails in an airy, wavelike way. There were a bunch of trees surrounding me. I could smell fruity scents and the cherry blossoms; the aroma was pure and sweet, not at all strong and overwhelming like most garden scents. I tried propelling myself by swinging my arms like helicopter blades. I went up . . . up . . . and up . . . as if I might touch the clouds. The next night, I felt a bright white light on me. Then green. Then blue. Then purple, which made the violin look orange and made my Pirastro Evah Pirazzi Gold’s bottom glow in the dark. The light testing was over. I smiled at the audience and waved, following the others, and tried my best to look straight ahead, not at anyone in particular. There was just this blurry wavering sea of heads stretched in every direction. I raised my violin to my chin, and we began our set. Accompanying us on the piano was Mr. Julian Yu, the director of the Joyous String Ensemble and an accomplished composer, conductor, and performing pianist. He has been an inspirational mentor, teaching us how to genuinely enjoy the wonders of music. He said that music is not just a sound but also an emotion, like happiness, sadness, regret, or love. He’s encouraged us to use the power of music to spread love and kindness. He believes that music can help save lives and change the world. I doubted this at first, but now, I believe that all of these ideas are within reach. As I played that night, I was brimming with nervousness, but I focused on how happy everyone had looked on the car ride to the theater. My happiest memories of being in this ensemble have taken place right before each performance—everyone excited and ready to communicate with the audience through music. Our first piece was “Summer” by Vivaldi, which slowly morphed into “Smooth Criminal” by Michael Jackson. Adrenaline flooded my body; the energy around the stage was magnetic, and I felt my bow moving with forces that seemed inside and outside of me at the same time. I smiled in my heart and wondered if my friends felt the same. The first set flew by, and then the second, and before I knew it the performance was over! So quickly, it was hard to track individual moments, but by the end, standing up before an audience cheering and hooting—my crazy dad especially, who kept yelling through his cupped hands—suggested it had been a success. I just kept thinking to myself, keep smiling . . . After the performance, we rode back to our hotel, where we were staying high up on the 24th floor. I gazed out the window to the streets busy with people scrambling about, advertising salesmen shoving papers into people’s hands, bicycles zigzagging in every direction. My parents called to me, reminding me to get my rest, since the next day we’d be leaving early for Beijing. I flopped into bed, cactus-style, and couldn’t help smiling again, replaying parts of the performance before I fell asleep. I had yellow watermelon for breakfast the next morning. It was soft, not as crisp as the red kind I was used to, but sweeter. It took me a while to wrap my brain around yellow juice and black seeds meshed together. Yet another reminder that I was in a new place, far from home, where I couldn’t expect to follow the same routine, or to experience the same tastes, smells, or sounds. Same as the music of chopsticks clinking together like a drum beat, the sound of knobs turning to send hotpots clicking, the flicker of flames erupting under dishes. Around the corner from our hotel, there was a small alleyway with a bunch of restaurants and a bakery. The next morning, when we left to catch our ride, the whole street was alive with spices filling my nose, sweetly offset by freshly baked bread and sugar. Our second performance was even more nerve-wracking because we would be performing with Master Lu Si Qing, the best violinist in China and one of my idols. The fact that I was going to accompany him seemed impossible. When we first met him backstage, I marveled over his shiny blue jacket and perfectly creased pants. On stage, he stood before us, chasing the melody of every piece. I felt his raw energy as he rocked and swayed, almost like the violin was an extension of his body, the music living inside him all along. Almost every face in the audience hid behind a videotaping phone, which I imagined made us look like little halos of light around our master. We accompanied him for Vivaldi’s Double Concerto, another dizzying blur. I remember this intense feeling of fatigue and excitement afterward, as the audience roared in a standing ovation. Each young player received a rose, and I was thrilled to get the reddish purple one I’d been hoping for, one that reminded me of the plum in my dream. We all exited the stage, and I was surprised when we were served glasses of water on a black tray. I slowly sipped the water, relishing its smooth, sweet taste. “ I started to think every object was part of
Gilmanton at Night
The crickets chirp, sing to the starry night. The floorboards creak and moan of old age. The wallpaper stands rigid, but cracked and peeling. The motorcycles rev and talk back and forth by the road. The two old Volvos settle in on the grassy lot. A musty, old-yet-comforting smell seeps everywhere in the house. I turn over in bed, to look at moonlight streaming through the gaping crack in the shade. Across the street, the antique store is boarded up, Its precious relics waiting until tomorrow. The corner store is closed, sodas and water closed up, Coffee makers quiet, until the morning brew. Down at the pond, the bathhouse looms quietly, old green paint on the outside. Swimsuits and towels hang on racks in rooms, swaying in a soft breeze. The day’s sand tracked in is leaking through the old planks on the floor, Falling onto the ground beneath. The raft bobs in the pond, surrounded by dark glistening water. Up the dirt road to Drew Farm, Wild animals roam the backyard. In the attic, the lights are off. In the room at the back, mattresses, chairs, tables, and papers are left sprawled out In the middle of planning. In Airy Cottage, the lights are out, The radio, always playing orchestras, is off and quiet. Back in the Little House, all the screen doors are locked And the porch furniture stands still on the porch. This is Gilmanton at night. Anya Geist, 12Worcester, MA John P. Anson, 7Kerala, India
The House
The cicadas chirp a lullaby to the night. Their buzzing seems obtrusive at first But grows to be comforting and content. Inside, the tiled floor sits cold with all its rivets and dips. Shutters are locked shut to the windows, Hatches battened down, Giving the impression of the quarters of a ship Sailing through the long, dry grasses of Southern France. In the beige bedroom, I lie on the twin bed, my shoulder leaning against the wall. My friend lies across the room, snoring peacefully. Outside, down the hallway, the fifth bedroom lays vacant. The other three are occupied, their doors shut tightly. The steep, tiled stairs lead the way down to the first floor, Its high ceiling grand but inviting. The two L-shaped couches in the back living room host card boxes From games previously played. These floors are new and wooden. The windows there still show outside, onto the small cracked patio. The kitchen is on the front left side of the house, Cramped but piled with food And giving way to the laundry room with its low, stooped ceiling. The dining room table is cleared off, Its blue tablecloth lit up by the moon that shines bright through the windows. The alcoves in it are in shadow, mysterious and dark. The great front door creaks on its old hinges. Breezes whish through the air, Spreading the smell of overripe fruit from the trees. The cars and table sit on a rough gravel. Through a grove, the pool sits dark. Its sloshing can be heard, a welcoming sound. Five chairs sit under an umbrella, relaxing. A yard of dry grasses stretches until a set of bushes. From the yard, the whole city seems to be seen. All of the narrow streets and alleys and squares of Aix-en-Provence. The mountain of Sainte-Victoire looms in the distance, Standing where it can just be seen. Returning through the small grove, the house is sleepy and tired. The shutters are closed and the windows on the first floor are empty and dark Even as the moon shines on the front of the house. The old, worn stone is cool to the touch in the dry night. Back in bed, I lay under the blanket, chilly And think of the house perched on its hill Sleeping under the canopy of night. Anya Geist, 12Worcester, MA
Portfolio
The Sky at Night and Day, oil pastels Beautiful Forest, oil pastels Train that Going Through a Forest, oil pastels John P. Anson, 7Kerala, India
Eternal Friendship
My mom and I walked through the narrow hallway, noticing all the people around us. I saw a girl in a purple floral dress standing next to her dad. She looked a little younger than I was. I wondered if we were going to be friends. After that, I saw a cast on the girl’s right arm, a type of cast I had never seen before. It looked like decorated plastic. Quickly, I glanced away because I knew it was rude to stare. Still, what was that? It didn’t look like a cast. I thought it was unusual. Absentmindedly, I strolled the rest of the way to the classroom. When we were finally inside, I saw that four students were sitting in their chairs and were unpacking their cellos in a great rush, as if they were police searching bags. One of the students even chipped his cello because he was in such a hurry to be the first to unpack and get the best seat. I looked up at the ceiling. It looked kind of like those dance ceilings full of beams. I guessed they were used for supporting the floors above it. Just then, I noticed that the girl I had previously seen was taking off her arm! I was blank for a minute. Then I knew it. Her right arm was actually artificial. Next, she took something out of a large grocery bag. It seemed like an advanced bionic arm. It was tan and white. Its shape made me feel as if the arm were twisted all around. I could see the technology at work. She handed the bionic arm to her dad, who was a tall and silent man. His attention was focused only on his daughter. He twisted it a few times on her arm and then “Click!”—it was on. During the group lesson, I learned from our teacher that the girl’s name was Kylie. Kylie’s bionic arm had two clips. One was fastened to a modified bridge that supported the strings of her cello and one was fastened to her bionic arm. This way, when Kylie played, the bow wouldn’t slide off the cello. Her dad also put a Bow-Right on the bridge, a two-piece metal frame that was fastened to both sides of the bridge. It was looped by rubber bands and many small pieces of cushion. I pondered why Kylie needed so many cushions on her cello. Finally, I understood that this way, the cello would not get chipped or scratched. I started wondering if I should pay attention to Kylie and be friends with her. Sometimes I have nightmares about people with disabilities. Once I met a boy who had lost two of his fingers. I didn’t know if I was going to have a nightmare about Kylie. Maybe not. I wasn’t sure at all. Sometimes, all these nightmares start to pop into my head. I didn’t know if I was going to have terrifying dreams about her. I thought she might scare me off in my dream. But I was still hesitating. The only problem was I still wanted a friend. Kylie was still sitting next to me. When she was playing, I noticed something else. Her other hand’s fingers were half the length of my own. That brightened my heart up. She made me feel like she was amazing and talented. I couldn’t believe she could play the cello. When Kylie left early that day because she was tired, a girl in the class asked, “What happened to her?” My teacher just replied, “She was born like that.” I wasn’t sure if my teacher really meant it. Maybe it was just a secret that Kylie, her family, and her teacher shared. One month later, my teacher set up a free 30-minute play-together for Kylie and me. We got to play duets, holiday songs, and games with each other. It was really fun. I realized that Kylie was a great, energetic girl. She asked questions, said “hi” to everyone she saw, and was never afraid to make mistakes. Gradually, Kylie and I became friends. Slowly, my fear of nightmares about Kylie disappeared. I learned that the nightmares come to me only if I let them. If I think about them too much, the nightmares overtake my brain. It is kind of like they are gum stuck to the corner of my mind. Once they are there, I can’t get them off. They only loosen when I’m sleeping, and then the devastating dreams about snakes and ghosts happen. If I don’t let them come into my head, they won’t come. And in each of my schools I have been to, I remember at least one of my friends who had a disability. I now knew that disabilities were normal. All my friends who had disabilities could be the same as me. They could eat ice cream, they could play games and instruments, and they could always have smiles on their faces. “ I learned that the nightmares come to me only if I let them Then one day, news from my teacher overloaded my brain. Kylie was coming to a six-day cello camp with me in Washington! I wanted to jump up and down and laugh with joy! I could not believe it. How would she play in front of a crowd without being frightened? If I were her, I would be terrified that I would make a mistake, and I would be scared that people would look at me as if I were someone to gawk at. I could imagine this because there was once a boy at my old school named Josh who always called me “lima bean girl” when I had a scar on my face. And guess what? After a few minutes, all my friends came to call me that. No one likes that kind of attention. I waited and waited for the day to come. The day I would be able to talk
The Juggle Man
One day I went to the juggle place and on a shelf sat the juggle man. He said to me you took a juggle now give it back to me. The owner of the juggle place said to go home and then she called the police. The police said outside there is young poor Sally with balls in hand but cannot juggle. Then the police said on a Monday you took a suitcase on Tuesday you took a toothbrush and on Friday you poured milk. What a bad girl you have been. Analise Braddock, 7Katonah, NY Adhi Sukhdial, 7Stillwater, OK
Color City
Paper collage Adhi Sukhdial, 7Stillwater, OK
Stone Soup Honor Roll: April 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 Annie Baker-Young, 8 Ava Horton, 13 Aaron Huang, 12 Marilena Korahais, 8 Liliana McCowan, 11 Selina Ni, 11 Pip Reese, 8 Sarah Zimmerman, 12 POETRY Talia Chin, 7 Amity Doyle, 9 Yaelin Hough, 12 Celia Miller Pitt, 12 Kathleen Werth, 9 Sasha Yelagina, 9 ART Sarah Berry, 13 Story Kummer, 12
