It’s spring! The season of blooming flowers, blue skies, and baby birds cheeping in their nests. So, in this issue, in honor of spring, I wanted to celebrate the visual in all of its mediums. In addition to the romantic Parisian painting, with its dreamy golds, pinks, and blues, that graces our cover, this issue features: a painting with a paper boat literally pulling the piece into three dimensions; a painted figurine that includes an ancient Chinese poem about spring; a portfolio of stylistically bold, bright landscapes; and a traditional paper collage with a dark twist. The quality and variety of the art submissions we receive and publish in Stone Soup never ceases to amaze me; I hope you will leave this issue inspired not only by the writing but by the visual art—in all of its forms. Enjoy the April showers!
Eiffel Tower
Oil paint on Canvas Divya Narne, 12Overland Park, KS
A Hardship
Mixed media Alice Guo, 12Austin, TX
A Trip to Paris?
I visited the Shugakuin Imperial Villa on the last day of my trip. The garden is situated in the hills of the eastern suburbs of Kyoto. Tangerine, magenta, and gold maple leaves glided down and settled on calm water like peaceful raindrops. The smudged greens and oranges of the foliage and the shadow of the rounded stone bridge merged on the pond to create a rainbow. The harmonic gong of a bell brought my gaze to a little scarlet and white pagoda. Its up-turned roof corners and nine-tiered tower made it easily recognizable. For Buddhists, each tier on the pagoda’s tower represents one of nine levels of heaven. The scent of pond weed and lilies drifted up on the damp breeze. Camera snaps and elevated tourist chatter reminded me that I did not belong there. Box shrubs clustered around the edge of the pebble path. Behind them were the famous Japanese cherry blossom trees. And, every once in a while, bonsai also twisted and curled. Bonsai symbolize harmony and balance. They are grown with purposeful imperfection and the asymmetrical triangle used for their design symbolizes a continuation of life. Japan was defi nitely worth the trip. It was a little frightening at fi rst to walk around in Kyoto, so I suggest you use the subways until you get the hang of the streets. I found the Japanese were varied in their reception of an English tourist. Some grinned hugely at my accent and were willing to try to understand me, but some got annoyed at my lack of vocabulary and avoided me. Nevertheless, I wholeheartedly encourage you to plan a trip to Japan and to make sure you have the Shugakuin Imperial Villa at the top of your ‘to do’ list! Matthew set down his quill and stared at his ink-stained fingers. He thought about how Blossom would have loved the Imperial Villa. Shaking his head as if to rid himself of the thought, he placed the leaves of cream paper in a brown envelope and wrote: Travel column: Japan by Matthew Stevens For: The Daily Telegraph He plucked his hat off its hook and shrugged on his green corduroy coat. His scuffed, battered briefcase in one hand, and the rattling doorknob in the other, he let himself out of the flat. The sidewalk was cool in the early evening. Birds were singing and families were strolling home from a day at the park. Bird song is the best kind of music in the world, thought Matthew. Tired mothers pushed buggies with exhausted babies who drifted off to the rhythmic bumping. It had been a gorgeous day. The sun had been dazzling, the air heavy with blossoms and bird chatter. But now that evening had come, coolness rushed back in, as if trying to chase people off. When Matthew reached the Daily Telegraph office, he took off his hat and stepped inside. “Hello, Leslie.” Matthew smiled at the secretary who was hunched over some papers at her desk in the foyer. “Hello, Mr. Stevens.” Leslie smiled and straightened up. “We were worried about you when we heard about the earthquake in Japan. I hope you were alright,” Leslie asked with concern on her normally bright face. “Oh yes . . . I was alright . . . ” Matthew hesitated. How had she heard about the earthquake? “The epicenter was in the northern part of the island. Is Jane in her office?” Leslie waited a second as if for more information, then said, “Yes, Jane is in.” Matthew thanked her and strode along the short hallway until he came to an open door with a little plaque on it reading: Jane Cunningham, Secretary and Typist. Matthew knocked lightly. Jane glanced up from her work and beckoned him inside. “I’ll be with you in a second, sir.” Jane finished typing a sentence and then greeted Matthew: “Hello, Mr. Stevens.” Matthew said hello and handed her the brown envelope. “I’ll type it up straight away and get it to Mrs. Smith for tomorrow’s edition. How was Japan?” “Wonderful,” Matthew replied without further explanation. “It must have been amazing!” Jane prompted, but when she didn’t get any details, she moved on. “Mrs. Smith is out at the moment, but she left a message. You’re to go to France next. It has been a long time. Four years, wasn’t it? Such a beautiful and romantic place,” Jane ended dreamily, her eyes a little out of focus. “Yes, France is a popular holiday destination. I like going there myself. I’ll see you when I get back,” Matthew answered quickly. “Make sure you come back with a lovely story to tell.” Back outside, Matthew adjusted his briefcase and started down the narrow alleyway next to the office. At the end of the alleyway, he turned right onto a quaint street with trees lining the sidewalks and tulips in every garden; their petals faded in the twilight. At number 29, he took the steps up to a burgundy door two at a time. He hoped dinner would be ready. He rapped four times and then went to the kitchen window and tapped. A woman with his green eyes and brown hair glanced up at him and grinned, her eyes crinkling. She left the counter, leaving a man in the kitchen, and after a few seconds the front door opened. “Matthew! You’re a bit late!” She laughed. “I know, sorry. I had to stop by the office.” They hugged, and Matthew followed her inside and placed his briefcase by the shoe rack. He took a deep breath in of spicy coconut coming from the kitchen. “How are you, Gabrielle?” “I’m well. And you?” “Very well, but starving. Are you cooking curry?” “Arthur’s making his famous spicy masala.” They walked into the kitchen, but before Matthew could say hello to his brother-in-law, a flash of long flowing black hair, blue eyes, and small arms flew into his embrace. “Matthew!!!” Matthew hoisted the girl onto his lap
Editor’s Note
It’s spring! The season of blooming flowers, blue skies, and baby birds cheeping in their nests. So, in this issue, in honor of spring, I wanted to celebrate the visual in all of its mediums. In addition to the romantic Parisian painting, with its dreamy golds, pinks, and blues, that graces our cover, this issue features: a painting with a paper boat literally pulling the piece into three dimensions; a painted figurine that includes an ancient Chinese poem about spring; a portfolio of stylistically bold, bright landscapes; and a traditional paper collage with a dark twist. The quality and variety of the art submissions we receive and publish in Stone Soup never ceases to amaze me; I hope you will leave this issue inspired not only by the writing but by the visual art—in all of its forms. Enjoy the April showers!
Moonlight
Ashley Xu, 13Lexington, MA
Behind
The fluorescent light of the classroom made it even harder to concentrate on the fine, black print that consisted of nothing but endless boredom. My mind tried to make sense of it. The book was written long ago; the 1800s? It reminded me of when a good friend of mine pretended to travel back in time with me. My nose wrinkled at the thought of her. I remembered Alice being fierce and stubborn. Just like I didn’t pay any mind to the words of this book, Alice never listened to me. I groaned just thinking about it. She was like a pestering bee. Going away but always returning. Alice had the eyes of an eagle and the ears of an owl. And, apparently, the instincts of a bee. She had those funny front teeth that jutted out at anything that didn’t seem right. Against my will, my eyes scanned the pages: “Meg, being oldest, seemed to think she could order us about . . . ” Those words hit me like the harsh wind outside, and, as the realization slowly sank in, I felt the air sucked out of me. But why had she let me boss her around? It may have given me pleasure at first, but in the long run, it definitely drove us both out of our minds! I felt lightheaded. Gears seemed to turn in my mind, contemplating this theory. A broken piano key seemed to finally strike the string it had missed up until now and echo through my body. My ears rang. My hands trembled. The whole world spun around me, blurring my vision and clouding my head. If you looked inside my body, you would see a fogged-up window with many attempts to rub the mist off. My eyes skimmed a whole page in my book, but the echo of that dissonant piano chord in my ears was so loud, it diverted my attention so I couldn’t hear the words in my mind. For a moment, I wished I could really travel back in time and fix my mistakes. When had I started to boss her around? One year ago? Two? Since we’d met? No. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that I had done it, and now I’d have to fix it—without time travel. I racked my brain for ideas. I didn’t want to straight out say, “Did you notice I boss you around a lot?” I came to my senses. I’d just have to stop bossing her around. Plus, now I´d have to reread a whole page in my book that I had missed, but it was too late. My teacher clapped her hands, and I was behind on my book—and my friendship. The recess bell rang its piercing song, decimating my ears. I snapped my head up and stepped outside. A blast of air almost blew me down. I let the door close in front of me and stood back. “ A shiver ran down my spine and pooled on the ground in puddles of trepidation “Did you hear that Linda has . . . ” “What did you get on your test? I got a . . . ” The loud sounds of the hall barely receded every time a cluster of kids exited the building and came back saying it was too cold or windy or this or that. Did I really want to go outside? I shoved the door again, willing it to open. The wind, rougher this time, whipped my face. Even so, I pushed myself through the wind tunnel and stumbled outside, tripping over my feet and using my arm to shield my face. I wished my arm were bigger. The light outdoors was bright, yet the sky was clouded and overcast. The wet dew made my feet cold, and the grass crunched beneath my shoes. The sun was low in the sky making my shadow long. My friends chit chatted as if it were a normal day. But it wasn’t. My friend, Bella, approached me. “We’ve been looking for you!” “Not now. I need to find something. And no, I do not need help right now.” My tense body relaxed a little on a rickety bench that looked as if it would topple over. I stayed completely still as my eyes darted around the school. Where was she? I studied the school. On my right, a bush covered in geraniums lined the grass. The sun was just up behind the bush. A dirt path traversed by a stream from the recent rain led to a cluster of trees. The trees stood tall and blocked most of my view of the benches that surrounded the school. I sensed movement beyond the trees. There. I inched toward Alice ever so slowly, and she, of course, with her uncannily keen senses, noticed me immediately. I continued toward her, the leaves crunching beneath my boots. My arms tensed. My stomach churned, and my legs pulled at me to back up. A shiver ran down my spine and pooled on the ground in puddles of trepidation. The world spiraled about. I couldn’t think straight. I uneasily twirled a strand of my hair. “Hey Alice,” I stammered. She turned her back on me. I looked down. “I’m so sorry.” Alice glared. “I can’t believe I didn’t stand up to you before! Why did I let you make a toy out of me?! Buzz off.” Ha! She really is a bee. I stiffened. “I said, I’M SORRY!!” Whoops. Now she’ll never forgive me. “Leave me alone!” Alice’s mouth was a big, gaping hole. Tears formed in her eyes. Hmm. . . I thought. Nice comeback. What else did you learn on the playground? My cheeks turned bright red. I attempted to hide my face and darted back toward the rickety bench. I could feel Alice staring after me, her eyes boring a hole in my gut. I had just lost a friendship that was so hard to
The Experiment
There is an alien among us. She has built a wall across her heart, one made of sheets so thick others do not see her. Until they realize— An alien is here, an alien is here—there is the alien. She tries to walk the halls in silence, tries to creep up to classrooms. It works, and the alien is not noticed. * * * Homework. “Damn it,” I mutter to myself quietly. But everyone hears, and they crowd around me. “Are you hurt?” “Is there anything I can do?” “If you need anything, just tell!” I force a smile upon my face. “I’m okay—I just forgot my homework.” A girl whom I have never once noticed in my life walks up to me. In her hand is her homework. * * * This alien—she is an experiment. She is a fake, she is different. And she knows that nobody will try to break down that wall around her. Who can see her first behind those green paper walls? * * * Maybe it’s because I’m rich, because my dad is a millionaire. I know nobody wants to be friends with a nobody. I know that nobody would willingly give their own homework away . . . To a nobody. Who will like me once I grow up? Once I am not different from the rest of them? * * * This alien, she knows that everyone loves that wall. They probe and push and talk. They do not care. She is an experiment, a test to see who can take away that wall first. * * * I walk these halls alone. Nobody comes to me until they realize that it’s her, the girl with the money! Soon enough, I might forget who I am. I might just be the girl with the money. * * * This experiment is gone. This experiment is a nothing. Julia Li, 12Mason, OH Daania Sharifi, 13Gainesville, VA
Blurred Love
iPhone 6S Daania Sharifi, 13Gainesville, VA
Some Days
Some days I am a girl. On these days I like to giggle and play with toys. I wear bright blue clothes and shirts with cats on them. When I feel like a girl, my feelings change. I feel kind and happy. I like being a girl. But . . . There is a downside. My heart is bigger than on other days. It becomes too big for my body. This causes my feelings to mix together, and that results in emotional drama. This doesn’t make me want to be a girl. So . . . Some days I am a boy. On these days I like to be silly and play rough. I wear darker clothes, like blue, black, or red. When I’m a boy, I feel like my body fits me better. Sometimes it’s as if God intended me to physically be a boy, but changed his mind at the last second. I like being a boy. But . . . Sometimes I feel like I’m too awkward to be a boy. I’m not a very sporty person, and I don’t like jokes. This causes me to appear abnormal and too “sensitive.” This doesn’t make me want to be a boy. So . . . Some days I am a dragon. On these days I like to stomp through the hallways and growl under my breath. I wear light clothing on these days so, being a Dutch Angel Dragon, my fur doesn’t overheat. When I’m a dragon, I like to use pronouns like it, they, them, and their. But . . . Dragging around invisible wings, horns, and a tail all day gets exhausting really fast. I get agitated, and sometimes chirp swears (or something rude) in my language. Even though no one can understand, it is not a good feeling to be cursing, even if it’s an accident. This doesn’t make me want to be a dragon. So . . . It’s really quite simple. I make another choice . . . to be Olivia, who is currently a dragon (roar!!!). Olivia Cadham, 11Ontario, Canada
Encased in Ice
Nikon Coolpix L830 Hannah Parker, 13South Burlington, VT
Figadindi
I began to notice a collarless brown dog that seemed to be following us as the shadows of stucco houses became the shadows of trees and the narrow cobblestone street faded into a packed dirt path. It wasn’t stray: it had a well-groomed coat of hair and was rather clean and friendly, but it wasn’t quite a house dog either. I asked my mother about it, and she told me that I should ignore it—she didn’t want a dog following us thinking we were its owners. My dad agreed. It seemed to run away, but then further up the trail, it sprang from the shaded understory of mulberry trees saplings and grass onto the trail with us. I was trying to obey my mother, but it was impossible to ignore. I found that I shared many similarities with the dog. We both had boundless energy that inevitably made us centers of attention, we both ran ahead of my parents, and we both eventually brought smiles to my parents’ faces. When we passed the last human settlements, an entirely new terrain lay before us: van-sized cacti lay on bare earth scoured by drought and sunshine, semi-lifeless grass reached up from the ground like hair, and occasionally a daring tree stood beside the trail, soaking up the cloudless sky and providing much wanted shade. Another dog, even darker than the first one, began to follow us. His hair was very well trimmed, and he kept a pace equal to that of my parents. He was a house dog, for he had a collar, but he was as dark as good dark chocolate, while the dog we had met earlier was more of a milk chocolate hue. Throughout the course of the trail so far, my father and I had been scouring the area, looking for cactus pears. We had become enthusiasts of the odd fruit since we had found them on a walk. The sweet red-violet orbs hung off cacti by the half dozen or so, and in the local Neapolitan dialect of Italian they were called “figadindis.” We had taken it upon ourselves to name the first dog this, and my parents seemed to be warming up to the idea of letting him stay. Slowly but surely, the life was seeping back into the field, in optical form. At first, the grass became greener and taller, but then flowers and plants of every kind began to carpet the sides of the trail—brooms, tulips, poppies, sea thistles, daisies. As the verdant growth closed in from all sides, the trail narrowed our group down to single file. By this point, Figadindi was our only canine companion, for the collared dog had left. Small lizards scuttled in the fields and sunbathed on rocks, which Figadindi chased for entertainment. My dad now had a plastic shopping bag for holding cactus pears. A few wispy clouds floated on the horizon, shading faraway mountain peaks. From this altitude, the whole of the Amalfi Coast was visible. I was amazed at the beauty of the vista, though I did not show it. We rounded a hilltop, and the trail fell into shrubbery and forest. I was intrigued by the contiguity of such drastic microclimates. Somehow, amazingly, evergreen pines had colonized the sides of the trail, and now the trail was separated from the surrounding thicket by wooden poles that lay parallel to the ground. I could sense that we were getting closer to Sorrento—a highway roared in the distance, and the sounds of wildlife grew ever fainter. We had not even so much as petted Figadindi, yet he almost felt like a family member to me. My parents implied that they felt the same way. About 50 meters from the fringe of the thicket, I heard a large rustle in a tree. Figadindi, crouching, was intimidating a large fowl sitting somewhere near the top of an evergreen. With a few barks, he sent the fowl on its way, breaking a number of branches as it scampered away. My family was awed. Figadindi, unfazed, simply returned to trotting down the path, and we soon followed. We brushed through some bushes and branches, and a single two-lane road lay before us. Over the course of the trip, I had noticed that Italian roads were remarkably narrow, so we deduced that it was a highway. We crossed it and followed it downhill. We then came upon an urban labyrinth of streets, upon which my parents pulled out several maps and navigated us through a winding path of narrow alleys, shady streets, and mossy stairs. In fact, another dog had joined, this one a spotted, short-haired pitbull I named Motley. Relations between Motley and Figadindi were remarkably intriguing–sometimes the dogs were indifferent to each other, sometimes they were friendly, and at some point Motley even tried to mount Figadindi, which made me reconsider the genders of both. After a walk of about a mile, we arrived at a park, where we settled down for some hard-boiled eggs and pickles. The park was only a temporary resting place, for after lunch, it was back to a fun exploration of the streets. For the rest of the walk, we did not return to the wild hills we had been in earlier. Some areas had more plants, some had less, but the two recurring themes were stucco houses and dogs. Frightening canine guards, perched on high walls, made sure that their masters’ gardens were well protected. This area was famous for its lemons and oranges that grew to great sizes thanks to the fertile ash of Vesuvius, and local gardeners made sure no one intruded. Ironically, Figadindi was nothing more than annoyed by the guard dogs and fiercely stood his ground when intimidated. Motley was indifferent to them. We soon came across a large boulevard leading down to the sea. We followed it down a bit and then decided to roost at a restaurant. Motley had left, and Figadindi decided to lie down
