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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


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My Grandma Helen

I walk into the cold, barren waiting room. It smells like stale peppermints and dust bunnies. My dad has his hand on my shoulder, and I feel the warmth through my jacket. It’s the only thing I can feel right now. The clerk stands behind the desk, typing loudly on her giant computer. Her lips are glistening with bright fuchsia lipstick, and the mascara is clumped on her eyelashes. She has a gigantic smile plastered on her face, and it makes bile wash into my throat. “Hello,” she sings, tossing back her streaming, golden hair. “Good evening,” my dad greets her, with cheer that comes out of nowhere. I keep my mouth shut. “Would you like a mint, dear?” her voice pierces the still room. She plunges her manicured hand into the giant glass jar on the desk and shoves the plastic-wrapped candy into my hand before I can say no. “We’re here to see Helen Browne,” my dad continues, his words smooth and in just the right tone. I don’t know how he does that: somehow knows exactly what people want to hear and exactly how to deliver it. My mama calls him a “people person.” She says that he couldn’t be any more different than her. My mama gets this scratched-by-a-cat look whenever anyone says something she doesn’t like. Her lips disappear inside her mouth and her eyes squeeze shut and she clenches her coffee-colored hands against her skirt. “Oh, yes,” the lady responds. Her name tag says Patty. I don’t like that name. It reminds me of the cafeteria ladies at school, hairnets stretched over their giant buns, glopping food onto plastic lunch trays. I don’t know what happens next. All I know is that my dad puts his hand firmly on my shoulder again, and then we’re moving down the hallway and I stare at the green and black carpeting. Dad opens the door and we enter a cold, gray room that smells like clay. A single bed sits in the middle, and there sits my grandma. My heart drops and bursts open, pouring out love. My feet move me forward. Grandma Helen has been there for me since I was born. My whole life I felt like I had to hide my emotions everywhere except my own home. Me, Mama, Dad, Jasmine, Nathan, Grandma and me. Grandma and I would sit for hours on the porch rocking chairs, and sometimes not even say anything, just sit there thinking about the dewdrops glistening on the sharp blades of grass, and the clouds fading and the stars twinkling in the night sky. I would look over at her and her eyes would be closed and she’d just be humming to herself, and once in awhile she’d nod and smile. Sunday nights were for a huge family dinner that everyone would help make. Everyone would sit around the table, laughing and talking and eating all at the same time. I see Grandma sitting on the bed, back propped against two white pillows. She’s not who she used to be. The color has drained from her face. The wrinkles have stretched all across her skin. She’s here in this cold, sad building, not home with us painting her nails and experimenting with makeup. She’s not in the kitchen with flour and sugar all over her, cooking all day. She’s not surprising Dad with ice cold lemonade after he’d been gardening all afternoon, or giving Mom massages after a long day of law school. She looks over at us. “Mom!” Dad cries out. “It’s me.” Grandma cocks her head and looks right at him. “Adam?” she whispers. “Yes, Mom,” Dad whispers. “It’s me.” I walk over. “Oh, my babies,” Grandma whispers. She grabs Dad’s hand and pulls him close, and she wraps me in her arms. She kisses my cheek. And she lies back down on her bed. “Mom?” Dad whispers, and then I watch as her chest slows, and then stops, and her body is still. I run forward and grab her hand, squeezing it like I can bring it back to life, but I can’t, and then Dad is wrapping me in his arms and I feel him but I can’t think, and I just know that all of a sudden it feels like someone has thrown me off a sinking ship and I smack the water, and feel a rock hit hard against my head. *          *          * My grandma had been such a big part of my life, it didn’t seem right that she was just gone. She wasn’t afraid to put my dad in his place around the house, but she was always so sweet to my mom. She always told her, “Aisha, you need to relax.” Whenever I came home from school, my grandma Helen was always in the kitchen. She was a cook like a lot of grandmas I knew, but she was different. She didn’t just bake pies and cakes. Grandma Helen made Duck à L’orange and Beef Wellington. Every week, she tried out a new recipe, and every day she was at the table, thumbing through her cookbook and flipping through Taste of Home. The other thing she liked to do was listen to music, from Beethoven and Brahms to heavy metal. You could always hear music coming from her upstairs bedroom. Once, I peeked in her room and she had on her best purple evening gown and she appeared to be waltzing with an imaginary person. Her eyes were closed in bliss. On Saturday nights, she would move the antique wood coffee table, leather couches, and our huge rocking chair that smelled like coffee and mothballs, so the entire living room was open. She’d put out bowls of popcorn and cups of apple juice and iced tea, which was her favorite drink in the world. We’d wrap ourselves in blankets and watch an old movie, and sometimes fall asleep spooned together


By

Boxes

Ronia’s black curls bob at the edge of my vision, her toffee face connected to twisting shoulders that sweep past the bodies of sweating parents, yakking teens, and pleading children. A shiny green sign tåwinkles with a line of sunlight, the white text saying “Atlantic Ave” invisible where the light hits the bumpy material. Air hisses through a hole in the thick plastic material next to me, pulsing as feet make contact with its airy brilliance. The sun watches over us, its warmth touching our faces and necks and burning us with its loving gaze. The wind joins in with the chorus of voices that ride over the thumping speakers like birds chirping out a melody while floating in the clouds. I eye a dolphin balloon that floats above the crowd, blue shimmer against a blue sky. The way it shines in the sun holds my vision as if challenging me to buy a grip on its bright string. I gather some cotton from my dad’s shirt in my fist and tug, gaining his attention. “Yes, Azalea?” I point at Ronia with one hand, and the balloon with the other. “Ronia’s over there,” I say, “And I want that.” I watch a kid with a red shirt near the balloon stand and narrow my eyes menacingly. “I want that now,” I add. Ronia’s face appears next to mine, face broken into a smile. “Azalea!” She throws her arms open. “Ronia!” I laugh and throw my arms around her. My hand wraps around her until it reaches the opposite side of her, where it rests, on the skin between her shoulder and neck. My hand is wrapped around the balloon, the slight tug goes up my arm and into my heart as I walk down Atlantic Avenue, hand in hand with Ronia. When we see something we like, we gallop towards it, like our hands are cemented together and never will part. *          *          * As we walk to the East River, the outline of Ronia’s building becomes visible against the pale blue sky. It grows larger the more our legs burn, the more asphalt we step across, the more words we set free. It grows so large it obscures my vision, the details of the front door more than the details of the building as a whole. We enter and walk to the elevator with its old, leathery smell, like the building is a prize someone tried to wash too many times. My faded sandals cross the gap lined with metal, high-fiving the floor—thwack—a game played with Ronia’s pink and my blue sandals. Her feet are golden brown criss-crossed with blue plastic; mine, a birch tree, laden with celebratory ribbons, blue as a bluebird. The white lights flash on the elevator wall: Floor 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. The elevator counts with me, 6 years, 6 floors. Through the doorway, our sandals thwack. It looks like the walls are holding negative space, like all the framed memories were forgotten. Ronia’s house used to be covered with pictures; nature, us, family, memories. But now all I see are nails sticking out of white walls, empty and holding nothing. Then I notice the bumpy, wood-colored boxes, green words on the sides, clinging onto the material as if they were scared to let go. But I shake my head and ignore these things, happy to be with Ronia. *          *          * When the sun reaches its home below the horizon, we watch the streaks of light glint on the dark choppy water. We take the subway home, the vision of the boxes bumping with the train. I hold the balloon to my chest, making the ends of my hair static. I frown; my tights itch, and so do my questions. My voice comes out, light as silver, but heavy with the questions. “Why were there boxes?” I ask, looking up at my parents. They share a look. “Azalea. We have some bad news to tell you,” they say, “But we can’t tell you right now.” So I wait until we get off the train and into the house before they talk again. “Ronia is moving to California.” They place their hands on my shoulders, but nothing can stop the flood of tears that stream down my cheeks, my blue eyes magnified with the salty water that floods my vision. The river reminds me of the time we spent frolicking in the springs upstate, allowing cool, clear water to surround our boots, laughing when it went above the rubber protection and tickled our feet. My eyes burn when I rub them, and salty water covers my face. My mind creates an image of the time when we galumphed through the snowy woods with little crackling walkie-talkies in our hands. The time we sat atop our fathers’ shoulders and held hands way up high, like our heads were not only in the clouds but they were the clouds. The time I ate her birthday cupcake when she was in the bathroom, and the time she ate mine the next year. The time we ate the apples from the ground while apple-picking. The time we put on a show for our families and sang and danced and played. I sleep with those memories floating through my head that night. *          *          * The next day, Ronia comes over with her family, and we all sit at the oak dining room table. I pout at everything, everyone. I woke up in the morning with a black cloud over my head, and my eyes raining spontaneously. Thunder booms when it wants, lightning strikes as it sees fit. They explain: California offers a job that New York does not. Where Craig (Ronia’s father) goes, so do they. I glower some more. Craig looks over and says, “Azalea…” I don’t let him finish. I


By

The Red Balloon…

When sea captains say they have sailed the seven glimmering seas, I have flown them. When climbers say they have climbed the highest peaks, including the monstrously tall Mount Everest, I have achieved higher heights. When tourists say they have travelled all over the world, I have done it more times than I can count. But I am only a vivid dark, red balloon with a loose white string. My master was really playful, he was about 7 when I left him. One day he lost his grip and I rushed towards the blue sky like a graceful bird dancing. From that second on, it was my quest to find him. A few years later, I navigated the winds as they talked to me and told me where to go. I   crossed the golden sand beaches, crystal clear, transparent, ice-cold glaciers. I have felt the slight tickle of the lush green grass of the forever blooming countryside. I have felt the burning scars of crashing into cliffs or skyscrapers. One morning, I smashed into a fence where a bunch of bags told me to go to the vortex in Antarctica. Soon I let go of the fence and rushed into the sea. Then I spent years trying to find it. I mastered the currents of the water as I mastered navigating the wind. Finally after a few years, I found it. I was free! No more political roars no more cars or horns. I was free! I found myself in a freezing pool surrounded by millions of other balloons. But every moment I thought of my master. Someday, somehow, sometime and somewhere I will find him… Rafi Mohammed, 10Newcastle upon Tyne, UK


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Searching for Bows and Arrows

Because I wanted to feel like an Amazon I asked my father to build me a bow with arrows We went to the nearby woods that overlook Forest Beach in the village of South Chatham. My father, sister and I followed A wavy uphill path to the clearing Where we found young oak trees With pointy strong branches, We sawed off three branches That looked like they would suffice. We carved them and sanded them, And we bent them till they could sing. By the time we had finished tying the string The evening chill had descended. We shot our arrows into the darkening sky Where the stars scampered like red foxes. Tatiana Rebecca Shrayer, 9Brookline, MA


By

Garage Junk

Few things could make me enter the garage at night but thirst was one of them. Although the space was lit by a bright, automatic light on the garage door mechanism, the lighting always felt inadequate. On one side, a refrigerator stood like a steel grandfather clock next to shelves of old junk. Nearby were a couple of tool shelves and a working table. Next to the door was a shoe rack full of old shoes that looked unwearable. On the other side, a massive yellow boiler hissed next to a filing cabinet full of old papers. Everywhere were shadows that reminded me of graveyards at night. After I stepped into the garage to get a bottle of lemonade, I noticed a huge spider slowly walking across its web above the refrigerator. It was as slow as a snail and bigger than a quarter. It was brown with a round head and an oval body. Looking at it made me feel small, as if something was wrong, as if I had my back turned to a massive beast with red eyes. Trying to not disturb the creature, I tiptoed very slowly to the refrigerator. My thirst was more motivational than my fear, but I moved with the speed of a broken wind-up toy car. As I slowly opened the refrigerator door, the spider positioned itself almost directly above my head. I could see it, and I was sure it could see me. With the carefulness of the snakeman who caught green mambas with his bare hands, I opened the door. Quickly but silently, I grabbed the drink and felt the coolness of the bottle. Just as I was closing the refrigerator door and carefully watching the spider, thinking I was safe, the garage light turned off. I had forgotten that the light detected movement, and maybe my slow movements had been too slow for it to recognize my presence. But waving my arms to turn it back on would alert the spider, so I just stood there. In darkness. The spider and me. Right then, I knew that my fear was like swiss cheese, full of holes. All I had to do was face the fear and eat it. After all, what is a spider but a hairy, air-breathing arachnid with eight legs and fangs that inject venom? And how many people die each year from spider bites? Two? Five? A hundred? The garage was absolute darkness except for the moonlight shining in through a window next to the refrigerator. I could almost feel the spider’s thin legs crawling slowly across my head. For a tiny moment I thought about what I would do. I had several options: I could throw the bottle of lemonade in my hands at the spider, I could run, or I could shout for help. However, throwing the bottle of lemonade at the spider would mean dislodging it from its web, and then I wouldn’t be able to locate it. It would be angry and suddenly crawling around in the mess of lemonade on the floor, somewhere near my slipper-clad feet. Shouting would only alert it of my presence. Running would mean risking crashing into things that I couldn’t see in the dark. With no options left, I nearly panicked, but I told myself that my fear of spiders was irrational. Spiders are mostly just small bugs that slowly crawl around eating flies that occasionally get trapped in their webs. A spider would have no reason to descend on my head, no reason to chase me, no reason to bite me. After all, I was a thousand times larger than the spider, and the spider was probably more afraid of me than I was of it! Realizing this, I decided the best option was not to run, not to shout, not to throw a bottle of lemonade, but just to simply walk away. I closed the refrigerator door as silently as I could and started to exit the garage. Calmly, I avoided boxes and racks full of items that might otherwise have tripped me while I was running. As I approached the doorway of the garage, I turned on the garage light. When I looked back from the door, I saw the spider very slowly walking toward me on its web in the corner of the garage. I looked at the spider and I thought it looked at me and I thought about how spiders are their own individual selves, just like humans. They are just trying to survive and live longer. People are cruel to spiders just because they look strange, while in reality, all spiders do is keep the bugs out of our homes. Then I shut the door and dashed into my room, thinking about what I had just done. For several minutes, I sat in the chair at my desk and considered the other spider in the bathroom, the small one that lives in the corner behind the toilet. The next day, I moved the whole package of lemonade to the refrigerator in the kitchen to let the garage spider have its space. After my encounter with the spider, I’ve made an effort to recognize that spiders are not the monsters they appear to be, but harmless creatures that do their own thing. I still don’t like them in the same room with me, but my fear of them is a half-eaten piece of swiss cheese.


By

A Dream of Chaos

The sound of thunder and rain thrashing around, clinging to the Empire State Building. As it flails and turns, I jump through the window. As the small bang of me landing gets swallowed by the sound of thunder, I jump down the narrow stairs just as I hear fireworks. And then I see it. The tiles flying in the air. I hear a small voice. It gets louder and louder until I see a huge flash of light. And then New York is all fine. And giant whale-like things flying are just the sound of morning doves. Atlas William Iacobucci, 9New Haven, CT


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Stone Soup Honor Roll: May 2018

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. STORIES Makenna Bachman, 13 Isabelle Brault, 10 Kate Choi, 12 Amela Cucovic, 12 Nissi K. Flynn, 11 Ruth Gebhardt, 10 William Gruen, 13 Dyllan Han, 12 Cora Randall, 12 Sydney Sierck, 11 Nicholas Stone, 12 Megan Thomson, 13 Maya Viswanathan, 11     POEMS Grace Artz, 11 Renatka Maria Kozlowksa, 12 Rose Rui, 11 Finn Shepherd-Humphreys, 9 Shelley Tang, 11 Nina Zhan, 9   ARTWORK Eva Garrity Robbins, 12