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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


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Thunderbird

Rico the chicken dreams of being champion of a sport dominated by bigger birds Chanting echoed through the dark tunnel. “Rico! Rico! R-I-C-O!” It got louder and louder as I neared the end of the tunnel, and the light got brighter and brighter. I tightened my beak strap and bounced up and down a few times. This was it, the greatest moment of my life. I took another step forward and the cheering flooded into my ears. I knew one more step would take me into a life of excitement, adrenaline, and air rushing through my feathers. I spread my strong, muscular wings, lifted my front leg, and took that step. “Rico! Rico! Rico! Rico . . .” I woke up with the same feeling I woke up with yesterday—the feeling of being admired and loved by everyone. But, like yesterday, that feeling faded quickly. The reality of waking up in my room—again—and having to pee really badly—again—always seemed to kill the dream. I sat up in bed, swung my feet over the side, and slipped on my red slippers. Sauntering to my bedroom door, I glanced over at the mirror on the wall and paused to look at my muscles. Maybe half a millimeter bigger than last week? Maybe a millimeter? Whenever my older sister, Macy, talked about my wing muscles, she always made quotation signs in the air with her wing tips and laughed, “Muscles!” I sighed and let my wings hang as I dragged myself over to the bathroom. I was only halfway done with my business when I was interrupted by Macy yelling from downstairs. “Rico! It’s, like, 8:47! You’re gonna be late! So you’re gonna make me late!” I hate being rushed in the bathroom; it just sorta ruins my peace and quiet. “Alright, already! Don’t lay an egg! I’m almost done!” I pulled up my pajama pants and ran to my room. I quickly changed into a pair of cargo shorts and a red T-shirt and kicked off my slippers as I ran down the ramp. Macy was waiting in the living room, tapping her talons on the floor. “Where’d my backpack go?” I murmured and checked behind the wingchair. “Found it!” I said, and lugged the heavy bag up and over my shoulders. “Hurry up!” Macy yelled from the front door. I was heading through when my mom put a wing on my shoulder and placed a warm, fresh piece of cornbread in my wing feathers. “Thanks, Mom!” I yelled back as Macy practically dragged me into the car. I perched myself next to her in the front seat. “I’m gonna be so late because of you,” Macy muttered. “Sorry,” I half-heartedly apologized through a mouthful of cornbread. She rolled her eyes and started up the car. It hovered up to around ten talons off the ground, and then she stepped on the gas pedal and we were off. *          *          * It was a smooth, short drive, but I wished it was longer. I was not a fan of school. I’d rather just stay at home and play Super Cluck Bros. I’d even prefer just doing homework at home to going to school. But we arrived, as usual, and I slumped out of the car right after Macy lowered it to the ground. Before I could even close the door, she was revving the engine and called through the window, “See ya later, R!” I quickly waved back at her through the window, slammed the door, and watched her speed off to high school. Then I turned around with a sigh and faced what I dreaded every day. Thunderflight Middle School. TMS. Trample. My. Soul. I heaved the heavy doors open and made my way through the usual morning crowd of students. Birds will wait till literally the last second before the bell rings to get to their classes. But I don’t like the noisy flock thing and prefer to just get to my empty classroom early, so I successfully crept past a group of raucous ospreys without being noticed and made my way to classroom number thirty-six. Phew! Empty. I took a seat at the back table. My usual spot. Far from the bigger birds. I put my backpack next to my perch and waited for the bell to ring. Just then, the door to the classroom opened. I held my breath. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to get to class early and alone. I looked frantically around for Mrs. Hew, but she hadn’t arrived either. I glanced nervously at the door. Thank the Griffins! It’s just my friend Carl, the mallard! Carl waddled up wearing a yellow sweater, black sweatpants, and a tattered brown hat. Yeah, I mean the type of hat that you see Birdiana Jones wearing in those explorer movies. “Hi, Carl,” I said. “Hey, Rico! Guess what? The new Wild West novel is out! It looks so good! But I haven’t read it yet. Here! Lemme show ya.” He stuck his entire bill in his bag and fished out his phone, then swiped through too many photos until he found what he was looking for. “Check it out!” Carl said and showed me a picture of a book with a desert as the background and with “Wild West” printed in bold, yellow letters on the front cover. “Yeah, it looks cool,” I told him. “Yeah, and I can’t wait to read it. You should come over so we can read it togeth—” “Read what, losers?” a voice interrupted from the door. Carl and I froze. We knew the voice too well and hoped that if we just sat motionless, we’d disappear. But we didn’t, and there they were: Tony Rayburn and his gang looming over us. He took a threatening step forward and lifted one of his feet, and his claws glistened in the morning light that streamed in from the classroom window. “Uh-uh—nothing. It’s nothing. Just


By

I am Here

I am from a place not of leprechauns, rainbows, and pots of gold, but instead a teenaged sky, moody with deluges of rain, moments later opening to periwinkle heavens and effervescent light, scurrying clouds away. I am from salty, rocky beaches, gray water too cold to swim in (even though we do every New Year’s Day). I am from cobalt suil amhain, freckles and loud, accented, argumentative voices. Stories from my Nana of cherry buns at Bewley’s Cafe on Grafton Street, and sugary milky tea. Boiled cabbage and meaty bacon. I am Here I am from infinite kings named Richard and Henry. From staying up late reading Harry Potter. Hard, still-warm pencils and the flap, flap of long volumes. From the Beatles, Freddie Mercury, The Rolling Stones. I am from mountains of hard books and hard rock and deep-fried haddock with chips, malt vinegar, and minty mushy peas. I am from these two different islands disputing the same land for centuries. Easter Rising, Bloody Sunday, the Troubles. The queen and the taoiseach. Dublin and London. But I am not there but here. I am Here Eating tacos with cotija at my house, ice pops on the deck, year round. A banana tree in my backyard. Palm trees on my horizon. Only two seasons (summer and inferno) boiling heat in August, warm breezes in the winter, boba and nigiri just a block away, golden stars adorning the grimy concrete. Everyone wants to be a star. Everyone is from somewhere else. I am here, I am there, I am from dozens of family members, my friends for life. They are here, they are there like a pod of dolphins, like silvery-white iridium scattering the solar system.


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One Winter Day

A student takes a break from a long, cold day with a hot cup of noodles. “Get ready to leave!” the teacher announces from the front of the bus. Most students pack their bags, put their electronics down, and untie their seatbelts. The station is only 500 yards away. We can hear the wheels slowing down, like a steam of gas escaping through an inch-wide hole. Kids start to push each other to try to get off the bus first. After a long day at school amid winter, every student yearns to go home to a hearty meal, but in Korea, the day is not over yet. I stay seated and think about the rest of my day—how I have to go to hagwon, or a Korean cram school, to study math even after studying all day at school. The thought alone is enough to exhaust me and send shivers down my spine. I look out the window and see trees struggling to hold on to their last leaves of the year. They are like me, I think, trying desperately to hold on to the last reminder of warmth, but winter is already here. Today, more than ever, I am eager to rush to the convenience store—seeking some comfort before I’m sentenced to hagwon. “Rriinng!” the transparent door slides open, letting a cold breeze onto the bus. My classmates and I race to the door, pushing and wrestling to be the first ones to get off. I jump off the bus, for a moment glancing up at the lonely winter trees. Then I run down the street with the icy wind piercing my skin and dodge all the passersby and motorbikes until I see the familiar neon-green sign of the convenience store greeting me. I climb up the wooden stairs, each plank tainted with cigarette butts and ashes. I push open the glass door and stroll across the narrow corridors. I squat down and try to decide what ramyun to eat today. My eyes flow through the different ramyuns, from the sweet and tangy Saeu-tang to the spicy Shin Ramyun. Finally, my eyes set on Neoguri, a ramyun with a rich seafood broth, and I grab it. “Beep!” My navy-blue credit card slices through the card reader. I pull out a set of wooden chopsticks and puncture the bottom of my ramyun cup to take off the plastic wrap. I peel off half of the lid, and the hot water machine pours boiling water into my little cup. With my hands wrapped around the heated cup, I momentarily feel as if I’m at a campfire in the middle of the frosty woods. I pull out my phone and set a timer for three minutes. Waiting for the noodles to cook is always the hardest part. I peek at the window. The windowsills are covered by dust and the bodies of the little insects that fly around wherever you go. Outside the window, I see people passing by on the street, tightly holding on to their thick jackets with their noses facing downwards. They are all still wearing masks, so I can’t see their faces. It always seems like no one cares about each other. They seem too cold and busy to acknowledge anything else but themselves. I’m lost in thought when my timer rings. Sapling Shadow The burning steam spouts up from the open crack in the lid and warms my face. My anticipation grows as I slowly stir the noodles and smell their savory scent. I lift up my chopsticks to see the noodles, drenched in red, curled around each other like a group of vines in an abandoned garden. As I twist the noodles up into my mouth, they smoothly blend in and explode with flavor. Eating broth is my favorite part of the process. I fold the ramyun lid into a spoon, dip it in the warm soup, and taste the rich seafood flavor. Although it’s just a cup of ramyun, it feels as if a meal from a five-star restaurant was delivered to my mouth. The warmth from the broth and noodles is enough to melt down the bitter fatigue I was feeling after school. Now it’s time for me to go to hagwon. I promptly get up and clean up behind me. A gust of wind blows as I walk out the doors of the store, but I am no longer feeling cold.


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Editor’s Note

It’s January, and I was expecting this issue to be full of winter poems and stories—and there are some, such as “One Winter Day,” the evocative nonfiction piece that opens the magazine, and a chilling story called “Thin Ice.” But what surprised me was the humor I discovered this season! There’s a hilarious and a little bit snarky story about the Greek gods, a sly art theft mystery, a poem about sneakers, and the rousing tale of a little chicken with a big dream. Amidst the humor, though, is great sadness. In this issue, we give you the true story of the day Aisana Zhumabayeva found out about the passing of her father. We have a story about someone who suffers because he’s so different from his peers. I love those pieces, but I am also grateful for the humor that balances them out. Nothing warms up the short, cold days (and difficult times in our lives) like a little laughter. This winter, I encourage you to brighten your world by writing a funny story and maybe even sharing it with someone who needs a lift.  


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Stone Soup Honor Roll: November/December 2023

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. ART Gio Hyung, 11 Amaya Cardoza Mo, 11 Sullivan Vega, 5 MEMOIR Camilla Henneberger, 11 Mina Stigsgaard, 11 Soyori Suzuki, 12 POETRY Anaya Chougule, 12 Adalin DeMarco, 10 Rocco Russo, 11 Grace Scherer, 11 Ilina Singh, 13 Anushka Trivedi, 12 Kyra Welton, 13 STORIES Zea Arbuckle, 9 Dylan Ecimovic, 13 Victoria Gong, 11 Liam Hubbard, 11 Isabella Kim, 12 Zoe Li, 10 Gavin Liu, 13 Vivian Palme, 10 Olivia Puleo, 13 Yueling Qian, 11 Olivia Rhee, 13 Meg Schmitt, 10 Siaansh Singh Bhadauria, 12 Maya Walsh, 10 Parker White, 12 Ellie Wang, 10 Xi Zhao, 14 Anthony Zhang, 11


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Highlight from Stonesoup.com

From the Flash Contests The First Snow Linda sat on the porch watching the clouds, and occasionally, the butterflies fluttering over the front yard. Ever since she’d been diagnosed with late-stage breast cancer last year, she started to slow down and to appreciate the simple yet beautiful things all around her so much more. Suddenly, she heard loud footsteps. It must be Charlotte, Linda thought. Sure enough, her five-year-old daughter, Charlotte, came running around to the porch and sat down next to her. Linda noticed Charlotte’s unusual air of sadness. “What’s up, sweetie?” Linda asked. Charlotte turned and gave her a smile. “Mommy, I miss our old house.” “You don’t like this new house?” Linda asked. “I like it, but Daddy said it doesn’t really snow in Texas, even in winter. I miss the snow. It would always look like magic!” Charlotte said. She loved playing on snow days with her friends. Linda and her family used to live in Illinois, where it snowed a lot in the winter. But they recently moved south to Texas because it’s closer to Linda’s parents who can help take care of Charlotte. She saw disappointment briefly flash over Charlotte’s face. “You know what? Actually, it does snow in Texas sometimes. Just not that much, though!” Linda said, in an attempt to cheer Charlotte up. “Really?!” Charlotte’s face brightened up. “I wish I could see the snow . . . with you!” “Of course, sweetie! When the next snow comes, you and I will be together.” Linda pointed at the front lawn and said, “Right over there, watching the beautiful white magic falling down.”   You can read the rest of Evelyn’s story at https://stonesoup.com/post/stone-soup-monthly-flash-contest-winners-roll/  About the Flash Contests Stone Soup holds a flash contest during the first week of every month. The month’s first Weekly Creativity prompt provides the contest challenge. Submissions are due by midnight on Sunday of the same week. Up to five winners are chosen for publication on our blog. The winners, along with up to five honorable mentions, are announced in the following Saturday newsletter. Find all the details at stonesoup.com/post/stone-soup-monthly-flash-contest-winners-roll/