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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


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Cousins (Part II)

Nicky discovers some items in Mrs. Fleming’s attic that unearth upsetting memories from the past This is the second of three installments of Emily Chang’s novella, which received honorable mention in our 2022 Book Contest. You can read the beginning of Nicky’s story in our May/June issue. Chapter 8: Why the Second Suitcase Had Such a Weird Shape “I’ve got Saturday appointments booked now,” my mom told me as she gathered her things. “Sorry about that, Nicky, but I won’t be home when you get back.” It was Saturday morning, and my mom was rushing around the kitchen and getting ready to go out. Since Ms. Fleming’s house was on the way, she would drop me off there before going to her appointments for today. I’d walk back home as usual. “It’s fine,” I said. Remembering how I still had half of Ms. Fleming’s attic to go through, I added, “I might stay there a little longer too.” “As long as it’s okay with Ms. Fleming,” she said. “And you still have your summer homework to finish, so don’t stay too long, okay?” “Okay,” I sighed. Summer homework seemed to be always haunting me. And I still had that essay to figure out. Given the choice, I’d much rather help at Ms. Fleming’s house than write an entire essay. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the choice. We got to Ms. Fleming’s house, and my mom drove off to her appointment. Ms. Fleming opened the door. She was wearing a giant yellow raincoat and leaning on her cane. “Is it going to rain?” I asked, looking up at the sky. There were only a few gray clouds in the distance. “No, at least I don’t think so. I’m just a little cold, that’s all.” She slipped on the hood of her jacket. Cold? Itwas ninety degrees outside. But maybe she’d turned her air conditioning on too high. When we went inside, I checked on the air conditioning. It was off. “Laila’s birthday party was beautiful, wasn’t it?” Ms. Fleming said, before I could ask any more about the raincoat. “It was so wonderful to see you there, too.” “Uh . . . yeah,” I said, suppressing my sigh. I’d tried to shove the birthday party away into a corner of my mind after it was over, but I should’ve known Ms. Fleming would bring it up. “I wanted to stay a bit longer, but I was getting tired. I’m sure the rest of the party was lovely, though.” I nodded. “It was fine. There was cake.” I didn’t mention that I’d given Alex half my slice because there was just too much pink frosting to swallow. “Cake is not great for my age, but I’m glad you could enjoy it,” Ms. Fleming said. “Oh, and I was going to ask you—do you think you’ll be able to bring the boxes down?” she asked, to my relief, changing the subject. “I didn’t want you to do it last week, in case . . . well, oh, there was a reason, but I can’t remember what it was.” “That’s okay, I can do it. And maybe—” I paused, thinking of the cluttered mess that still hadn’t been sorted out up there. “What if you look through the stuff I put in the boxes last time while I finish getting the other half organized? And then I could bring the rest down.” “That is a good idea,” she said, smiling. I pulled down the attic steps, ran up, and switched on the light. There were about ten boxes from last time, and I started with the ones that held the fancy clothes. I brought the first heavy cardboard box to the kitchen, which had the most space in Ms. Fleming’s house. I figured she might want to spread things out to look at them all. Ms. Fleming must have thought so too, since she was waiting there to take the box from me and set it on the floor. It took me ten trips up and down to get everything from the last time downstairs. The barricade of boxes lined one entire wall of the kitchen. My ankle was starting to ache after that marathon—flights of stairs probably weren’t too good for it—but I headed back up to the attic anyway to finish my part of the job. I thought this time around would be easier, since I had already finished organizing half of the stuff and probably knew more about where things were. But it turned out that last week had been the easier half. The things that were left seemed too large to fit in boxes, like a long, wire rabbit cage I hadn’t seen before. The rolled-up rug was taller than I was, and so was the mannequin. The old radio must have weighed forty pounds or more. And I didn’t even try to bother with the giant bed frame. I put the picture frames away, though, and the other things that fit into boxes— an old chess set, a small typewriter (which was heavy, but I managed), a pair of purple fashion boots. Leaving most of the larger items where they were felt sort of incomplete, but I would have to ask Ms. Fleming what to do with them. I went to the smaller cardboard boxes next, just to check and see what was inside. The next box was filled with papers, probably from Ms. Fleming’s school days. The one on the top was titled Quarter 4 Honor Roll, and there were many more certificates like it underneath. Annual Science Fair Winner. Excellence in Musicianship. Clearly, Ms. Fleming had been a much better student than I was. In the middle of the row of boxes were the two suitcases. The first one, metallic purple with wheels, was empty. And the second one was black with a sticker that said Phyllis Fleming on the side. But it had such a strange shape—larger and rounder at one end than the other. What


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Dad’s Stocks

This piece contains some additional resources for educators. Click here to read them. Up and down and up and down, that’s how stocks work. Up and down and up and down, that’s how Dad works. Then stocks go down and down and down and down— that’s what’s happening now. So Dad’s emotions go down and down and down and down— and suddenly he is silent. He is silent like the stocks— afraid. And now I realize I care about stocks.   Additional Resources Author Interview Summary & Analysis Discussion Questions   Author Interview What inspired you to write this piece? When Covid 19 hit, I wasn’t really worried about anything. I thought that it was far away, and wouldn’t affect my life at all. However, it affected the stock market. My dad’s work involves buying stocks. Because of Covid, a lot of people were scared to buy stocks and there were a lot of changes happening to the stock market. Everyone was stressed, especially my dad. I remember him having bags under his eyes, and he would barely have the energy to speak. I felt lonely, but more so sad that everyone was so worried. In the end, I felt inspired to write about how deeply my dad cares for his job, and I wanted to show him that I love him. Can you share more about your creative process? How did you write this? In the beginning, I knew that I was going to write this poem about myself: my worries, my fears, my loneliness. But later on, I was surprised by how the poem started being more and more about my dad. At first, I didn’t want to write about my dad in this way because I thought it would make me sound immature. But when I really started writing this poem, I realized that it’s okay to sound younger, to write in the voice of a child, or include another, less mature side of me in my writing. In conclusion, even though this poem turned out differently than I expected, it made me learn a lot more about trusting my instincts and I love the result. What’s your favorite single poem, short story, or piece of art? Why? My favorite poem is “In Flanders Fields” by John McCrae. I remember the first time I read it, I didn’t think much of it until my teacher read it to me again, and I really started to think about its meaning. I love how McCrae gives off a “creepy” vibe by writing in the voices of the dead, but his language is also so beautiful. I love the rhythm and rhyming, which is something I have often tried to include in my poetry. And not only is this poem really sad and beautiful, but it has also changed my perspective of how I look at death. What advice do you have for any young writers or artists hoping to be published in Stone Soup? My advice is to trust your own writing style. Don’t try to change your voice to get your work published because the most important part is that you keep true to your own style. If everyone wrote in one format and one tone, then writing would no longer be interesting. Just like how I embraced my childlike voice in my poem, don’t be afraid to write something that sounds “weird” or “strange.” Back to top Summary & Analysis “Dad’s Stocks” by Mia Xu, 11, is a short poem written in a single stanza. In it, the speaker observes her father’s relationship to his stocks and her own relationship to them, in turn.  The father’s mood mirrors the stocks, going “up and down and up and down” depending on their performance. Parents tend to watch the worth of stocks—the money given to a business in the hopes of receiving more money in return—because an investment could make them more (or less) wealthy. Some people consider stock investment a bit of a game. It can feel good to receive more money in return. However, it can also feel disheartening to see the worth of stocks go down because that means the investor is losing money. Investing can bring complicated feelings. How does this poet choose words carefully? In this poem, Xu uses repetition and rhythm to reflect the stock market fluctuations—the stocks going up and down.  Listen to the playful rhyme Xu uses when matching “down” and “now” in this segment:  Then stocks go down and down and down and down— that’s what’s happening now. This rhyming is considered slant rhyme, when words sound similar but don’t rhyme exactly. Slant rhyme matches Xu’s imperfect emotions in this case.  The speaker observes her father’s reaction to recent the stocks going “down and down and down”: “Dad’s emotions go / down and down and down and down.” He is losing money, and his mood is dropping. Finally, Xu writes: “He is silent / like the stocks—/ afraid.” Stocks are silent. They aren’t people with emotions, yet Xu draws a parallel between the quiet of stocks and the quiet of her father. The stocks aren’t afraid, but her father is.  Finally, in this reflective poem, Xu shares, “And now I realize / I care about stocks.” Although the speaker is learning about stocks and does not make investments herself, she realizes that she does “care” because of their effects on her father.   Back to top Discussion Questions What are some sound patterns and repetitions you hear in the poem that are interesting to the ears? Why do you think that poets use sound patterns? Can you think of a time when you, like Xu, have been sensitive to the emotions of a parent or loved one during their moments of silence? Back to top


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A Forever Type of Thing

A musician works to build community, and a life, on the streets I lean back against the black stone pillar behind me, inhaling the smell of hot street food. My stomach growls loudly. A smoker then saunters past, leaving the suffocating smell of a cigarette behind, and I’m no longer hungry. As I see more tourists heading down the station platform, towards where a train is roaring to a stop, I pick up my guitar and begin to play a little melody. Strumming, plucking, picking, chucking. Someone drops a five in my open case, and I smile, nodding gratefully. Well, there’s dinner. This is how I spend my days. I have my little routine: Wake up, fold my scrappy blanket, pull out my guitar, put the case in front of me, and play. If I make enough for food, I’ll have lunch or give some to Red, then play some more. I try to spend any money I make so it won’t be stolen. I think that most pity me, but I really don’t mind my lifestyle. I get along. Music is really what keeps me entertained, and sane. The beat-up guitar I found in a dumpster, case and all (lucky, I know), is by far my favorite possession (and, other than clothes, my only possession). I’ve been playing guitar for as long as I can remember. Red, another street musician and my best friend, taught me how to play when I was eight or so, when my mom left. I don’t mean to brag or anything, but I’m pretty good. Or maybe it’s just the BART station acoustics. But one day, my little routine changed. I came up with a tune I liked, and built on that throughout the chilly morning. It turned out that I wasn’t the only one that liked it, considering the mounds of green piling up in my guitar case. I was getting ready to go get myself a hot dog at the stand outside when I got the funny feeling something bad was about to happen. When you live on the street, you experience this feeling often, but know better than to ignore it. I looked around and saw a black-hooded figure behind me. However, he wasn’t middle-aged, buff, and intimidating like I would have thought. Instead, he looked like a lanky teenager who hadn’t yet grown into his legs, wrapped in a Goodwill coat three sizes too big. I knew what he was going to do, so I turned around and kept playing, acting oblivious. Before I could make a plan, though, he crept in front of me, snatched two handfuls of my money, and sprinted down the platform. He was fast, but I was faster. On my feet in a flash, I bolted, my arms pumping, and tackled the undersized thief. Because of the momentum, we rolled over a few times. He unsuccessfully tried to escape from my grip. I had him pinned. Most would have judged him for stealing, but most also haven’t gone about their day not knowing when they would be able to eat next. When I finally got a look at his face, the sick, sinking guilt I felt made me wish I had just let him go. He looked just a year or so younger than me, maybe fourteen or fifteen. His rugged face was encrusted with dirt, blue lips cracked, and his brown eyes were wide and scared. Keeping my grip on him, just in case, I stood both of us upright. “What’s your name, man?” I asked, trying to sound sure of myself. “Chase. Please don’t hurt me!” he answered, trembling. The poor guy looked terrified. “Nice to meet you, Chase. My name is Pick, and I’m not gonna hurt you. As long as you don’t try to run, okay?” I loosened my hold on his arm slightly. His face softened. “So, how about you give me back that money, and we can go get some hot dogs?” I suggested. He nodded quickly, so we headed up the stairs. Chase ate as if he’d forgotten what food tasted like. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” I questioned. “Three days, I think,” he responded quickly in between bites. I gave him a bit to finish eating, then I began again. “I’m assuming that’s why you wanted my money—for food.” I gave him an inquisitive look. I could see the hesitation on his face, so I gave him a friendly nudge. “It’s okay. I know,” I gestured at my few worn belongings. Most would have judged him for stealing, but most also haven’t gone about their day not knowing when they would be able to eat next. “Yeah, I was hungry,” he finally answered. “I thought so.” We both stared at the floor for a while after that. The marble that was once pristine white is now filthy, the edges of the tiles stained yellow. An idea came into my mind. “Do you play guitar? Sing?” I asked. Chase gave me a puzzled look, then shook his head. “You wanna stick around, learn how?” I continued. He stared at me blankly. After a moment, though, he nodded slowly. The Window or the Mirror Over the next few weeks, my routine changed yet again. I taught Chase something new every day on guitar. He was a fast learner, and he loved to play. I introduced Chase and Red too, and they got along great. Both of them love the Warriors and old rock music. And, soon enough, he was playing some pretty complicated stuff on my old guitar. We would take turns playing and singing. Although neither of us were very good at singing, we were having so much fun that we did anyway, as loudly as we could. Sometimes we would even get creative, using the guitar case like a drum. This new little duet was as much to the tourist’s enjoyment as to ours. The cash piled in. For the first time in


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Backyard

My outside workplace holds ivy, the tips of their leaves gently pointing towards the patio of brick, clustered together, the surface of the greenery shining like an emerald jewel, covering a single side of the curvature stone beneath my feet.


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Observing the Night Sky on a Summer Solstice

Situated on the compact grass, grains of sand underlying the plant that wildly grows. Shamrock color coating the square piece of meadow, fading to a flaxen pigment at the tip of each miniscule stalk. My fingers comb through the separate blades, as sharp as an obsidian knife edge. The roots robust, planted in the layer of grit, standing stock still. The sun is a bulbous globe of fiery light igniting the sky before it is called to sleep. As the sun passes on the work of the day, the glowing moon slides into the atmosphere with a golden halo, emitting rays of luminosity. Bright blue dissolving, the vault of heaven as clear as a polished prism, ready for the evening to engulf the luster of summer. Pink streaks are painted into azure; I think of a glass of cold, refreshing strawberry lemonade. Apricot spreads evenly across the darkening sky, radiating amber highlights in rare places. Crimson red meets apricot, and they dance: moonwalking, pirouetting, spinning, twirling. After the debut of the complete sunset colors, royal periwinkle plunges with a swan dive gracing the remaining sky. I stay in my place, eyes in awe, head turned upward toward the unknown. The sun disappears from observation, leisurely obeying gravity, all sunset intensity following. Time is frozen, not passing, until the colors vanish. I wait for the superior darkness to encompass my surroundings. Ebony black becomes the origination of night, writing with a fountain pen across the sky, until the ebony becomes a midnight void. In the black, blazing creatures with open wings find bliss. Riding the soft air currents that gently sway, fireflies, soaring, discovering freedom in the beauty of aviation, fearless in shining their light, prepared to reveal themselves in the velvet darkness of the universe.


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A Perfect Summer

A perfect summer A hum and tweet whelms your ears to see the sunlight of the morning. A smell that makes your smile widen as you inhale the fresh morning air. A perfect summer morning, A hum, a tweet and a nest full of joy, The smell of flowers makes you want to smell them more. A huff of an exhale, White fluff turns the sky into a masterpiece. A hum, a tweet of summer, A perfect summer. A ball and some fluff slips by as fast as a blink of an eye. A perfect summer. A sound of waves, The tide runs high. A perfect summer to spend with family. A summer with a breeze, A summer with bees and birds, A summer with the ocean and flowers, A summer to spend with family.