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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


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Ode to Owls

The Fall Impression We wanted to see an owl. My brother took me out into the woods behind our house, the smell of pine needles fresh in our noses as we tramped through the undergrowth, the dead leaves as loud as car horns as I stumbled. Finally, we reached the spot where my brother had seen him, the owl. Twisted oak trees stood like sentries, guarding their patch of forest, their boughs laden with dry pine cones and sticky sap. My brother peered intently at the tree, searching for the bird. But he wasn’t there. Disappointment crashed into me. Suddenly we heard a whoosh as a huge shape swooped above us, alighting on one of the enormous trees. The owl! He performed a shuffling dance with his feet and settled onto the branch. He ruffled his feathers, a mottled mix of gray, brown, and white, and folded his wings. I nearly laughed— he looked so funny with his little white mustache perched above the sharp beak and yellow eyes roving around the forest, finally settling on us. He looked down at us as if to say, “Oh, you humans. Watching me again.” The term “wise owl” popped into my head. Now I understood why people call them wise— the owl was rather like an old man full of secrets and knowledge but unwilling to share. My brother pulled me back to reality, handed me his binoculars. I stuck my eyes to the rubber seals and was rewarded with a close-up view of the beautiful bird, his feathers now in sharp detail. I could even see the wrinkles on his fluffy, feathered feet. My legs started to go numb from standing in one place so long but I didn’t care because I was watching the owl. It was almost like we were in an ancient tomb, yellow light spilling through windows cut into brick walls. Then the owl shook his feathers and flew silently off the branch, into the dusky afternoon sky. He was gone.


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Editor’s Note

Every October, I aim to bring a tiny bit of spookiness to Stone Soup. We tend to think spooky means ghosts and witches—and there is one witch in this issue!—but it is also so many other, subtler things: shutters banging against the side of a house, a lone owl on a branch in a silent forest, a mysterious note left in our favorite haunt. And this issue is full of those slightly spooky moments. But this issue is balanced with humor as well—I especially love the lighthearted energy and inventiveness Aaron Bogner brings to the world he creates in “Qrange’s Predicament,” starting with his characters’ names, of which he writes: Qrange took great pleasure in playing with his friends. Their names were Iooooooop and Uf. They sound like weird names to us, but then we don’t live there. They might say our names sound weird! I laughed out loud at these names, but also appreciated the sentences that followed. While I may never meet anyone from another planet, I will meet people from other countries, with names that sound as strange to me as “Uf” or “Iooooooop.” Like every inspiring piece of science fiction, Bogner’s bizarre world helps us to better see our own. Look around and see if there’s something you can, through your art, make similarly strange. Happy Halloween from Stone Soup!


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Delay

A delayed plane pushes an estranged mother and son together My shoes clack satisfyingly, importantly on the airport floor. The wheels of my suitcase spin not-quite silently on the ground as I head toward the gate. I reach the big sign that says GATE 4, and under it in scrolling digital letters: SNA Orange County, California. I sit tentatively down on a chair that looks relatively clean. But it’s not like I have a wide selection of seats to choose from; the terminal is packed with travelers. A pregnant woman rests one hand on her stomach and with the other holds onto the arm of a man who I assume is her husband. They wander through the rows of chairs, searching for a seat. I stand up and offer mine. The woman gladly accepts. As I rest against a big white pole, I hear a voice. “Always painstakingly slow. I don’t understand why they can’t just let us on the plane.” “They’re cleaning it, Mum,” I say without looking at her. “Hmph,” she grumbles. She rustles her shawls in annoyance and agitation. There is gum on the ground beside my shoe. It was lucky I didn’t step in it. Some people are disgusting. They act like the world is a bin. In front of me, a father tries to calm his two rowdy children. They are hopping up and down on their seats, talking about how fun it will be in California. I wish I felt that excited. It’s usually great going back home, but not for such a sad occasion. Gramps was the best. He was never the center of attention, but he was always the one who got everyone to laugh. Dad flew out a few days ago to help with the preparations for the funeral. He insisted I travel with Mum because she is “getting old.” Although she is really not; she is sixty-five and extremely capable. But his father just died, so I’m going to do as I’m told. “Attention all passengers traveling to Orange County, California: your flight has been delayed until eight a.m. tomorrow morning due to a severe thunderstorm on the flight path.” The message repeats twice more from the speakers on the wall. And then the voice finishes: “Thank you for your patience.” For most parents, I think this would be a nostalgic moment, sleeping in the same bed as their 35-year-old son who has been away from home for a long time now. Everyone groans and gets up. They collect their things and shake small children who have fallen asleep in their chairs. My mother is remarkably still. As am I. We’re both realizing what we’ve gotten into. Finally, I speak. “I guess we should get hotel rooms. Get some sleep before the flight.” She nods. We go to the airport hotel, and I book myself a room for the night. I wait for Mum to get herself a room, but she just turns and looks at me. “Well? What are you waiting for?” she walks away from me, leading me toward the hotel room I booked. “Wait!” I call halfheartedly after her. “Aren’t you going to get a room?” “Do you really expect me to pay for a room when you’ve just booked one that’s perfectly fine for the both of us?” she huffs and continues to walk away. I unlock the door to our room and Mum walks in ahead of me. She sniffs at the drab furniture and not-so-clean-looking carpet. The room isn’t much to my taste either, but it’s only one night, and I’m not going to show her that I’m anything less than pleased. I look at the one large bed in the middle of the room. It occurs to me that I haven’t slept in the same room, let alone the same bed, as my mother since I was about three. For most parents, I think this would be a nostalgic moment, sleeping in the same bed as their 35-year-old son who has been away from home for a long time now. My mother just looks annoyed. After I take a shower, I step out of the steamy bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist. I get my pajamas out of my suitcase and start humming along to a song that’s playing in my head. I “Knock it off,” my mother snaps. “What are you so happy about, anyway?” “I’m just humming,” I say. “Well, stop.” I do, though I can’t help but dance around a bit to the tune in my head. Mum goes to take a shower. I sit on the edge of the bed, thinking. Her phone is on the side table. It pings as she gets a notification. I look at it. Her lock screen is a picture of her and my younger brother on a beach somewhere. My brother is the manager of a car dealership. He lives in a large house with his wife, three children, and a cat. Needless to say, my mother is very proud of him. She steps out of the bathroom, having already changed into her nightclothes, and pulls a book out from her suitcase. “Is that a book from the list?” I ask. Mum has a list of famous books she wants to read and famous art she wants to see before she dies. “As a matter of fact, it is.” She shows me the cover. I’ve never heard of it; I nod and smile like I have. A few minutes pass. The rhythm of her heavy breathing nearly knocks me out. “Your grandfather,” Mum says. “It makes you realize that you never know how much time you have left.” “I mean, it’s not like we didn’t know Gramps’ death was coming. He’s been sick for a while, and he’s not exactly young.” “You know what I mean, Simon!” Mum snaps. “Stop trying to be contrary.” I raise my eyebrows in an I’m-sorry-but-I-wasn’t-really-doing-anything kind of way. She untucks the covers. They have


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Sunspots

A reflection on the moon and sun The sun is odd. We need it to survive. If we get too much of it, however, we die, and the use becomes useless. We won’t need it to endure our livelihood if we aren’t keeping our body and soul together in the first place. A friend of mine once said that if she had any power, it would be to look into the sun. And I told her that she could anytime; the sun is always there. Just like the moon. Though it is dangerous. It was an odd moment, as we both felt like we needed to retort something to the other. But soon she just walked off, puzzled. I later thought about it. Why does Mother Nature not let us look at the sun? It’s so beautiful. It shows us everything. And it always has. Why make beauty so dangerous? Maybe it’s telling us something—that beauty can be limited, or maybe humans’ ability or capacity to understand beauty is limited. And that we can take that beauty for granted. So don’t wish to know what you are seeing in beauty, because your perception can be twisted and you can be blinded by that beauty. Skygazing And maybe that’s why the moon takes the sun’s place. At night. Because when the sun goes to rest, the moon and stars show us something just as gorgeous. They’re beautiful in a different way—though those who care enough to make sense of that attraction, the attraction of nature, find the same beauty in the moon as in the sun. To some, it might not have the same beauty. It comes out at a time that not many pay attention to. The night. But even things that are so bright and vibrant have flaws. Sunspots. The sun hides them so well that the only way to discover them is to dare to look so closely into its danger. It’s insecure but covers them up with the things we need. Like life. The moon doesn’t hide them. Craters. The moon shows them with pride. It’s a sign of resilience, one could say. Both make them seem winsome. But the moon doesn’t succor or support us—it merely brags its beauty. It makes the oceans wave to the shores and so on. But do we need it in the way we need the sun? Of course.


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Sunset

An idyllic evening on a lake sparks newfound clarity in the narrator Grass enclosed my feet with every step I took. The sky was pigmented blue, newer than my eyes had ever seen before. The paddleboard meandered with me to the sweet, blue lake, so unblemished that, for moments at a time, I could catch sight of my future in it. The sun glistened on my back. The humid summer air engulfed my being with its touch. Life was leading me to the dream world, decamping all my stress. The snow-white and crystal-blue inflatable raft I held felt weightless on my shoulders. I was free, acquitted from all conflict. Nature turned from crows to hummingbirds, gale to sunshine, just because of my presence. The second I docked my raft, a sense of relief passed me, unaware of the relief’s purpose. I can’t help but think I just wanted to feel accomplished. Elevating my legs up on the raft, I felt it depart from the land. It was like I was flying. I conceptualized all the possible creatures that could be splashing about, in awe at all the beautiful fish and tadpoles that slipped out from under me. My milky-white shoes drifted out of my peripheral. Then the jagged rocks, tracing the shoreline. I swayed the night-black oar through the lake. Everything felt natural. The final pieces of shore swam away from me as I lay down, exonerated from all previous stress. I admired the atmosphere above me, not a silk cloud to be seen throughout the sapphire sky. The sun was covering me in a blanket of warmth. I felt like a cub with its mother. Sunset Waves Skimming my index finger on the face of the water and feeling the humidity, I recalled the beautiful, warm apple cider my mother would make me during wintertime. The shimmering water, no turbidity, the warmth of the lake—it all welcomed me with open arms. Standing up, I felt like a preacher to the fish. My knees came to my chest as I cannonballed off the edge of the teetering raft into the open water. I could only imagine the fish and what they were thinking—I imagined they felt like dinosaurs when the meteor came down. Nostalgia flooded my head. The delicate smell of the unblemished reservoir brought me back to California: the beautiful beaches, the humidity on my back, it all welcomed me to the water, welcomed me to the dream world. My mouth sealed shut, eyes clenched, my hair soared around me like an aura. The water collapsed with my body, propelling the remaining water into the sky. I’m flying, I thought. I’m free. The water swam back together above me. I didn’t open my eyes, I couldn’t open my eyes. Yet I could still discern the creatures around me; the fish were like snowflakes, no two the same. Still shaking like a dog coming inside from rain, I recognized the auburn red peering over the horizon line. I dropped down on the raft as the sun lay down on the array of trees from across the lake. “My eyes . . . they’re lying,” I felt myself speak before my mind could think. “It’s beautiful.” As the lake’s essence dripped off of my body, I lay in disbelief. The sunset displayed the truth: I couldn’t just focus on the small bad things in life when I could just open my eyes and see all the true beauty of the world.