Friends

What does this really mean? Guys why life is like this? I love my friends Those who accepted me the way I am and couldn’t judge   This poem was created with the support of the Humanitarian Service Team. The Humanitarian Service Team is a refugee founded and led nonprofit, community-based organization located in Nakivale Refugee Settlement, Uganda. Nakivale Refugee Settlement is the eighth largest refugee settlement in the world. The program aims to empower refugees and host communities through charity, awareness, and entrepreneurship courses through a number of educational and skill-building initiatives. About the Project There are millions of children affected by war, social collapse, and climate change now living in refugee camps or dispersed in host countries far from their original homes. The work that appears here is a part of Stone Soup’s growing collection of creative expression by young people whose lives have been upended by such conflict throughout the world. To explore the entire collection, please visit the Stone Soup Refugee Project online: https://stonesoup.com/refugee-project/.

Mkimbizi

Right in your hands That very hard night Because I am your child That time we had a chance to turn a page and the only way to get out of the stupid town. Bang bang bang Trrrack trrrack Krack krack krack Those are the sounds we heard behind us as we were running away Oh my goodness Now I understand the meaning of refugee in Kiswahili. Mkimbizi Meaning a runner We need peace   This poem was created with the support of the Humanitarian Service Team. The Humanitarian Service Team is a refugee founded and led nonprofit, community-based organization located in Nakivale Refugee Settlement, Uganda. Nakivale Refugee Settlement is the eighth largest refugee settlement in the world. The program aims to empower refugees and host communities through charity, awareness, and entrepreneurship courses through a number of educational and skill-building initiatives. About the Project There are millions of children affected by war, social collapse, and climate change now living in refugee camps or dispersed in host countries far from their original homes. The work that appears here is a part of Stone Soup’s growing collection of creative expression by young people whose lives have been upended by such conflict throughout the world. To explore the entire collection, please visit the Stone Soup Refugee Project online: https://stonesoup.com/refugee-project/.

War and Pieces (Part II)

This is the second installment of Alice Pak’s novella, which we will be publishing over the course of three issues. You can read the beginning of Alice’s story in our January/February issue. Chapter Two Unlike Misha, I was always a little on the more reckless side. I was two years younger than him, though sometimes it felt like six. Misha had always been the quiet, observing intellectual and preferred to stand in a corner and watch the world unfold before his eyes. I, on the other hand, wanted to unfold the world myself, so I constantly started getting myself in more and more problems as time passed. I remember the first time my karma backed up a little and hit me on the head. I was wobbling behind Misha, trying to jump in as many puddles on the street as I possibly could while he calmly strolled ahead, raising his head up to the sky to breathe in the warm, wet air. My pink rain boots squeaked with every impact, sending water splashing in all directions. Had there been more people outside, I would’ve probably been more conscious about my childish behavior, but the intermittent rain seemed to have scared most schoolkids back in front of their TV screens. The only pedestrians left outside were groups of laughing men gathered outside of smoke shops and bars and a handful of elderly women gossiping on benches while feeding pigeons. We were heading to the park. The very park we had been to with our parents ever since our birth, the very park where I held my ninth birthday, the very park where the trees were so old that some of them seemed to be growing crooked. The park downtown, which slowly turned into a hotspot for schoolkids to gather and play soccer or hang out. Me and Misha went there at least once a week and played soccer and held races, which became a sort of ritual for us every Friday after school that I looked forward to every single time. So did he; sometimes, if he was in a good enough mood, he would stop by the local convenience store and buy ice cream for us to enjoy on our walks. I remember thinking about ice cream with a smile that moment. Would I pick strawberry? Or vanilla? Definitely not chocolate, though; Misha always got chocolate, but I thought it was too sugary for my liking. Plus, it always made you extremely thirsty. Maybe vanilla with a chocolate coat? That was when I heard it the first time. It was a loud, shrill sound, shocking the area for miles in intermittent waves of wailing. The siren seemed to almost freeze the street as the people outside immediately stopped their affairs and raised their heads. The noise continued for several more minutes, steadily growing louder as panic started to boil among the pedestrians. I turned to Misha, confusion brewing in me as I noticed a scared expression on his face. “What’s going on?” The screech seemed to bring a particular fear to the street. Chaos ensued, people running in and out of buildings, shouting orders at each other, and trying to figure out the meaning of the situation. Dust rose up from the feet pounding the pavement, creating a cloud of smoke. I stumbled back, eyes wide, as a stampede ravaged the street. “Misha?” I yelled. “Misha!” “Varya!” Misha hollered back somewhere on my left. “Hurry, we have to go!” I spotted Misha through the dust cloud, waving at me to follow him. “Come on, what are you waiting for? We have to get out of here!” “What’s happening?” Misha’s face seemed to get paler by the second as the sirens blared behind me. “Don’t ask questions! Just follow me!” I sneezed, blinking the settling smoke out of my eyes. “Come on!” he called desperately. “Don’t be stubborn, Varya, please. This could be dangerous!” “Tell me what’s happening, or I’m not going anywhere!” I heard a piercing whip slice the air above me. I twisted my neck to look at the gray sky, stepping back to see nothing but a gust of wind curl the tip of the clouds. It all happened in a second. There was a soft whizzing sound, like an arrow being launched. I turned around sharply to see a single window shatter in the building above me before the rockets hit the wall and my world went pitch black. *          *          * My shout died in my throat as time slowed down around me and I watched the building explode, a million pieces raining down on the pavement around me. Chunks of concrete and drywall crashed into the street, a cloud of dust rising up in the storm of rubble. I finally found my voice again and screamed, reaching out a helpless hand towards the spot where Varya had stood seconds before. I couldn’t see her now. Someone grabbed me and pulled me under a metal sheet and I knelt down, the blood rushing in my ears, deafening me from the noise of the outer world. I struggled to breathe as through blurry eyes I made out paint- streaked bricks shooting through the air like missiles out of control. My heart pounded as more bullets slit the air and more muffled blasts shook the ground like an earthquake. Several buildings around me collapsed. It felt like the climax of a horror movie, I thought, as I crouched down, covering my head with trembling hands. Around me, huddled together, were other people, but I looked right past them, out into the crumbling world beyond. The earth rumbled violently, explosions rocking us back and forth with every smash of concrete against the ground. The wind rushing past me felt like a slap in the face, carrying hundreds upon thousands of bits of pebbles, some of which stung my eyes, making tears spring out as I rubbed my face forcefully, trying

Summer

Summer is what I grow in my garden Summer is what I wear on the beach Summer is what I sing in my song Laughing, with the charming daisies Flying, with my rainbow dress Crying, with the waves in the ocean How I wished you could stay

Allison’s Garden

A tribute to a young girl’s garden Leaves everywhere, big, small, short, tall. Trees that lead you to unknown places in their towering branches. Bushes that you have never seen before. Flowers so beautiful you can’t see them. The sound of birds. Bugs, small bugs with wings, old and young bugs, everywhere. Nowhere is a better place to be than Allison’s garden, where nature will always be with you.

Flower Punctuations

Flowers are punctuations A dandelion is an ellipsis . . . for its seeds are blowing away. A comma is a lily, for it’s buried in the ground. A colon is two buds or flowerlets: for they are small and have dots. A quotation is two hollyhocks “For their heads reach all to the sky,” they say. An apostrophe is a hydrangea for it’s used and loved endlessly. An exclamation mark is a catmint for it is bright, beautiful, and dotted! A period is a singular baby’s breath for it’s small, short, and stout. A question mark is a jade vine for it’s long, and questions are asked, like “Why are they here?” A dash is a Sakura branch for it’s long—and to the side. A slash is a tulip for it’s slanted/bended to one side. An asterisk is a begonia* *for it’s small and starry and short. An ampersand is a Spiranthes sinensis for it’s twisted & spun. Parentheses are Middlemist reds as they much aren’t seen and curved (slightly)

Alex and the Magical Harp

In Madagascar, a poor boy seeks music and magic for his village A long time ago, a poor boy named Alex lived in a village in Madagascar. His days were filled with boredom, as there was no music where he lived. His life was limited within the boundaries of the village. Only the local storyteller, Mr. Loan, would occupy Alex and the other children with his continuous legends. Every day, his mother would send him to the market to buy fruits, vegetables, nuts, and seeds. The sellers from other towns arrived with various musical instruments, but none of the villagers could afford to buy them. One day, as Alex was hiking back from the market, he overheard Mr. Loan telling the children about a harp, gravely: “According to the ancient scripts, a magical harp with the sweetest music of all lies in the beautiful forest of Ambato Atsinanana. If the harp thinks that you have a kind and bold heart, it can develop a kind of bond. You will be able to command it to do anything as long as it only results in something good. Only one who is brave and intelligent can return with it.” At this point Alex dropped all his baskets and raced to Mr. Loan’s story circle in excitement. “A musical instrument, you say! How do I get to Ambato Atsinanana?” he asked eagerly. Mr. Loan glared at him. “It is too risky for a young twelve-year-old boy to recover it! However, I trust you to be very cautious about this as it will be a very dangerous journey.” “Tell me! Pray tell me!” the curious boy pleaded, jumping up and down. Mr. Loan sighed. “All right! Calm down! I will give you a map.” Mr. Loan handed him a little carving drawn on a piece of wood with an X at the end. The magical harp must lie there, Alex thought. He quickly piled up his goods in his baskets. Grasping the map with one hand, he hurried home. “Careful!” Mr. Loan called. “Do not go on this adventure without older company. It will be a treacherous undertaking!” But he was already out of earshot. Early morning the next day, when the sky was still dark and everyone was sleeping soundly, Alex stepped stealthily out of the house. He glanced at the precious wood carving. It would be quite a trek to even reach the entrance of Ambato Atsinanana! So, he hiked through the farms and trekked through the corn mazes. Vines curled in every direction. Leaves in all shades of green covered the treetops. Finally, after two exhausting hours of tromping through boggy marshes, just as he thought he would never reach the legendary Ambato Atsinanana, he smelled a pleasant aroma of lavender, fresh leaves, and sweet orchids. Enchanted by the heavenly fragrance, he stumbled into the dazzling entrance of Ambato Atsinanana. Vines curled in every direction. Leaves in all shades of green covered the treetops. The branches seemed to form a maze, cutting through the trail. And most beautiful of all, flowers in pink, purple, yellow, orange, red, and more amazing colors dominated every gap of the entrance to the beautiful forest. Alex was amazed with the beauty of Ambato Atsinanana. Even if Mr. Loan’s legend was not real, he would still have thanked him for giving him the thrill of this adventure. Though the forest looked magnificent, Mr. Loan had warned of dangers. Alex, the harp seeker, was bright enough to know that he should listen to the old storyteller. After all, Mr. Loan was the oldest and had more experience than anyone else in the village! As the sun began to rise, Alex began his journey in search of the magical harp. As Alex tromped through the crunching leaves, he kept stopping at least once every ten minutes to check the map. After hours of continuous hiking, he finally reached a fast-flowing river with at least ten branches of water. There were some rocks, but they looked very slippery. How do I cross this river? he contemplated. It looks powerful, like it can sweep anyone away from this very spot. He remembered Mr. Loan’s words that finding the harp would need intelligence and courage. He checked Mr. Loan’s wood carving. This was definitely the first landmark marked on the map. He sat down and thought about accessible materials until an idea struck him like a thunderbolt! It must work, or he could be sent flailing downstream. Alex had brought a very thin and short rope with him. He started breaking vines with a small pocketknife and twisted and turned them around it, connecting them just like his grandma had taught him. It was just about long enough to reach the other side of the river. He made a loop at one end that was big enough to attach to a rock. It took him a few tries, but soon he managed to hook it to a granite stone at the other end. Slowly and hesitantly, he began to walk on the slippery rocks, holding on to the rope, praying it wouldn’t detach from the rock. He slipped a few times, but each time he slipped, he managed to hold on to it. Fifteen minutes later, he reached the other side successfully. He wearily grabbed it from the rock and untied it. Stuffing it in his backpack, Alex gathered some clean leaves from the tall maple trees and created a bed. He lay down, preparing for a good afternoon nap. *          *          * When Alex woke up, the sun was high in the sky, reflecting off the thick canopy. “I must have slept for hours,” he muttered. As he was stretching, he heard a loud rumbling noise and jumped. The noise seemed to be coming from his belly! He hadn’t eaten since early morning when he had been able to steal some fruits from his mom’s cupboard. As the twelve-year-old boy was