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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


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The Mountain Giant’s Mouth

From miles away we saw it, the mountain giant’s mouth. So we mounted our metal lions on wheels and sprinted toward the mountain giant’s mouth down its long black tongue. We jumped off our metal lions and cautiously tiptoed into the mouth. Its teeth drip, drip, dripped saliva down on our heads. When we reached the esophagus, the mouth closed, and we were engulfed in darkness, with only our cracker-like lightsabers to guide us. Ethan Chen, 10San Diego, CA  


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Life in the Jungle

A trip to the Ecuadorian jungle prompts the writer to reevaluate the comforts of her life in the U.S. An observant onlooker, upon watching her fellow passengers in the airplane, might have noticed a girl who lacked the lethargic nonchalance of the other voyagers. This girl peered, fascinated, through the stained window. She appeared to be caught in a lustrous reverie that refused to release her. She was, unlike most of the other passengers on the airplane, not fully aware of inhaling the sickly airplane oxygen. Even the most attentive spectator could not have known that this girl was imagining the dense, fragrant air peculiar to the jungle, savoring the delicious rapture of a life about to be changed. I was the girl caught in a dream. I didn’t return to awareness until the airplane landed and we boarded a bus that transported us to the next leg of our Ecuadorian jungle trip. The bus lugged us through the city of Coca, just outside Yasuni National Park. Bodegas displayed toys and foods bursting with color, a stark contrast to the rickety, rotting frames of the buildings. Children milled around a brick courtyard, dressed sharply in school uniforms. I watched elderly men hobble along the uneven concrete tiles, surveying the youth with melancholy glances and hiding behind stooped shoulders. The bus bumbled to a stop at the bank of the muddy Coca River. I slipped onto a bench on an idling river boat and stared into the murky water. What’s down there? Water snakes? Secretive freshwater fish? The boat revved its engine and flew forward until the sound of the wind and water drowned out any conversation. For the entire two-hour journey, I sat wrapped tightly in my poncho as the rain scraped its gnarly fingers across my face and dragged mud into my mouth and eyes. I was grateful for my unrelenting imagination keeping me company during the uncomfortable ride. When the boat reached the shore at last, my mom passed around a bottle of bug spray, and we feverishly shielded ourselves against malaria, dengue, and yellow fever. “I hate using bug spray. It smells disgusting, and it feels sticky on my skin! No wonder the bugs don’t like it,” I grumbled. “You know what’s even worse than bug spray?” my mom asked. “Dengue.” My knowledge of the jungle consisted of rumors about poisonous frogs, blood-sucking parasites, and prowling jungle cats. I was excited beyond words! The idea of such mystery and danger invigorated me: I anticipated countless species of iridescent insects, carnivorous plants, vibrant amphibians, and weird reptiles. Still, the fact that we had been inoculated against yellow fever and swallowed malaria pills before leaving, along with the lack of protection for dengue, made me more than a little apprehensive. Our naturalist guide, Dany, and local guide, Dario, greeted us. Dany asked if we were physically fit enough to handle hikes through the jungle. “It’s strenuous, but you say you’re strong . . .” He sized us up. Evidently, the guides were satisfied, and we trekked deep into the dense foliage. The entire jungle seemed to be one living being, exhaling warm, sticky breaths. There were looming trees, reverberating with the uncanny hum of life. Insects shuttered their pearlescent wings and hastily flitted away. Velvety moss shrouded the wiry, twisted branches, and birds plunked down strange notes from the canopy. The trees solemnly guarded the billowing sky above and the lively forest below, their damp boughs puncturing bulbous clouds and snagging tendrils of breeze. “In other parts of the jungle,” one of our guides said, “people with a lot of money pay for the trees to be chopped down and shipped out. Deforestation is so common in Ecuador . . .” If only these dignified soldiers could understand that humans are coming to chop them down, I thought. Do they know that their spectacular armor can be sliced thinner than a sliver of breeze, that their emerald-studded crowns are worthless in the eyes of many twisted humans? I recalled a fact I had read once, that every 1.4 seconds, a football field-sized area of trees is cut down in rainforests. As we continued to hike, the guides pointed out strangler fig trees. “Strangler figs wrap themselves around smaller saplings, then suck the life and nutrients out of them, in turn growing more powerful,” Dany said. “They’re appearing all over the forest.” I thought of the strangler figs taking the lives of others to supplement their own. I believe that this behavior isn’t particular to trees, though . . . Tired and hungry after a muddy hike, and having not eaten lunch, our guides ushered us into a canoe. We glided down a thin vein of black water, the blood of the jungle. This is exactly how I imagined it! I craned my neck for a sight of golden monkeys or extravagant toucans. Soon, I was lulled by the constant, contented purr of birds and insects in the trees. The stagnant water smelled of decomposition and rain. Silky air wrapped around me. The syncopated splashes of the canoe paddles melted into the trilling symphony of animals hiding in the slippery shade. Eventually, the canoe slid onto the shore of an indigenous village, home to the native people of the Ecuadorian jungle. We eagerly stepped off the boat and waited at the base of a slight hill that led up to several huts surrounded by trees. A young woman treaded lopsidedly down the slope to greet us, her dark hair tied in a long braid down her back. She’s pregnant! She doesn’t look like she’s any older than twenty . . . The woman smiled shyly, exposing a dark gap where her front teeth should have been. “I am Dacy,” she said, using the only English phrase she knew. Dacy led us into one of the shady huts, pointing out the roof constructed of woven yucca leaves. Our guides acted as interpreters. The hut was cool inside, and fragrant wisps


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Editor’s Note

One of the main defenses of literature today is that it makes you empathetic—that reading and writing help teach you how to put yourself in someone else’s shoes. Sometimes, in the case of a personal narrative, that “someone else” is even a different, earlier version of yourself. The writing in this issue explores many perspectives that vary greatly from our own—from villagers in the Ecuadorian jungle to the objects in our cabinets, that perhaps live secret lives; from stray village cats to the bear, king of the forest; from the people commemorated by a memorial (which perhaps they hate!) to mythical creatures. After reading this issue, perhaps you will feel inspired to explore your own environment and write your way into the perspective of something else that you find there—like your dog or a doll, an acorn or an apple, a deck of cards or a picture of a cow. Until next time,


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Stone Soup Honor Roll: January 2021

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 Stephanie Kim, 9 Chloe Mancini, 9 Mackenzie Reese, 13 STORIES Jodie Chan, 13 Enni Harlan, 13 Raya Ilieva, 10 Kyler Min, 9 Uma Nambiar, 13 Anthony Qian, 10 Julia Stilley, 12 Elodie Weinzierl, 11 Lucy Wu, 8 POETRY Stephanie Kim, 9 Yihua Liu, 10 Iris Sullivan, 9


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The Swan

With soft white feathers that look like ruffled velvet, The gorgeous swan soars through the lake Like other birds soar through the sky. Fresh, clean water laps at the creature’s breast. The swan is utterly serene. The serenity escapes the bird’s majestic body. It fills the lake. It becomes the lake. All is well. Gabe Horowitz, 10Chevy Chase, MD


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The Famous Painting

Lotus is not a famous painter, but she hopes her latest painting will change that The sky was gray, and the sun was blocked by clouds and by fog, layer upon layer. Young Lotus sat in her studio. She was a painter, but she was not famous. Lotus was cleaning the house. There was not much good furniture in her home, and her studio was very shabby. The interior decorations were khaki-colored. Her husband, Joe Fellow, had gone out early to attend a friend’s wedding. Why wasn’t Lotus there? Oh, my friend, only the upper class can participate in such a solemn and gorgeous wedding! Lotus had sold her wedding dress that year. In addition, she didn’t have any gorgeous clothes. Naturally, she could not be regarded as upper class and so was not qualified to go to the event. Joe still had a lot of suits, so he could often appear at major celebrations and superior events. As Lotus swept up the dust, she opened the curtains. The city, Société, was outside the window. The people were beautiful in this city, and Fellow, which means friendly and social, was a common name there. *          *          * “Near Banbridge town, in the County Down, one morning last July,” a folk singer sang at the wedding ceremony, though he didn’t seem to get much praise. Suddenly, a man stood up and grabbed the singer. “Stop!” The man said. “S-Sir, I am performing for free for you all . . .” The singer was terrified. The man slapped the singer on his face and said, “What on earth are you singing about? And what are you wearing?! It’s disgusting!” The man pointed at the singer. It was true that the singer’s dress was not too formal, but it was not ugly. “Sing . . . sing . . . sing this!” the man said and smashed the singer’s guitar. “Wait! That’s my instrument, my property!” The singer was angry and desperate. A good guitar would take him about half a year to save for. “Guards!” At the man’s command, several security guards dragged the singer out. “Brute! I—” the singer’s fury was stopped by a punch from the security guard. Then the symphony orchestra started to play, and people listened with great interest, occasionally exclaiming, “This is the music of gentlemen!” The wedding proceeded methodically. *          *          * Lotus painted at home. A bird landed on her window howling, and the flowers bloomed in the yard. She would soon create a painting. Soft lines and harmonious colors would make up the beautiful painting. Dusk was coming. The evening wind gently touched everything. Although it was autumn, Lotus seemed filled by the bright warmth of spring. Her pace was light and pleasant, and she took great delight in everything. “Dear, I’m back.” Joe pushed the door open and took off his coat. “How was the wedding today, Joe?” “Great, Lotus.” “When can we have such a wedding, Joe? I really wish we could have another wedding celebration. It was too short last time. Maybe for our golden anniversary?” “No point. We don’t have that kind of money.” “Well, if that’s what you say.” Lotus’s spirits were broken. “Joe, you must go to work.” Lotus looked very sad as she spoke. “You! Don’t bother me!” Joe’s face changed greatly—the wrinkles on his face became more pronounced, and the shadows on his face also deepened. The night was shrouded like a layer of cages, trapping people’s hearts. Lotus was crying and walking. Her steps tottered and her body wobbled. After two steps, she sat down by the roadside and covered her face. “If you don’t want to make money, can you sell your suit? Then at least we can buy paint and I can make money by painting,” said Lotus in a lower and lower voice. “Woman! What do you know?! How am I supposed to get into upper society without this suit?!” cried Joe to Lotus. “You only know idleness!” Lotus shouted, unable to hold back her anger. But she didn’t dare do anything else and started crying. “If you want money, sell your ruined paintings!” Joe scolded Lotus angrily, and then he dragged Lotus and her painting outside. “Go! Go!” Lotus was pushed out of the door by Joe. *          *          * The night was shrouded like a layer of cages, trapping people’s hearts. Lotus was crying and walking. Her steps tottered and her body wobbled. After two steps, she sat down by the roadside and covered her face. The beauty of love comes from instinct. The tragedy of love comes from instinct too. Instinct, however, can never be explained. She began to regret it, but it was too late. Time ran too fast, and regret came too late. She was no longer a young, beautiful girl. A thin man in a white suit came over. “Oh, lovely lady, what’s wrong with you?” This man was Kopil, the most famous painter in the city. Lotus whispered what had happened to her. Kopil looked at Lotus’s painting. “Ah, this is so beautiful! Can I buy it?” “Sir, this painting costs a hundred dollars.” “No, this painting is bound to be a famous painting.” With that said, Kopil took out $300 from his bag. “Thank you, sir,” Lotus said, clutching at her skirt. Her tears still streamed down her face. On her way home, her steps were trembling and her body was shaking. She didn’t want to go back, but where else could she go? At home, Lotus put the money on the table and cried again. “Shut your mouth! You only know how to cry!” Joe roared. Lotus cried harder than ever. *          *          * One afternoon a few days later, it was still grey, and there were no more sounds


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The Director

Alora prepares to begin her career in a world where birth and genetic engineering determine your future Alora sighed and twirled her mocha-colored curls through her fingers. She glanced at the large wall clock in front of her, hanging above the door to the grand office in which she sat. Half past eleven, it read. Her heart lurched inside her. Had it really been half an hour? Her stomach rolled over inside her and her vision grew spotty. Desperately, she grabbed the edge of the mahogany desk, its edge digging into her palm. She fought to remember the breathing techniques she’d been taught: 1, 2, inhale, 1, 2, 3, exhale. Slowly, Alora refocused and regained the sunny disposition she was supposed to have. Wary now, she checked the clock again. Yes, it read 11:30. She sighed. The Chancellor was thirty minutes late to the meeting. And on her first day too. Alora rolled her eyes— though she knew she shouldn’t scoff at someone so powerful—and reached across the desk for the intercom. It turned on with a buzz, and a Secretary downstairs picked up. “Yes, madam?” asked a crackly voice. “I am inquiring about the punctuality of the Chancellor of Trade, to see whether he is due to arrive soon or not.” She phrased the request as a statement, not a question, as she’d been taught by her father. “I am sorry, madam. I have no information on the whereabouts of the Chancellor. I shall inform you if I receive further details.” “Thank you. That will be all.” With another buzz, the intercom switched off. Alora rubbed her eyes out of pure stress, though carefully so as not to smudge her makeup, and then looked around the room. The walls were a simple white, and except for her desk, a chair for a visitor, and a bookshelf, the room was sparse. Behind the desk were floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city beyond. Alora had to admit that despite its dizzying size, Metropolia was a beautiful city. Previously, it had been called New York City, a rather ugly name; however, after the Famine, it had been rebranded as part of the neo- Greek trend. Metropolia was a hub of international trade and society. It was the perfect place to build a company, like Alora’s father had. Her father. The thought caused her vision to go spotty again, and before she could stop it, Alora was pulled into her memories. Eliezer Bennet had been a great mogul in his day. He had built his company, PROvide, from the ground up, developing new, safe sporting equipment for the Athletes. Of course, he didn’t do the actual designing—he wasn’t meant to—but he was the face of the company. Now he was nearing the end of his days, reduced to a weak old man. Alora remembered when she was little, asking him why he had to die someday. “Plenty of people are altered to live longer, Papi,” she’d told him. They were sitting on the sofa in their penthouse, watching the sun go down over the city. “I know,” he’d said. “But I can’t.” She’d looked up at him with her big brown eyes. “Why?” He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “That’s the way it is. The company needs to move on. You know that you will run the company after I’m gone; you’re meant to.” Then he had looked down at her. “And you’ll do a great, great job!” Not long after, her schooling had begun. She’d been homeschooled, as most children were, so as to fit her needs. She had learned some science, and how to read and write and do arithmetic, but mostly she was trained to be a Director. And here she was, fourteen years old, in the final stages of her training. Today, after all, was her first time directing. She was to have a meeting with the Chancellor as practice for running the company. That was not to say the meeting wasn’t real; it was indeed about exporting equipment to Europe. Her first time directing, Alora thought, and Papi wasn’t there to see her. He was sleeping on the sofa at home, his body trying to fight off a genetic disease he wouldn’t survive. That was the way it went. Alora felt tears brimming in her eyes and was brought back to the present by the ringing of the intercom. Reminded that she couldn’t break down here, Alora brushed the tears away and pressed the intercom. “Yes?” Her voice sounded shaky. “Madam, I have just received word from the Chancellor’s Secretary.” “And?” “He regrets to inform you that due to an unexpected conflict, the Chancellor will not be able to make your meeting.” Alora almost breathed a sigh of relief. She was in no condition to have a meeting. “Thank you for the information.” “Oh,” she added, because she knew it was the right thing to do, “please relay to the Secretary that he should make rescheduling a top priority.” “Yes, madam.” “That will be all.” The intercom buzzed off, and this time Alora allowed herself a sigh as she sank back into her chair. She’d expected to feel calm and at peace now that she didn’t have the meeting, but part of her was sad. For all its stress, she liked directing, liked being in charge. And she was good at it. Of course she was designed to, just like Athletes were designed to play sports and Secretaries to schedule appointments and answer phone calls, but that didn’t bother her. It was the way of life. She wasn’t exactly sure why she’d brought her briefcase, since it wasn’t as if she was going to paint (she wasn’t an Artist) or write poetry (she wasn’t an Author) but all Directors carried briefcases, and it gave her a feeling of power. Alora pulled up her monitor to see what paperwork she had left and was relieved to find nothing to do. Paperwork, however important, was tedious, and Alora did not