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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


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The Serenity of the Simple Inquiry

Ms. Lavender asked a simple question—why can’t Dawn answer it? We sat in a circle, everybody facing my second-grade teacher, Ms. Lavender. She handed everyone a slip of paper. “Now everybody,” Ms. Lavender began, “I would like for you to answer the questions that I’ll ask you—you may say them aloud if you wish, but you don’t have to. Remember to write them down.” I took a slip of lined paper from Ms. Lavender’s hand and selected a pencil before sitting back down. Everyone else did the same. Ms. Lavender cleared her throat. “The first question is: what is your dream?” I pondered for a moment; nothing in particular came to my head. I bit my lip as my classmates shouted out answers: “A scientist!” “An author!” “A zookeeper!” “A doctor!” “An artist!” Ms. Lavender clapped her hands. “Wonderful, wonderful! Fabulous!” “A human!” I snorted and swatted the boy who had said that. “You’re already one, goose-head.” “Now, now,” Ms. Lavender cooed to me. “Joseph can be what he wants when he grows up.” I reluctantly bobbed my head up and down in a nod before sitting back down. My teacher asked me again what I wanted to be when I grew up, her voice clearly laced with impatience. I tapped my pencil against my thigh. Why was she so insistent? Weren’t we a little too young to be thinking about that? I pondered, and thought, and wondered, and questioned myself in various ways. “So,” Ms. Lavender asked, “have you thought of what you want to be when you grow up?” I shook my head and promptly answered no. Ms. Lavender gave up. *          *          * It has been three years, and I still haven’t come up with an answer to Ms. Lavender’s wimpy question. Seasons have passed: winter fell to cover the sky and ground like a veil, spring altogether changed the world, summer beat its hot sun against the crashing beach waves, and fall sent its fiery leaves traveling through the air. What do you want to be? The question rang in my head, sending waves of annoyance through me. What do you want to be when you grow up? Ever since I left second grade, I had tried avoiding Ms. Lavender as much as I could. All because of one skunk-snot question. I was a coward. Then news came—news that changed half of my life in school. “Announcement: I would like your attention please,” the principal said through the PA system. “We would like to let everyone know of Ms. Lavender’s departure. We would like to see Joseph Millers and Dawn Cagonea in the principals’ office.” I’d gulped as I heard my name being spoken. Ms. Lavender’s departure? What does that mean? Had Ms. Lavender left the school? *          *          * “I’m afraid Ms. Lavender has departed from us very recently,” Ms. Cari, my principal, told us when we came through the doors. I sniffed but didn’t say anything. Joseph glared at me and smirked. “Has Ms. L moved?” Ms. Cari put one hand on my left shoulder. I shifted uncomfortably. “No,” she told us. “I hate to tell you two, but you have once been in Ms. Lavender’s class. And with that, I must let you know. Ms. Lavender, I’m afraid, has passed away due to a sudden particular illness.” The question rang in my head, sending waves of annoyance through me. What do you want to be when you grow up? I had never experienced anything that bad. Ms. Lavender had always creeped me out a little, but I wasn’t ready for that. I laughed. “No, she hasn’t. She’s much too young.” Ms. Cari steadily met my eyes. I stared back up at her. I knew the principal was serious. I turned away. “I want you two to think of something you can do for her. Something that can be buried with her at her funeral.” Ms. Cari told us. “It can be anything. It’s the least you can do.” “Okay,” Joseph responded. “Good,” Ms. Cari said, smiling. “Dawn? What about you?” I looked away in disgust. How could anybody be smiling at this time? Do you smile right after you tell two fifth-graders that their old second-grade teacher died? No! This was ridiculous. That I knew. “Fine,” I growled. Joseph suddenly burst out laughing. I turned my murderous glare toward him, my scowl deepening. “I never noticed how funny you look when you scowl, Dawn!” He laughed for so long and so hard that by the time he stopped, his face was as red as a tomato. “Are you okay?” I asked, watching as the color slowly darkened on his face. “No kidding,” Joseph gasped after the violent burst of laughter. *          *          * When the school bell rang, signaling the end of the day, I groped around my desk and drew out the old sheet of lined paper from second grade. It just sat there. On the top, the question stared back at me: What do you want to be when you grow up? I shook my head. After three years, I’d still ended up gazing at the same piece of paper. I grabbed the sheet and raced toward my fifth-grade teacher. “Ms. Cari wanted Joseph and I to make something for Ms. Lavender,” I explained. “Can you help me with this?” My teacher nodded thoughtfully. “Dawn, which subject do you favor?” I blinked and answered, “Language arts. I’m interested in plants as well. Botany?” Mrs. Bethany moved on. “Do your talents belong in art? P.E.? Music?” I thought for a moment. “Art,” I answered. Mrs. Bethany looked at me closely, “Do you enjoy pouring out your thoughts on paper?” I shuddered; all those years of staring at this one question made my stomach feel queasy. The thought of sitting in my chair, staring some more at a


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Moods of the Week

On Sunday, I feel happy because I have nothing to do but play. I sit by the computer and watch YouTube all day. I send yellow balls flying with my white-and-purple racquet, Then get out other strings—my violin from where I pack it. I never feel stressed and always get a good rest. I love Sundays, a day I have no tests. On Monday, I am tired; it’s the beginning of the week. More geometry, science. US history makes me freak. First though, at 7:00, is tennis practice in the morning— “SWING MORE POWERFULLY!” is a constant warning. My arm is so tired and all of my body wants to sleep. But it’s Monday and the whole school sounds like sheep. On Tuesday, I feel depressed. I have homework that’s due. I get more homework, which I have no clue how to do. To make matters worse, at 6:30 there’s math club. Then for dinner, I have to eat spicy sausage grub. I go to my room and watch some online tutorials. It’s Tuesday, and I still can’t understand factorials. On Wednesday, I am free with nothing after school. I eat M&M cookies, then splash into the pool. My homework today is easy and quick, So I go to HEB with dad, and strawberries I pick. At home, with nothing to do, I don’t get bossed around. I love Wednesdays because I never break down. On Thursday, I am tired; I have tennis once again. I run around the green, returning balls and hoping I’ll win. I lose all my energy for the rest of the day. I really don’t want to write another essay. Can’t the teachers stop cramming in so many tests? All I want on Thursdays is to Have. A. Rest. On Friday, I feel okay—the tests are finally at their end. The bell at 3:55 will make it start to feel like the weekend. Before that, noodles, goldfish, and berries will get me through, Just as long as no one packed me a cashew. I trudge down the halls—this feeling only lasts for a while. Fridays are okay because at least I will smile. On Saturday, my mood changes, I end happy but start sad. I start off with Chinese. Everything makes me look bad. But after I finish, I am glad to have nothing to do. Sometimes I go on the balcony and just look at the view. I once again end up watching YouTube all day. On Saturdays, I sometimes even go outside to play. Carolyn Lu, 13Katy, TX


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Editor’s Note

My first day of English class, sophomore year of high school, I walked into a classroom dark except for a single candle flickering on my teacher’s desk. He stayed quiet, writing, as we all filtered into the room, nervously laughing and whispering to each other. Eventually, we took his cue and began to write too. This teacher, Mr. McGraw, soon became my favorite—because he gave us the freedom to explore language and literature in the ways that most inspired and invigorated us. In his class, I labored over poems, researched the Brontë sisters, and explored symbolism in The Scarlet Letter. I am still grateful for the space he gave me to learn and write how I wanted to. Teachers have a huge impact on our lives— hopefully in positive ways but also, frequently and unfortunately, in negative ways. Most of the stories and poems in this issue take the classroom as setting and subject, examining the ways that teachers and schools influence who we are and what we do. I hope you take this as an opportunity to reflect on the teachers who have nurtured your passions!


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Stone Soup Honor Roll: November 2020

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 Lyla Gasiorowski, 4 Nina Reddy, 6 FICTION Aparajita Ashwin, 11 Kira Bardin, 12 Veryan Johnson, 13 Maeve Kristian, 12 Lysandre Marot, 11 Alexandra Menechino, 12 Adelaide Riedl, 12 Evelyn Worcester, 13 PLAYS Anya Geist, 13 POETRY Malan Chopra, 8 Aashi Gupta, 9 Thomas Alexander Mangan, 10 Hayden Park, 11 Dmitri Pshenichkin, 7


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Balancing My Nerves and a Bike

My mom used to like telling people about how she was in labor with me for over 36 hours. She would laugh and say that I was so comfortably curled up inside that I didn’t feel like coming out, and when I was finally forced to come out (two weeks late), I stretched out my arms and legs like a starfish all the way down. Physical activity was just not my thing. It never was, not since I was born. According to the family photo albums, it took me two-and-a-half years to learn how to walk. That led me to hate the playground. I was probably one of the few kids who did. Running around, climbing rope ladders, getting sand thrown in my face and my shovel stolen. Just the thought of having to climb the ladder to the top of the slide with a whole bunch of pushy kids behind me, I would get butterflies in my stomach, my legs would feel like cooked noodles, and sweat would start trickling down my forehead to the tip of my chin. Even now, it brings me back to that Shel Silverstein poem “Whatif,” where he talks about all the doubts and fears that dance around inside of him. When my sister was born, it all got worse. Apparently she was in such a rush to get out of my mom’s stomach that she almost fell onto the floor. My sister came out screaming so loud that she busted a hole in her lungs, and had to stay in the intensive care unit for a week. Those family albums show her walking, then running, and then riding a skateboard, when she was three years old. When I was five, my parents started pushing me to join all sorts of activities, which unfortunately were all physically demanding. Gymnastics, swimming, soccer, tae kwon do, and even golf. ae kwon do was the worst. It was a big room filled with kids kicking and punching stuff. Why would I ever do that? I cried, wet, salty tears pouring down my face, fists balled up, feet stuck to the ground, as my mom tried to gently nudge—and then finally shoved—me in. It was like those scary movies where people get forced into a torture chamber. I remember thinking, Why are they making me do this? I obviously don’t want to do it! When we left, I was so relieved that I didn’t even care that the other kids were staring at my blotchy, red face. When I got older, around seven or eight, it was gymnastics for both me and my sister. We were in different classes, but I could see her across the gym, having the time of her life, swinging across the bars and jumping on balance beams. I, on the other hand, couldn’t even figure out how to do a simple cartwheel. I could see myself in the mirror doing this crabby, bent-over thing. My sister, who was two years younger than me, was doing stuff I never expected to learn. As much as I longed to be able to do anything that looked good, I knew I would never be able to. The feeling of hopelessness and disappointment was so thick and heavy that sometimes I couldn’t breathe. And jealousy too. There was a horrible piece of me that wanted her to mess up. Not totally fail, but just enough so that I might feel better about myself. A couple years ago, when my mom brought up the idea of learning how to ride a bike and how cool it was, I instantly thought of the disasters that had happened when I was younger. I looked down at the beige rug covered in ornate designs so that I wouldn’t have to look at her. Then maybe she would forget I was there. My sister was exuberant, jumping up and down, squealing with anticipation, begging to go now. My hands were clammy and had found a binder clip to play with clumsily. That was when my dad marched triumphantly into the room with a brand-new, shiny, purple bike. He told us that it was the best bike to learn on, and if we got good, we could get a second one so we could ride together. He said it like we were all super happy to do this, like we had planned this together a long time ago. But we hadn’t, at least not me. I sat there at the mahogany dining table, my heart beating faster, my head hurting because of all the blood rushing to it. I was numb, not sure what to say, trying to think what I should do. My mom told me to go to the park with my dad so I could learn first. But I was frozen. So, she decided that my sister could go first. I was relieved but still troubled, knowing that I would still have to learn later. Grow up, I told myself. Grow up, grow up. They left, my sister squealing with delight. I continued to sit, glued to my seat. My hands now fiddling with a rubber band, the rubber weaving in and out, forming an intricate design. My mother came over and plopped down next to me in the cushioned beige chair, her laptop in hand, its rose-gold border gleaming in the bright ceiling light. “You know, I understand how you might not like these things,” she said as she scrolled down the page on her screen, not looking at me. “It’s not that I don’t like sports; it’s that I don’t like trying new sports,” I said defensively, instantly regretting the words that had just come out of my mouth. My dad always talked about how sporty he’d been as a kid, my mom was always willing to try anything and never seemed to feel embarrassed, and my sister was perfect. In this family, saying stuff like what I just said was basically admitting that I was a


By

Little Boat

A boat on the horizon of crystal clear water, meeting the rainbow sky, A beautiful watercolor for all to see, Bobbing up and down, serenely, so peacefully, Swaying and rocking in time to the rhythm of the waves, Lulling us to sleep. So mesmerizing . . . So hypnotizing . . . A stray wooden water car. It may look lost but it is not, Sailing smoothly across the never-ending glassy sea. Evangeline Flynn, 10New York, NY Alicia Xin, 13Scarsdale, NY


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The Miscarriage

The cold breeze hit my face when I walked through the school gates. My hair was flying in the air. The tips of my fingers were becoming numb from the cold. Red, orange, and yellow leaves falling everywhere. I could hear people talking and kids laughing. When I turned around, I saw my mom in her beautiful winter coat and dark blue jeans. Her dark brown hair was going different directions in the wind. Her cheeks were red like fresh-picked apples. She looked nervous and excited, her smile big and her eyes running back and forth. When I walked up to her, I saw her beautiful brown eyes staring straight into mine. She said she had great news . . . *          *          * A few years ago I remember sitting in bed with my parents. They started talking about how great it would be to have another baby. Suddenly all of my emotions changed. Out of nowhere I started crying because I thought I wouldn’t be their favorite anymore. Later that day I was sitting in their bed staring at the ceiling, my face still as stone, my eyes wide open, staring into nowhere. *          *          * My mom began talking again. I felt the same way—scared. What was she going to say? Everything changed after these words . . . “You are getting a sibling,” she said. Her voice was filled with happiness. My eyes were full of tears. I have been an only child my whole life. I felt frozen. I felt sad and scared. Then we started walking home. As I walked into the lobby, I could feel the temperature changing from freezing cold to comforting warmth. I could feel the last tear trace down my cheek as I walked toward the elevators. I heard a ding, and the elevator doors opened. My mom’s keys rustled as she reached for the door. I walked right after her. My mom then turned around and said, “I didn’t believe it at first either. I went to CVS three times just to get some other pregnancy tests.” We started laughing for no good reason. My mom was standing there with a smile on her face and in her hands was a strip of black-and-white pictures. It was a picture of the baby. I wasn’t scared to get a sibling. I was scared it would change the relationship between me and my mom; maybe she wouldn’t have time for me anymore. My whole life, I had told my mom everything—every secret, every thought, every feeling I had. She was always there for me. She listened to me, understood me. I was scared she wouldn’t anymore. “We’re going to have so much fun! You will take them to school, teach them how to read, dress them up,” Mom said with a wide smile, her eyes glowing the brightest I have ever seen. I knew she was happy. Somehow my mom and I were connected. When she was happy, I was happy. She made me feel loved and understood all the time. “I would have someone to look out for,” I said. Soon we were fantasizing about how it would be. We laughed, we smiled. I wrapped my arms around her as fast as I could. I could feel the warmth and comfort. Her hair gently brushed against my face. I was happy and excited for what adventures would come along next. Soon I heard the phone ring, and my mom rushed to get it. “Hi, why are you calling?” My mom asked. I knew it was my dad. My mom came close to me and said, “Your dad wants to ask you something.” I grabbed the phone as I hear his voice say, “How are you feeling?” I knew he was asking this due to what I just found out. “Awesome. I’m so excited!” I knew this would be one of the happiest things that happened to me this year. I knew the baby would be something small but would make my world so much better. A week later, I could smell the antiseptic everywhere as I walked into the doctor’s office. “Sit down, please,” the doctor said as me and my parents walked towards the round black table. “May I just ask you a question?” he asked in his calm, deep voice. “Sure,” my mom responded. “How long has it been since you had your first child?” he asked, and soon I looked up from my phone knowing he was talking about me. “Ten years,” my mom said calmly. “Okay. Follow me, please. I just need to check something,” he said as my mom stood up from her seat and went after him. I didn’t know where they were going. Right away all the bad thoughts rushed to my head. Is everything okay? Why are they going away? I thought. As soon as they left, the room was filled with silence. My dad and I sat there, waiting. As I looked around the office, I saw many pictures of kids, adults, and babies on the light-gray walls. It seemed like each one had its own memory and story. I knew that soon we would be on those walls. I looked at my phone and saw that it was already 4:30. They were still not back. Where were they? What happened? Was everything okay? Soon I heard the door creak loudly. My mom was standing there with a smile on her face and in her hands was a strip of black-and-white pictures. It was a picture of the baby. A smile appeared on my face. In months, I would have this tiny person in my life to look out for, to love. *          *          * A few weeks later I remember the warm summer breeze, the sun shining on my face. As my parents and I


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We the People

People want to say a lot of things. People think they know a lot of things. People want always to be in the right. People think they’re always on the good side of every fight. People say be open to new ideas. People mean their ideas. People are stupid. I am stupid. We are stupid. Galen Halasz, 13Saranac Lake, NY