Our October Flash Contest was based on Creativity Prompt #172 (provided by Molly Torinus, Stone Soup contributor), which asked participants to perform the meta task of writing about somebody writing a story. The result was a wave of submissions unlike we have ever seen, making the selection process this month even more difficult. We read stories that anthropomorphized bananas, that projected protagonists’ lives far into the future, that literally wrote out entire stories within stories, and much, much more. In the end, we wound up with five winners and five honorable mentions whose fantastic and distinct work gives shape to a bright and promising future! As always, thank you to all who submitted, and please submit again next month! In particular, we congratulate our Winners and our Honorable Mentions, whose work you can appreciate below. Winners “With Great Power…” by Jack Liu, 13 (Livingston, NJ) “Words” by Lui Lung, 12 (Danville, CA) “Myrtle and Sage” by Pranjoli Sadhukha, 11 (Newark, OH) “Rejection Miracle” by Alexandra Steyn, 12 (Greenwich, CT) “Coffee Mates” by Emily Tang, 12 (Winterville, NC) Honorable Mentions “Crumpled Papers” by Anushka Dhar, 12 (Hillsborough, NJ) “Charlotte’s Unusual Story” by Hannah Francis, 11 (Stanford, CA) “Writer’s Block” by Nova Macknik-Conde, 10 (Brooklyn, NY) “It Should Bother You” by Violet Solana Perez, 13 (Scarsborough, ON, Canada) “Behind the Counter” by Eliya Wee, 11 (Menlo Park, CA) Jack Liu, 13 (Livingston, NJ) With Great Power… Jack Liu, 13 George slammed his fist onto the table, staring at his screen. He stared down into his lap, feeling the immense pressure that he was in. He sighed as he spun around in his old chair that was on the verge of breaking and took a bite of his sandwich that was on the damaged fold up table. It tasted the same as always: the sad taste of bologna and lettuce. Ever since his family hit hard times 3 months ago, he’d only been eating sandwiches with various processed meats. He got up to check on his family and found that they were all sleeping soundly on the floor on the ancient air mattress behind him. He heard the breathing of his mother, father and younger sister and was entranced for a bit, reflecting on better days. He snapped out of it once his stomach rumbled again, shook it off, and stared into the bright computer screen. He stared at the text that was written and started writing. “Lucas sat in his chair, staring up into the ceiling on his warm comfy bed…” Suddenly, out of nowhere there was a loud thud. George turned around; his whole family was sleeping on a giant bed instead of an air mattress and there was enough room for George to sleep there as well! George froze in shock; there was no possible way that this was real. All he did was write in his story. He shook his head in utter disbelief, spun back in his chair, and started typing “Lucas got some steak.” Again, just like the last time, a loud thud, and a plate was in front of him, with the most scrumptious looking steak he had seen in a long, long time. There were also utensils for him to eat with. George snatched them up and started cutting and devouring his steak so fast that within 5 minutes he was all done. He licked his lips as he felt the taste of the steak leave his tongue. Now, with his newfound power George contemplated all of the possibilities: he could be rich, famous, he could bring his family out of poverty. Everything he ever dreamed of could become reality. What would he do with all this power? George slipped into his spot in the bed and closed his eyes. The next morning he woke up, groggy, as his parents and younger sister gawked at the presence of their new bed. “Where did this come from?” They all asked in unison, looking at George with deep interest. “Last night I discovered that I can summon things if I write it in my story,” George said, scratching his head. “Then all our problems are solved! We can go back to life the way it was before! Before all of the hardships and pain.” His father had that glowing look in his eyes that George had seen before in happier days. George thought long and hard about what his father said. There was no way that such a wonderful gift could come without its consequences. Soon he would learn that there would be dire consequences for using this power too often. Lui Lung, 12 (Danville, CA) Words Lui Lung, 12 To be educated was to be a threat. It was dangerous for us to read, to write, to learn what no one else would tell us but ourselves. It was wrong. We were not born free, we did not live free, and we did not die free. This was what they told me, and I believed them. When I was young, I thought that my mother was dangerous, for she knew the forbidden ways. Someone had taught her. And when night fell, she taught me, too. With the speckled silver of the stars above us and the verdant green of the leaves by our side, she gave me the most valuable gift I had ever known. Words. Words were my sanctuary. Traced against the black canvas of the sky with my mother’s long, deft fingers. Spelled out in the earth with a branch. Spoken aloud in tales passed down for generations. Words became a place I could retreat to each night when I was so often warned to keep my mouth shut. I treasured every letter my mother offered me, held it near so it wouldn’t abandon me until I was sure I knew it well. I whispered my words to the stars, and the stars listened when no one else would. But come morning light, the stars would leave me and so would my words. The hazy
Contests
Flash Contest #35, September 2021: Write a story about you, but in a parallel universe where you had a different life—our winners and their work
Our September Flash Contest was based on Creativity Prompt #168 (provided by Molly Torinus, Stone Soup contributor), which asked participants to write about themselves with one small twist: the story had to take place inside a parallel universe where they led a different life. The prompt was interpreted in myriad ways, with many branching into the realm of science fiction, others into fantasy, and some choosing to remain within the world of the mundane. We were dazzled by participants’ creativity, our minds taken on journeys to a car ride with a yapping dad, a dystopian future where fires reigned supreme, a skillfully disguised Magic Store, and much, much more! As always, thank you to all who submitted, and please submit again next month! In particular, we congratulate our Winners and our Honorable Mentions, whose work you can appreciate below. Winners “The Concert” by Lucas Hinds, 13 (Lenoir City, TN) “Recognition” by Serena Lin, 10 (Scarsdale, NY) “Are you Ready?” by Lui Lung, 12 (Danville, CA) “Phoenix” by Eliya Wee, 11 (Menlo Park, CA) “The Magic Store” by Chloe Yang, 12 (Cranbury, NJ) Honorable Mentions “A Day with My Drox” by Tahra Araujo, 9 (Brooklyn, NY) “The Puzzle” by Anushka Dhar, 12 (Hillsborough, NJ) “Normal Universe/Parallel Universe” by Nova Macknik-Conde, 9 (Brooklyn, NY) “Mechanical Master” by Rishab Suresh, 13 (Sanford, FL) “Duplicates” by Emily Tang, 12 (Winterville, NC) Lucas Hinds, 13 (Lenoir City, TN) The Concert Lucas Hinds, 13 “Time to get up, boys!” my mom shouted, waking me. “Please, just 30 more minutes,” I mumbled. “No way!” she said sternly. “We have to get ready. We have a concert to go to.” A muffled sigh came from behind me. I looked back, but didn’t see Peyton anywhere. He was buried in the warm, comfy sleeping bag. Tired from our late sleepover shenanigans, we grudgingly got ready to go. When we finally walked out the door—the sun shining high and bright in the sky—we got into the truck and headed out. My dad plays trombone for the Oak Ridge Community Band, and all the concerts are at the amphitheater in Oak Ridge, so we get to visit the ‘Secret City’ any time my dad has a concert, which is quite often. Today was one of those days. “What a beautiful day!” I said sleepily. “I hate mornings,” I heard Peyton mumble. “I’ve always been a night owl.” The trip was extra uneventful. My family has never been that talkative during car rides. You hear stories about games and songs and all kinds of things families do during rides. Not our family. All we do is listen to the radio and enjoy the scenery. Only the occasional history lesson from my dad about the Oak Ridge National Laboratories or stories about the river being radioactive. My dad was so predictable in this respect that you could sense when he was about to go off. I knew he was about to go off on a tangent. “Get ready. My dad is about to go off on one of his stories. I can sense it,” I warned Peyton. “Wait wh—” “Boys, we’re about to pass by one of the most secret laboratories in the US. They made a lot of progress in nuclear technology and—” My dad was interrupted by a powerful force hitting our truck, nearly toppling it over, then we heard an ear shattering BOOM! As we looked outside, the sky was thick with a purplish hue. “What was that?” Peyton asked. We looked around and were surprised to see no effect on the surrounding environment. “Probably just some dumb teenagers trying to cause trouble,” my dad guessed. “I remember doing things exactly like this when I was your guys’ age. In fact, back in my time, you could…” “Oh, here he goes again,” I whispered to Peyton. The rest of the ride was filled with tales from my dad’s childhood. When we finally made it to the concert, everyone was shouting at us. “Tom! We’ve been waiting for you! What happened?” “Come on! Are we gonna warm up or what?” He was visibly confused at first, but then he realized something. “Alright! Let’s get started!” He shouted to the band. “Let’s start with something simple, ‘The Star Spangled Banner!” “What’s going on? He’s not supposed to be the conductor.” I whispered to Peyton. “I don’t know, but something’s up.” He replied. “I think it has something to do with the explosion back there. Maybe an experiment gone wrong.” The rest of the warm-up and concert went by without conversation. Everything went smoothly, even with my dad in charge, and we didn’t discuss anything until we got back home. “What happened?” I questioned my dad, hoping he had a simple explanation. “We’re in a parallel universe.” “Funny joke, dad. But I’m being serious! Why were you the conductor! And why did nobody find it strange that you were suddenly in charge?” “I just told you. One of the trombone players told me what happened. Apparently, he’s a scientist at the labs. He said they were doing experiments with time travel, but instead of time travel, they figured out how to go to parallel universes. One of the experiments with these universes got out of hand, and now here we are,” he said. “I knew I shouldn’t have done this sleepover,” Peyton complained. “Something weird happens whenever I’m with you guys.” “Do you have his phone number, honey?” My mom asked. “If he’s the one doing these experiments, maybe he can get us back.” “I already arranged a meeting. Today at 3 PM.” “Well? What do we do until then? We have about 2 hours!” I said. “Play games, duh,” Peyton said. “Well, I think we should go shopping. Just because it’s a parallel universe doesn’t mean they don’t have good deals!” said my mom. “Sounds like a plan,” my dad said, and we left for the nearest grocery store. When we got there and started shopping, I saw a familiar face. Zander, or, as his close friends called him, Z.
Flash Contest #34, August 2021: Use J.M.W. Turner’s painting The Banks of the Loire as a starting point for a stream of consciousness piece—our winners and their work
Our August Flash Contest was based on Creativity Prompt #164 (provided by Anya Geist, Stone Soup ’20–21 Intern), which, combining art and writing, challenged participants to write a stream of consciousness piece based off of J.M.W. Turner’s painting The Banks of the Loire. The result was, unsurprisingly, breathtaking! In their own unique ways, each piece evoked Turner’s painting with stunning vividity. Reading the participants’ work, it was easy to envision the kneeling lady in red, the arching trees, and the backdrop of the seacliff, the tops of sails just visible through the mist. Participants also interpreted the qualification of stream of consciousness in a variety of ways, with their submissions ranging from meandering prose without punctuation to highly structured poetry to paragraph blocks written from the perspective of a tree! As always, thank you to all who submitted, and please submit again next month! In particular, we congratulate our Winners and our Honorable Mentions, whose work you can appreciate below. Winners “A River Flows in Me” by Inca Acrobat, 11 (San Francisco, CA) “The Melancholy Landscape” by Sophie Liu, 9 (Surrey, BC, Canada) “The Watcher” by Lui Lung, 12 (Danville, CA) “Scattering Beams” by Emily Tang, 12 (Winterville, NC) “The Banks of the Loire” by Alexis Zou, 13 (Lake Oswego, OR) Honorable Mentions “A Dream or the End?” by Phoenix Crucillo, 13 (Los Angeles, CA) “Thoughts Harbored” by Rex Huang, 11 (Lake Oswego, OR) “Perspectives Not Human” by Ivy Liu, 9 (San Jose, CA) “So Still” by Sophie Yu, 13 (Houston, TX) “The Magical River” by Natalie Yue, 9 (San Carlos, CA) Inca Acrobat, 11 (San Francisco, CA) A River Flows in Me Inca Acrobat, 11 You fail to speak to me Even when the moon has risen Above the glittering Loire When my mind is awake But my body still Especially then You turn your back away My dreams fade away Sophie Liu, 9 (Surrey, BC, Canada) The Melancholy Landscape Sophie Liu, 9 A Dreary, Undisturbed, Abandoned, Landscape. As gloomy as a muddy, Dark, Overworked, Horse, In the rain. The trees wilting in the sky, No longer proud and sturdy, But miserable. The sky covered in menacing, Evil clouds, Hiding the jumpy, Comforting, Blue, Sky. Peaceful, And calm. Not even a single shout, A single bird chirping, Or the wind howling. The place is as tranquil as a person sitting beside a campfire, With the stars glittering above them, Without a sound being uttered. Only one, Lonely, Human being in the whole, Vast greenery world. The place is a boring Blobfish, Without any beings, Except blobs of nature to make up the empty, Lonely, Land. The unwelcoming, Still, Desolate, Landscape. Lui Lung, 12 (Danville, CA) The Watcher Lui Lung, 12 There was a stillness that hovered in the air. It wasn’t the peaceful kind, more of the silence before a storm struck and razed everything in its path. I dutifully remained unmoving, listening faithfully for the endless thrum of life already etched into my memory. It was constant and ever-changing all at once, the irresolute rhythm to an unfinished song. This had become my existence: eagerly awaiting nothing by the riverbanks, observing a world I could not make a difference in until I grew too old to stand. The crunch of a fallen leaf snatched my attention, a discordant note in the delicately balanced symphony. A woman knelt, the sleeve of her dress slipping from her shoulder. This sight was not new to me. There had been hundreds before her who had visited, and thousands before them. Those who came and went were far too many to be remembered, both old and young, some carrying joy, but most bearing misery. Whether it was happiness or grief that led them to my home, I knew they all sought something for themselves, and I could tell from their faces what it was that they looked for. The desperate found comfort in meaningless details that went unnoticed by another, so that even the babbling of water could be heard as a familiar voice, or a breeze could be the huff of a lost lover’s breath. Then the woman shifted, my gaze leaping to her again, and her face was turned from me. The gleam of her dark hair gilded by noon sun was all I could see. Her perch was motionless beside the river, enough so that she could have been a painted figure listening for what only she could hear. She was indecipherable this way, a statue carved to be admired but never touched, beautiful but unreachable. Who was this mystery? What brought her here, to sit by these banks as I did? Did she hear the music in the rush of the Loire? I wanted to… I simply wanted, I realized. I wanted, and I could not have. Frustration burst like a wave. The sky inevitably splotched to orange and red, and the woman left me. She rose, the hem of her skirt against the ground a whispered addition to my song. I remained rooted in my position. People wandered here to find their purpose, but what was my own? I was the Watcher, I supposed, and I always would be. My purpose was to see and not feel, to ask my questions and to know they would not be answered. It was a bitter truth. I watched until the crimson of her dress became a faint speck, until the spell she had cast was lifted. How much longer would I continue to watch? Was I to stand here for a lifetime? I’d crumble eventually, slower than those I saw passing by, but I was dying all the same. Perhaps everyone did have a place in this grand composition I could not yet make sense of, and this was my cruel fate, a punishment for a crime I did not know of. A cool gust of wind rustled my branches. I stood still once more. The river murmured on. Emily Tang, 12 (Winterville, NC) Scattering Beams Emily
