Fiction
Ever since I could remember, Momma and I lived alone. Just us two. She never mentioned my Poppa or any aunts or uncles or cousins, so neither did I. We were happy enough how we were. It was 1953, and we lived on the very edge of the Black District of the town. Some thought we were much too close to the White District, because only a tall, wooden fence separated us from their houses. The Fence stretched as far as I had ever ventured, and no one could come or go through it. But that didn’t make any difference; we went our own way, they went theirs. Momma ran a business doing laundry for the neighbors. I would help her wash the clothes in big metal tubs, then hang them all to dry on the long clothesline stretched across the yard. Some days, she would send me to buy more lye soap for her washing. Other days, I would deliver the clean laundry to her customers’ houses. One day, I sat on the steps of our house braiding the long, stringy grass and wishing there was shade somewhere nearby. The hot August sun was merciless. And since Momma had a group of talkative friends over, she had strictly instructed me not to go into the house unless of an emergency. So I was stuck outside. After a few more minutes of this, I made up my mind. I would go exploring. Past the huge hedges behind the house was the Fence between us and the White people. I wasn’t to go near the Fence under any circumstances, Momma’s orders, but I was much too bored to heed that rule. She said that she didn’t want me to get scratched by the prickly hedges, but I knew perfectly well that that was just an excuse. She didn’t want me to see the White people on the other side. After checking that Momma was still safely preoccupied inside with her friends, I climbed into the bushes. So much for getting scratched up, I thought. They’re not even prickly! Just a few feet in, my hands found the rough wood of the Fence. I wriggled my entire body through until I was right up against it. Then I pressed my eye against a conveniently located knothole and peered through. All I could see were the leafy branches of identical hedges on the other side. Leaning forward a little too hard, the board gave way and I tumbled through, right onto the other side. Gasping with surprise, I began to sit up, rubbing dirt from my eyes. Until I heard a voice. “Who’s there?” it demanded. I held my breath, trembling with fright. I didn’t dare go back through. Surely whoever was speaking would notice me shaking the bushes. But if Momma found out I’d been over… I took a quick look, not daring to even breathe. A little White girl was kneeling in front of me. She was so close that I could have reached out and touched her shining golden hair. She peered right into the branches. I made myself as small as I could, but too late. “I can see you in there. What are you spying on me for?” I couldn’t do anything now but answer her nice and polite, just how Momma taught me. “I wasn’t exactly spying on you,” I replied. “I didn’t even notice you was there at first.” “What’s your name?” she asked me. She had lost her commanding voice now. “Ruth,” I replied shyly. “I’m Donna Schultz. Nice to meet you.” “Yes,” I agreed. “Would you like to come out? We can play together, and I will show you my dolls.” I glanced back over my shoulder through the bare hole where the board had collapsed. What on earth would Momma say to see me on the other side of the Fence playing with a White girl? Never mind, I told myself, She’ll never find out if you don’t tell her. “Here I come,” I told the girl, tripping my way out. Donna laughed. It was a nice sort of laugh, not mocking, but sweet and twinkly, just like her. I gave her a smile and brushed the dirt off my knees. “So, how old are you?” she asked conversationally as she led me across the yard. “Eight-years-old,” I told her proudly. “I’m eight and three-quarters,” she responded. I had no idea what three-quarters was supposed to mean, so I kept quiet. “This is my house. Mother and Father aren’t at home, only Jonathan. But he won’t play with me unless it’s baseball, and Mother says baseball is unladylike, so I can’t. I don’t like it much anyway.” I was relieved to hear that this girl’s parents weren’t home because they probably wouldn’t have been very happy with a Black girl like me on their side, the White side, either. Even then I didn’t realize how big of a risk I was taking. But at the time my thoughts were completely focused on Donna’s beautiful dolls and playthings. I was happy just to listen to her talk, lying comfortably in the dappled shade of her yard. Once the sun began to set, however, I told her I’d better get home. She told me that she hoped she could talk to me again soon. “Bye!” I called to her as I scrambled back through the poky branches a little more gracefully than before. “Goodbye, Ruth!” she responded, waving at me. And that was the beginning of our secret friendship. * * * A few weeks later, as Momma and I were completing the noontime deliveries, I asked her an innocent question. “Momma, why do we have to live apart from the White people?” She looked at me funny and said, “Why you asking, girl?” “It’s just that there’s other girls out there just like me ‘cept they have white skin. Why ain’t we allowed to
Fiction
I wrapped my jacket around me to keep out the frigid air. It was cold and drizzly and my clothes were soaked. “The tapestry of life will outlast all of us,” my dad had always told me. “Everyone who has ever lived and ever will is a part of the tapestry. Sometimes a thread will come loose when the person it’s connected to has given up on life. Never become one of those loose threads, Allison.” But now I had become a loose thread. And I didn’t think I would ever be able to weave myself back in again. My life began to unravel when my father was diagnosed with cancer last year. He could still continue homeschooling me until he died three weeks ago. Then I was put in public school, and that was when I realized that there was no going back. That my life was changed permanently. My mom had always had a full time job, and with my dad gone, we needed the money more than ever. There was no way I could be homeschooled. * * * I was in the very back of the group, atop my brown and black, chomp-happy horse. The man at the front hadn’t told me its name. As I watched the tour guide go on and on about some historical landmark with only the teachers engrossed, as I watched the boys have a spit fight, and as I watched the girls gossip about who liked who, I wondered if anyone would really notice if I left. If anyone would wonder why I disappeared. The more I thought about it, the more I realized they wouldn’t. I was convinced no one would notice if I left. I made up my mind. I swiftly turned my horse around and galloped in the opposite direction. And just like that, I had begun my ride of infinity. I rode and rode until nightfall, and from sheer exhaustion, I eventually fell asleep on the horse. When I awoke, it was morning. My horse had halted. I quickly kicked it in the sides to get it moving, and then I noticed a tree line in the distance, lush and green and leafy. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was reach the tree line. I was hypnotized by grief, and all I wanted was one small bit of hope to cling on to. I began to convince myself that if I reached the tree line, all my problems would be gone. Both my parents would be awaiting me, I could be homeschooled again, everything I valued would be within reach. My life would be back to normal again. I could behold it. I could see it so clearly etched in my mind that I knew I could not turn back. I sent that horse galloping and galloping towards the tree line, without even pausing to think about what I was getting myself into. Had I been thinking straight, this never would have happened. I never would have left the “historical tour on horseback” field trip. But I did. And I didn't have an ounce of regret. I was still so sure that I would reach the tree line, so sure that if I did, everything would be impeccable. I rode day and night, with no food or water, for so long I lost track of time. Yet the tree line never got any nearer. Never. My absurd impulsiveness finally stopped when the horse collapsed from exhaustion, and sent me sprawling on the dew-covered grass. Determined as I was to reach the tree line, I staggered to my feet and tried to run, but I could only make it a few steps before collapsing myself. I hit my head on something hard, and in the moment between consciousness and unconsciousness, I remembered. In that split second, I recalled so many of the times that my dad and I had had fun. Walking through the forest, the shining green canopy of trees overhead, learning the scientific names of all the mushrooms and plants. Going down the tallest slide at the water park. Jumping into the swimming hole in the river, the water sparkling like diamonds. Legions of memories swam in my mind. Then everything went dark. * * * I woke up to the sound of people shouting. Somebody was pulling on my leg. My eyes flew open, and I saw a crowd of people surrounding me. My class was there. Lots of unfamiliar people were there. Even an ambulance was present. My mom was there as well. So they had noticed. I was told that I had hit my head on a rock and that I had passed out. My throat was so dry I couldn't speak. But I looked into my mother’s eyes, and she got the message: get me out of here. She had to carry me to the car because I was so weak I couldn’t stand up. Sitting in her navy blue Toyota, I realized I had not achieved anything. All I had done was made my mom think she would lose me, too. I had done it all for nothing. To this day, I am still a loose thread.
Fiction
The pewter sky hung like a tapestry over the graveyard, dark clouds spilling across it. The clouds boomed and thundered like an angry beast, releasing torrents of water that drenched the gray headstones below. Lightning sliced through the air like a sword, illuminating the world for a second with its violet light. Libby liked the rain. The way it left her honey hair wet and clingy, the way the droplets slid down her cheeks like cool tears. She knelt down next to her favorite grave in the furthest corner of the cemetery. Most of her neighbors grew up in fear of the cemetery across the street, but Libby loved it. Each weekend she would place flowers on her favorite graves, and she loved calculating the ages of the people on the headstones. Libby peered at the grave in front of her. The cool stone of the memorial was cracked and crumbling, with moss climbing up it, filling in the crevasses. A smiling angel stood atop the base of the grave, holding a harp in its chubby hands. The angel’s face had been worn away by decades in the rain, giving the grave an eerie look. Engraved in the podium was the name of the girl who rested there. Here lies Ada Lee Clemmons 1896-1907 Beloved daughter, sister. May her soul rest in peace. “Pretty, isn’t it?” a sweet voice said from behind Libby. Startled, Libby turned quickly to see a girl standing behind her. The girl looked about Libby’s age, with tawny skin and soft coils of chestnut hair. Her cheeks held a slight rosy blush, probably a result of the cold of the rain. But what struck Libby as particularly striking were the girl’s eyes. They blazed blue against her darker skin, as if holding a cold fire inside them. The girl took a step closer to Libby. “It’s sad isn’t it?” She asked. “She was so young. Only eleven, only as old as I am now.” The girl turned to look at Libby, as if noticing her for the first time. “You come here a lot,” she said. It was not phrased as a question, but simply as a statement. “Y-yes.” Libby stammered. Something about the girl made her uncomfortable. It seemed as if the air grew cooler simply having her around. “How did you know?” The girl shrugged. “I don’t see why that matters.” She knelt down next to the grave, and patted the ground beside her as if inviting Libby to join her. Libby reluctantly obliged. “Someone should clean the headstone,” she said sadly. “But there is no one around to do it. It happened so long ago, there is no one left who remembers the name Ada Lee Clemmons.” “How do you know so much about her?” Libby asked, feeling her fear of the girl begin to be replaced by sympathy of sorts. The words that the girl spoke seemed so heavy, and as if they affected her directly. The girl cocked her head at Libby “I just simply know what the grave tells. Anyone could figure it out.” The girl reached out and traced the lettering on the grave with her finger. “It’s lonely I bet,” she said suddenly. “Can you imagine being forgotten? Alone?” Libby shook her head. She couldn’t envision it. The girl sighed and drew back from the grave. She stood. Libby rose with her. “I have to go,” she said. “But before I do, what is your name?” Libby thought about lying, but the girl’s eyes seemed safe and friendly as she looked her. “Libby,” she said. “Yours?” “Ada,” the girl smiled. Libby felt her eyes widen. She turned to face the headstone and its engraved letters. Ada. “Are you…?” Libby stammered, the words catching on her tongue. Ada smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “For visiting me. It’s not quite so lonely when you’re around.” With that, Ada faded away.
Poems
The following poems were written by students in a creative writing class that took place in Shanghai, China, hosted by the Stanford University EPGY Honors Academy summer program. My students in this class wrote and read stories and poems in English, but most spoke Mandarin as well as other languages. Many of my students were totally fluent in English, while others were still practicing their English spelling and grammar. I have noticed that students write the most original poems when they are a little bit wild and lost in their own imaginations. To do this, we read experimental poems that break the rules of English or the rules of poetry. We also read fantasy, like The Patchwork Girl of Oz or The Phantom Tollbooth. I think fantasy and ancient literature and experimental poetry do the same things for students: they challenge them to think of new structures, whether new worlds or new ways of using language. For the same reason, I tried to make all their writing assignments weird: Write a poem while sitting somewhere you have never sat before Write a description of humans as if you were an alien who had never actually seen a human First draw your friend without looking at the paper. Then draw your own face by putting a piece of paper on it and drawing (don't poke your eyeball). Then look at yourself in a mirror and write a poem about your eyes, nose, teeth, hair, or other part of your head Write a long poem as if you were a whole bunch of fairies all speaking at once Write down one of your main character's deep secrets, then fold the paper up into origami and never show anyone what you wrote When I challenge my students with funny, scary, and strange poems and assignments, they challenge me right back, writing work that is original, spooky, heartbreaking, or just hilarious. Somebody surprises me in every class. For instance, when I told my students to write somewhere they'd never written before, one student squeezed onto a shelf of the bookshelf! So here are some weird, wild poems that came from these assignments, or assignments like these. These poems surprise me every time I read them. --Sophia Dahlin Sophia Dahlin is a poet and teacher who lives in Oakland, CA. She is a teaching artist for Bay Area schools with California Poets in the Schools, and has taught creative writing in Bangkok and Shanghai for Stanford Honors Academy. She has an MFA in Poetry from the Iowa Writers' Workshop.
Poems
When I try my best but no words come I feel worried, like when I drown in lava. How does it feel like to be an author? Great, because everyone will know the work you wrote. It also feels like you are the most important person in the world. When I do not have to think more and I know what I have to write, I feel like sleeping on a giant smooth waterfall full of bubbles. It also feels like getting untangled from a spider web.
Poems
Before I write, I put on boots, jackets, scarfs and mittens. "I am prepared." I tell myself. I close my eyes and write. For I know that if I don't prepare myself fully, I may never get out of my fantasy world.
Poems
tiny valley big so big grass of blue lakes of green tiny big down-upside trees night and day spring to spring nothing&noone comes to tiny big valley nothing walks the roses &noone paints the sky with love night and day spring to spring nothing&noone and someone and everyone comes to tiny big valley nothing loves noone n roses more night and day spring to spring tiny valley big so big when nothing&noone stopped to breathe a place of beauty sky of love night and day spring to spring
Poems
Who am I, am I just a lonely boy? When I am lonely I feel wild. Does nobody want me? Or do I have to stay here forever? Well, I will be crashed by a car? What shall I do. I need a real life! I am very far to become a normal boy.
Poems
A human's life is as an alien's life. This human has two feet and hairs. It lives in a house and eats with its hair. But actually we guess that humans eat like that. A piece of paper told us how humans are. A human goes to work every day even Saturday and Sunday and never gets a holiday. It grabs things with its feet.
Poems
The sound you can hear is the fairy's voice. And remember the fairies are behind you. Fairies are not same as you because they have wings and they are absolutely tiny. And Whatever money you get it is actually your tooth. If you have a very clean and white tooth put it under your pillow and next day you will see money under __________your pillow. because the tooth fairy will grab your tooth and exchange it with money.
Poems
When I write I feel very soft and smooth. I always feel nervous when the pen touches the paper. My feelings always control myself. When I don't know what to write I transform into a monster.
Poems
The moon The little moon The lonely uncolorful moon The only friend of earth The moon of its only kind There the moon stand by her only little self The moon The Earth’s only friend The grey boring moon The old rusty moon
Honor Roll
Stone Soup Honor Roll: April 2018
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. STORIES Alyssa Ao, 10 Jake Henschel, 11 Tuilaepa Katoanga, 11 Gavin Lehman, 11 Tracy Li, 13 Sayana Mayeski, 11 Stella Prince, 13 Leo Zhang, 11 Sarah Zhang, 11 ARTWORK Sophia Zhang, 8 POEMS Ana Carpenter, 13 Uma Coutelle, 10 Colin Davison, 9 Lily Jessen, 9 Cecilia Yang, 11 REVIEWS Ananda Bhaduri, 12 Nicole Qian, 13
Book Reviews
Uprising by Margaret Peterson Haddix; Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers: New York, 2011; $11.99 Uprising. One word, but somehow this meager collection of letters presents readers with strong, vivid emotions. Some when confronted with this word would mentally tremble in fright. Some might feel a sense of rebellion brewing inside them. Others would, I dare say, laugh, regarding almost humorously the rough cards life has dealt them and their failed attempts to regain control and ultimately uprise. Such a simple word, such a simple title, such a complex concept. In this book, Haddix creates a world so similar to our own it’s hard to believe that her story is based upon historical content dating back to over one hundred years ago. It is a world we see everyday on the news, a world of division, anger, and violence. But it is also a world of hope and love. Through brilliant storytelling, the author is able to bring readers into early twentieth-century New York at the beginning of an uprising! As 1911 progresses, the world is faced with new ideas each day. Women’s rights are finally making their way into the United States, and many are hopeful that Britain’s movement will sweep into America as well. While many suffragists are struggling to gain support for their cause, shirtwaist workers with very little public influence are also making their way into the headlines. Workers from around the country unite to protest peacefully for better conditions in the workplace. Towards the beginning of the novel, we are swept into the lives of three girls, each speaking in different tongues and from different countries. However, somehow each one shares something in common, a yearning for a purpose. Timid Bella has just arrived in the land of opportunity, America, only to discover that this new land is not always paved with gold. On the other hand, headstrong Yetta is determined to change the world in some form. At the same time, elegant Jane lives in luxury, but passionately seeks more than her father’s wealth can offer. As the book begins, the author focuses primarily on their separate lives, but later weaves each of these together to set a premise for a monumental conclusion. The three girls join together about midway through the book to unite in their cause, worker’s rights. Fighting peacefully each day for better working conditions in New York’s crowded factories, the characters experience fear and pain in their quest for justice. However, a terrible tragedy holds the power to tear them apart forever. Haddix keeps readers hanging on to each word throughout. I found that the many setbacks of the characters only added to the overall product and believe our modern world could learn a lot from the perseverance and hope conveyed in the book. The Shirtwaist Factory Strike is a main focus, but the author never strays away from human emotions and experiences despite the book’s historical background. Readers who enjoy the Dear America series will delight in this powerful portrayal of life in the twentieth-century U.S. Although intended for a young adult audience, it is my belief that anyone searching for a good historical read, regardless of age, will thoroughly enjoy this book. However, one must consider the intended age before choosing Uprising as their latest reading endeavor. The story offers many historically accurate details, which pairing with the plot, create a stunning presentation.Overall I found this book entrancing, and struggled to put it down each day. It is a great representation of the power of perseverance and hope.
