Fiction
Weirdly, I find Butterflies very interesting. Butterflies are quite beautiful and elegant. Maybe I like them because they were the first things I could draw besides shapes. Also it’s because my aunt taught me how to release a butterfly. But butterflies are bugs, and I hate bugs. During summer break, I went to China and stayed at my aunt’s apartment for about a week. I learned that my aunt loved bugs and mainly butterflies. She took me outside one day to find butterfly eggs. I remember she said, “Every egg brings new life into the world and no life should be wasted.” These words were inspiring. I went to sleep gazing out the window at the shining spiderwebs that seemed to have jewels on them. I heard Pidian, my aunt’s dog coming. Pidian is old and always stares at me with a questioning expression. She gazes out at the sky with me also thinking silently. I wonder if dogs have feelings and thoughts inside. Maybe bugs do too. I observed her Butterflies and cocoons and caterpillars daily. The caterpillars were all different. Each with a unique marking. As I watched them more, I learned to like them more. I started to like them more and more. “Do bugs have feelings ?” I asked my aunt. “Well, if they have brains I suppose that they have feelings,” she responded. “Why do you help them?” I asked. “Well not all people are helpful, but small things help the world to be a better place you know,” said my aunt. The next day, my aunt took me to find more eggs and caterpillars. We finally found one which was green and sparkly. Suddenly, a downpour of water from the gutter hit the tiny thing. My aunt brought it in, hoping it would live. The next day, the caterpillar was no more. Overnight it had turned into a beautiful cocoon, leaf green with golden sparkles. It hung on a branch silently. It is waiting to go into the next part of its life. I wonder what it’s thinking about. Pidian trots in and sits next to me for a while. It too is watching the golden spotted cocoon. It trots under my aunt’s bed, tired of watching and observing. One of my aunt’s butterflies is golden. Like an angel. That one, I can tell, is very happy to have wings and a meaning in life to someday have its own babies and for them to live on. Then, finally, after one week, something happened. My cocoon had started to move. Slowly, like waking up from a deep slumber, was a butterfly. It’s wings were magnificent. They were sapphire blue with pitch black edgings, but it wasn’t free just yet. It couldn’t fly just yet. When the sun was directly above our heads, we set it free. I stuck my hand in, and it backed away as if it wasn’t sure if it wanted to leave. Finally, it cautiously walked on my hand, and I lifted it out of the box. It fluttered in the sunshine and caught a breeze to a new kind of life. I could feel myself glowing with happiness inside, and as I went inside I was sure that there was a smile on my face. Because today I learned that everything has a meaning in life. Sometimes Pidian falls and gets up or gets into some sort of trouble, but I always help it, just as I would for any other being. I know that Pidian remembers the butterfly and knows that it too, has come to this world with a purpose.
Fiction
I open my eyes and hear a Song Thrush outside. When I was little, my grandfather taught me the names of all the local birds and how to recognize them. His favourite was the Tree Swallow. He loved its shiny green feathers and the way it swooped and flew in the sky. I glance at the clock on the wall; it says 6:30am. I get slowly out of bed, not wanting to go to school. Last Thanksgiving, Mrs. Kent asked the class to write an essay about something for which we were thankful. Most kids wrote about being thankful for having TVs or the latest computer games. I wrote about my grandfather. He died in October. He was my best friend. We would go to the apple orchard together to eat apples while we bird-watched. But this autumn we didn’t get to go because he was sick and a couple of weeks later he died. My life crumbled, like an old wall too tired to keep standing up, once he was gone. In the essay I spilled my feelings (sadness, fear, dread, anger, questions, spite, longing, and darkness) onto the paper, not knowing that the teacher was going to read them outloud. So, when she did, it kind of scared the class and startled the teacher. They didn’t know how to react to what I wrote so they started to avoid me even more than before. I was never one of the group, but when Grandpa was alive it didn’t matter because he was the only friend I needed. I drag on a pair of jeans and my orange turtleneck. I shuffle down the corridor into the kitchen where Mum is putting a bowl of oatmeal on the table for me. “Sorry Sweetie, but I have to go to work,” she calls as she shuts the front door. “Have a good day!” “Bye,” I mumble in response. It’s not her fault she has to go to work so early. Since Grandpa died, I’ve gotten used to being alone. I pour myself a glass of apple juice and eat my oatmeal. The sun has just started to golden the sky, rays of light seeping through the curtains. I make my lunch, grab my backpack and pull on my red and orange poncho. Out of the house the cool breeze caresses my nose and cheeks. I get my bike out of the garage. It’s leaf green and rather muddy. In the spring air, on my bike, with the wind whipping my face, I feel like a bird. My grandfather used to say I was like a Tree Swallow, flying free, soaring into the clouds. After riding down the hill I go straight on a dusty path, then I turn right onto a track that runs the side of a field. By now the sun has really started spreading its light on the world. Jumping off my bike, I leave it leaning against a bush. I throw my backpack next to it and rush to my oak in the middle of the field. Its gigantic arms are waving at me. I wave back and climb up to the first big branch. Taking the next branch in my hands, I swing myself up. Up and up I go. Leaves brushing my hair and branches scratching my face. Reaching the top is always the best, the reason I climb my oak every day. To see the world as if I am on top of it. I’m sitting on the very last branch (it’s a bit flimsy but I don’t weigh much). From up here I can see the rolling hills and the mountains beyond. As I look over the hills the cool wind ruffles my short brown hair. The wind up here is so much nicer than the wind down below. It’s always cool and carries the scent of the hills with it. I found this tree just after my grandfather died. At first I used it as a hide-away, and I still do, but now I come here to hide from the world, not just my grief. I wish I could let go of the branches and fly into the clouds. Not a worry in the world, nobody to tease me, not having to endure school where everyone avoids me. I would be free from all my troubles. I stay up for a long time and then look at my watch. Shoot! I’m going to be late. I scramble down the tree. “Ow!” A branch scratches my cheek. It stings. Shoot, shoot, shoot. I run full pelt to my bike, grabbing my bag as I launch myself onto it. I ride as fast as I can, hoping the bell won’t ring before I get to class. I pull open the classroom door just as the bell rings. My hair is windswept, my face is flushed and my cheek still stings a little but the man behind the desk doesn’t seem to notice. “Glad you made it,” he says. “Please take your seat.” I sit, wondering what’s going on. The man with the awesome ponytail behind the desk isn’t Mrs Kent. Someone kicks my chair and someone else whispers but then everybody quiets down as the man at the front starts to speak. “Good morning everybody. I’m going to be your replacement teacher for the rest of the year because Mrs. Kent has just had her baby. My name is Spencer Torents. I love words, dark coffee, and guitars. I also just got back from a month long bicycle trip in New Zealand. Now, I’d like to get to know you guys…” He’s probably going to get us to write a page about ourselves so he can “get to know us.” It’s not that I don’t like writing (I love writing!), it’s just that I’ve learned not to put anything real onto paper. “So, for homework I would like each and every one of you to make or bring something in that represents you.
Fiction
I stood on the top of the tall mountain, relishing every minute, every second, every moment. The cool breeze against my face, the wind toying with my umber coloured hair and the warm glow of the sun warming my skin… When I was surrounded by nature, by trees, flowers, valleys, rivers, and the forest teeming with life; when I was far away from the arguments between my parents, the furniture being thrown around, and the stress of my life, then I truly felt free. I sat down. I sat for a long, long time, watching the sun climb slowly up into the sky, its warm glow radiating onto the earth. A rock wren landed beside me, cocking its head. I smiled, watching as it hopped back and forth before spreading its wings and flying off. I sighed. I wished I could be free like a bird, free of worry. I was a mute; I could not speak. However, I went to a normal neighbourhood school, where schoolmates left me alone, ignored me like I did not exist. I didn’t mind, I preferred to have my own time anyway. I would sit patiently by the river in the school garden, my hands on my lap. My observant eyes and patience caught movements commonly unnoticed. I saw the sparrows collecting twigs and leaves for their nests, leaves falling from trees, squirrels storing nuts for the winter and ants working hard to build homes, bit by bit, one step at the time. Sensing how long I had stayed on the mountain, I looked at my watch, broken from my chain of thoughts. It was getting late and I had to head home for breakfast. Reluctantly, I stood up, enjoying the magnificent scenery for a while longer before carefully making my way down. I cautiously stepped on the rocks, slippery on the surface by the melted snow in the morning warmth. Spring was approaching. After walking downwards a few steps, I paused and squatted down by the stream near me and took a drink of water. The cool, clear water felt good as it ran down my throat. After the few mouthfuls of fresh water, I continued my progress down the rocky mountain. As I reached the valley, I could see my house ahead. It was a broken down building with an untended garden filled with weeds, and a hole in the roof where rain could sleep in. I took of my shoes and held them in my hands, walking barefooted in the soft grass. The grass pricked my feet, but yet it was soft, fuzzy and comforting. As I walked on, I thought I heard a rustle in the grass. I paused for a moment. There was no sound for a while, then the rustling resumed. Silently, I edged closer to the sound. Before I could edge any closer, I heard a shrill squeal and an Andean mountain cat came into view, dashing across the grass. It clutched a small bundle in its jaws, running with a slight limp in my direction. Upon closer inspection, I realised that it was bleeding on its hind leg. It was chased by a wolf with shaggy grey fur, almost close enough to deliver another bite. I looked around frantically for something to throw at the wolf, but couldn’t find anything. The wolf was gaining on the cat really fast. Then I had an idea. I reached into my backpack and drew out my purse. It contained tools I would need for survival if I ever needed them when I went out for an adventure in the wild. The purse was hard, but not too hard to hurt the wolf. Clutching it in my hands, I waited for a moment for a good aim and flung the purse at the wolf with all the strength I could muster. The purse hit the wolf’s skull, dropping onto the ground. The wolf whimpered and paused for a while, giving the mountain cat the time to run off. Realizing who had thrown the object, it spun around and advanced towards me. Slowly, I backed off and ran home as fast as my legs could carry me, slamming the front door behind me when I reached the broken-down building. It was then it dawned upon me that I had forgotten to retrieve my purse back. From the sofa, Dad glared at me. “You’re late,” he snapped. “Breakfast is on the table, turning cold.” I trooped into the kitchen, retrieving the packet from the kitchen table before walking out of the back door. I wondered if I could find my purse-and the cat. When I reached the field, the same spot where I last saw the cat, I sat down and munched on the sandwich. After a long while, I saw the grass part and the same mountain cat streaked past me. Curious, I followed the cat to see where it was going. I tailed the cat until it reached an overhanging rock. Inside lay an adorable baby Andean mountain cat. I looked at the older cat with big, grey eyes and mewed ever so softly. The cat picked up the kitten tenderly and dashed off. I followed the mountain cat. It didn’t seem to mind. The cat disappeared into a bush in the field. I peeked in and saw a litter of five kittens, all huddled together and mewing. I was surprised to realise that beside the litter lay my purse! The mountain cat picked up the purse tenderly in its jaws and handed it to me. Here, this belongs to you, thanks for saving my life. I stared at the cat, baffled. It seemed like it was talking to me, like I could hear its voice in my head. Indeed, I am talking to you. I attempted talking back to the cat. Thanks? I tried uncertainly. You’re welcome, the cat's reply sounded like a purr. Happy with my new discovery, I sat beside the family of six as I
Fiction
Descending. You go down, and as you go down the light begins to change. You notice scattered fish in the upper level. Then you see the yellow light that brightens the surface dim. As it dims, the creatures become darker, as if to blend in with their watery homes. Like a rain forest, the sea has levels, and as you go down it’s as if you are in an elevator. Every floor is like the changing of a color. You feel as if you are descending into your grandfather’s basement that is full of relics he obtained when he was a kid. Then you’ve reached it, the light switch in the basement. It brightens the room with wonder. You gasp as the large and gel-like silk body balloons past. You have never seen anything like it. Its limbs wave like spaghetti as you twirl it on your fork. Its body has slight color, you suppose, but you can’t be certain due to the lack of light. It looks a bit like velvet and you long to touch the large jellyfish but remembering that jellyfish usually sting, you retreat. Noticing that this one seems to have blubbery limbs, you begin to wonder. Then your question is answered. A fish swims down from above and you watch as the large jellyfish grabs the fish with its limbs instead of stinging it. It shoves the fish into its balloon of a body and relishes the taste. You study it, and as it begins to descend you follow. It descends. You descend. Then panting, the purple brightens and sunlight breaks through the dark. I wake up. The version of me in the dream dies. “I know it’s real!” I say. I rub the sleepy sand from my eyes as I slowly put on my slippers. I stare at the snowflake patterns for a second. Then I announce the declaration in my head that I made two minutes previous. I know it’s real! I shake my head as if to release the memories of my dream so that they fall out my left ear and land in a pool by my bed. But, unsuccessful with the extraction, I simply get up. I stumbled to the kitchen where my dad was making waffles in our Belgian waffle maker. The upturned belly of my cat gave me a smile, and I rubbed her as she purred with her face pressed against the heater. I then stood up and helped my dad with the waffles. As I poured the batter into the iron, I wondered why waffles were only made in one print of checkered squares instead of many different patterns. It seemed dumb to have a singular pattern. I wished I could eat a waffle that had birds flying across it or a large elephant eating a leaf. Then I thought of all the people in the world and their differences and how maybe we had in some era agreed to make waffles the same so that we could all be united by them. Maybe so that we could feel as if we were all sharing something because waffles had a standard, and we had created that together. Nodding to myself, I decided that that was the answer. Then I quickly ate my waffle as I read the front page of the news. My dad tugged the news away from me saying that my young eyes shouldn’t be infected with that rubbish. I sighed and stood up to get ready for school. After I had meticulously packed my school things in the order I would take my classes, I walked to the bus stop. There I met my friend Jez (short for Jezelle). “Judy!” she called. Looking up I smiled, but I noticed a group of kids surrounding her. Wondering how she could have possibly become popular in one night I ran over to her. There was a circle of mist around her from all of the open mouths that were breathing into the crisp air. Everyone was singing along to the song that Jezelle was playing from her iPod. They sang,”Hey Jude, don’t be afraid, take a sad song and make it better.” A smile broke across my chilled face because I realized that they were singing to me! I smiled at them all and as I did I thought way, way, way, back . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Judy was born on crisp November morning. The first few years of her life had been spent doing the usual things like learning words and burping. When she was five, she got a bike and it immediately became her best friend. When she was eight, she took interest in creating small board games, but after a kid named Walter destroyed her best one, she gave up. When she was nine, she became best friends with Jezelle and they have been friends ever since. But the most important thing in her life happened when she was eleven. Ten days after her eleventh birthday, her grandfather passed away. When sorting through his old things, she found a dust-covered journal. The journal held so many secrets that it took her the whole year to figure everything out. When she finally finished reading the journal, she read it again and once more after that. The journal told of many different sea creatures that were so foreign, few believed that they even existed. But Judy refused to just push them aside, even though her father had told her many times that no such creatures could possibly be real. Judy decided to take the matter into her own hands and began to look up many of the creatures on the internet. To her dismay, she could not find many of the creatures that were in the journal. She found references to a few, but the most profound one she discovered was a large jellyfish that had thick limbs and velvety looking
Poems
Soon, creatures will wake up. Soon creatures will go to sleep. Some will not wake up.
Poems
afternoon turns to evening we wait cockatoos call through rustling trees their voices harsh, jeering, even— as though mocking us with their secret language water strokes the land’s edge with little splashes—plop, plop. and then three white specks soar over the water and onto the trees beyond if we were close enough, we could hear the rustling of wings as they land instead, we imagine it as though encouraged more cockatoos make the journey we count the splashes of white as though they were stars— eighteen, nineteen, twenty— now a whole group has burst from their hiding place still more come the air a frenzied mass of white finally, with agonising slowness, the last one makes its way over the water to the trees beyond this one is the teenager, the rebel we watch as it flutters in mid-air before choosing a branch to settle on the water begins to whisper once more the trees resume their chatter satisfied, we leave behind us, a blanket of cockatoos stifles the trees
Honor Roll
Stone Soup Honor Roll: November 2017
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 Laurel Aronian, 10 Grace Artz, 11 Lila Burggrabe, 9 Isabelle Broman, 13 Ritam Chakrabarti, 9 Isabella Cooper, 9 Camilla Ehlert, 10 Tiffanie Goh, 12 Andrew Pang, 10 Abby Snyder, 12 Kalyani Spieckerman, 9 Sheerea Yu, 12 POEMS Michael Clinton, 12 Nadja Goldberg, 13 Alana Jacqueline, 12 Adam Kaminski, 12 Kaylia Roark-Hernandez, 12 Christian Wagara, 11 Orhan Hari Yildiz, 9 ARTWORK Grace Jiang, 13 Singyee Liu, 9
Book Reviews
Heart of a Samurai, by Margi Preus Abrams/Amulet: New York, 2010; $12.45 What would you do if you were stranded on an island with your friends and you were rescued by people you know as barbarians? Now you have to live with them. You must feel hopeless, dreadful, desperate. Step right into the shoes of Manjiro, a Japanese child isolated from the outside world. On his island, everyone calls Americans barbarians! And Americans were the ones that rescued him. Can you imagine that? And even worse, he can’t go back to his home in Japan. The book Heart of a Samurai by Margi Preus teaches people that just because everything is new, that doesn't mean they are in a barbaric or hopeless situation; people need to adapt. This book is based on a true story and is set during 1841, when whaling was an important part of the American economy. Manjiro, a Japanese child living on a remote Japanese island, finds himself stranded on another island after a storm during his fishing duty. He and his four friends were found by an American whaling boat and brought to the United States because the Japanese did not let anyone enter their borders regardless if they were Japanese or not. As I was reading this book, I thought back to when I was in second grade. I moved from California to Massachusetts. The entire situation for me seemed unfamiliar. I didn’t know who anybody was; I had no idea where I was and Massachusetts seemed like an alien place to me. It was like the people of California were no longer with me and I had a whole new unfamiliar life. No one knew me; I knew no one. This place to me was foreign, alien, new, strange, uncharted. But, my fear’s grip loosened when I slowly started to get used to the environment. Everything started to work out, bit by bit. Even though the scale of our relocations are different, I could connect a lot to how Manjiro felt when he was in America. But as Manjiro got used to America, he made it his home--just how I made Massachusetts my home. The author wrote this book mainly because Manjiro was the first Japanese citizen to learn English and go to America. During that time period, nobody knew what Japan was like and the Japanese didn’t know what the outside world was like. Until Manjiro. The world had a problem with connection and unity and Manjiro fixed the problem without even knowing it. That happened because he adapted to the environment unlike his friends who gave up and ran off without trying and persevering. After reading this, I could connect to Manjiro so much because of what I’ve been through. It made me rethink myself and capture memories of when I just moved here. This book portrayed adapting to new circumstances powerfully.
