Fiction
In his book Meaning, Galer wrote, “God created the human race as an experiment; He wanted to see if life was capable of creating for Him. Ultimately, He wanted us to produce beauty.” I felt that I had failed Him. I had been practicing from a young age, yet my music remained mostly devoid of beauty. And despite that fact, I continued to practice. “It’s for my family,” I would always tell myself when I listened to myself play. I wasn’t referring to my mother or father, but to my mid-family, the Burkes. The Burkes have been famed for their music for the past 60 years (before that, they weren’t really famous for anything). The most well-known singer’s name was John Burke Raymond. The best composer was Sophia Burke Kasparov. Burkes weren’t just everywhere in the music world. They entirely comprised it. Even my music teacher, Ms. Tilson, was a Burke. She was very good at being a Burke. She didn’t just play well; she played with a captivating, eccentric style. She would be famous if only her personality didn’t reflect that to quite the extreme that it did. She was almost crazy. I have never felt like a Burke. My music was bitter to the ears. People sometimes asked me if my viola was broken. The pastor who gave me my middlename at baptism continued to insist that he had given me the correct one. The pastor was a Follower of Galer who had converted from an older religion after being “shown the way” by older Followers. As a result, he had no middlename. He went by Papa Chris, and everyone in town going back two generations loved him. One night, after a particularly bad concert for the town’s Winter Festival, when I was eleven, I asked Papa Chris if he was sure that he hadn’t made a mistake in choosing my middlename. “Of course not! I can see you improving every day!” he said. He was lying. I’m not sure why he lied, but the forced smile on his face made the lie clear. “Even my mom winced!” I said in protest, as if I had a point to prove. He went on to assure me that I would get better over time. Even Burkes weren’t always prodigies, after all. Despite his reassurance, my viola still sounds like its voice is cracking whenever I try to play. The night after the concert I dreamt I was dancing across the surface of a viola dressed in ballet clothes, desperately trying to keep up with the flawless music. It ended with me falling off the edge into the dark abyss. These midnight terrors continue to this day: the most recent example involved me playing music for a party of fiery demons who would cook me alive if I failed. Unreality, Galer’s book on dreams, says that dreams of this sort (dreams in which the subject is forced to do something for a party of festive demons) usually represent a need for flight. Unreality is not his most religious work. My best friend then was Jonah Rosedale Beatty. The Rosedales were known for being aristocratic. They were envied by most, and they had formed a tight alliance among themselves over time. Rosedales often came to resent their status as much as it was envied by others. Jonah, who hardly believed that he would become rich because of his Rosedale name, often joked about his place in society. When I would desperately attempt to play my music, he would cheer me on by saying, “When I become rich, I’ll make you my head musician!” This made us both laugh, but I secretly wished that it would come true. I would daydream about conducting an orchestra in Jonah’s mansion, being applauded by the nation’s most powerful. It was one of the few things motivating me to continue. Jonah had to leave last year. The riots in our city were getting especially bad, and Rosedales were the main target. As a result, Rosedale leaders started paying for their fellow Rosedales, whom they saw as their nieces and nephews, to leave the rioting cities. We lived in one of the safest parts of town, in a very open space where almost everybody was contented, but Jonah’s paranoid parents took the money anyway. A few months ago, I received this letter from Jonah: Dear Head Musician, The country is very boring. I can’t tell my parents because that would be ungrateful, so I decided to send you a letter. A lot of the kids here are Rosedales like me. It’s the only thing we can really bond over. One of them, Mason, is from our school in the city. Do you remember Mason? I didn’t until he approached me. I never even knew that he was a Rosedale! The people in the countryside are excited to have us all here. They seem to be under the false impression that we’ll draw people out into their towns. They think that wherever Rosedales go, everyone else will follow. Given how much people seem to hate us, I wouldn’t agree. The weather out here is usually very sunny and dry. In the winter, there was no snow. My parents say that I’ll be able to visit them this winter. I guess we’ll be able to see each other again! I’ll be excited to see how much my chief musician has improved! Please write back! Yours truly, Jonah “ When I become rich, I’ll make you my head musician!. It took me a month to write back. I wrote a very short letter because I honestly couldn’t think of much to say. I was especially reluctant because I didn’t want to admit that I had not improved at all. Here is my letter: Dear Jonah, If you were hoping for improvement, you will probably be disappointed. It will be a while before I’m prepared to be your Head Musician. It is good to hear that you are
Fiction
Douglas Wamboldt stared at the scrap of paper in his hand, careful not to crumple it. The words “Noodle Palace” were inked onto the paper in his associate’s flowing handwriting. The cool night wind blew steadily, sending discarded newspapers and flyers down the deserted street. He stood in front of his destination hesitantly. The sign flickered, illuminating the words “Noodle Palace” for just a few seconds before flickering off. This was the place. Douglas hurried toward the door, desperate to get away from the biting chill of the evening. He pushed open the door to be assaulted with different aromas of food. The restaurant was steamy and surprisingly nearly empty. Five booths lined the far wall and a few small tables were squeezed into the space. He approached the woman behind the counter nervously. Her eyes were sunken, and hard and grey like stone. Her dark hair escaped her bun in coarse, thin strands that hung limply around her face. An old scar lined the skin above her right eyebrow. Douglas fidgeted with his tie and the scrap of paper. She watched him impatiently before Douglas leaned forward and whispered to her, “I’m here for the goggles? The imagination goggles, I mean. The ones that let you—” “Shut up,” she snapped at him. “Follow me.” She swung herself over the counter with ease and latched onto Douglas’s wrist, her fingernails digging into his skin. She led him to the back of the store, past the bathrooms and through a door. This door opened up to a stairwell, which she dragged Douglas down quickly. At the bottom of the stairs, a man at a desk sat waiting. The woman shoved Douglas toward the desk and hurried back up the stairs. Douglas rubbed his sore wrist and neared the man at the desk, so far confused with his treatment as a customer. The man sported a buzz cut, dark skin, and an intimidating stature. “Name?” the man inquired. Douglas stood up straighter, collecting any pride and resolve he had left. “Douglas Wamboldt.” “You wouldn’t happen to know a Celia Spencer, would you?” Douglas added. “Unlikely.” The man shook his head. “But, you see, she’s been here before. She told me about it.” “Most of our customers tend to feel unsafe leaving their real names with us.” “Oh,” Douglas responded. “Is there anything for me to sign?” “Regarding the legality of this business, no. However, going into this, you should know that these goggles are not toys. They are basically untested technology and can be dangerous.” Douglas stiffened, beginning to feel very apprehensive and regretful. “I see.” Still, Celia had recommended it as a way to get out of his head and escape his many anxieties, for a change. “That being said, loosen up. Have some fun, Wamboldt. Youth is precious. Not everyone gets a second go at being a kid.” Douglas nodded. “Ready?” He nodded again. “Right this way, then,” the man guided him. They walked down a dimly lit hallway and paused in front of the fourth door on the left. The man pulled out a ring of keys from his pocket and searched for the right one. “You’ll be going into Kitchen 2. It looks like your basic kitchen, but with these…” He produced a pair of thick-lensed goggles equipped with dials and gears installed in the frame. “It’ll look like a whole new world.” Douglas swallowed his fear and delicately grabbed hold of the goggles. “How long do I get?” “As your friend, I’d recommend under 20 minutes for your first try, but as a businessman, I’d recommend 45 minutes,” the man answered honestly. “Can’t I do any longer?” “We don’t know what’ll happen after an hour. We want to keep you somewhat safe.” Douglas cocked his head in confusion. “What could be so bad about the innocence of imagination?” Ignoring his question, the man unlocked the door. “Remember, we’ve enhanced the overactive imagination of a child, so time will also feel exaggerated. We’ll give you a stopwatch. When it beeps, your time’s up. To turn them on, just say ‘activate’ and say ‘deactivate’ once you’ve finished.” The man set the stopwatch and placed it on Douglas’s wrist. Douglas nodded, beginning to tense up in anticipation. “How much is it?” “$450.” Douglas placed the folded bills into the man’s palm. “Best of luck, Wamboldt.” The man began to count the money. “The door will lock automatically once you’re inside to keep you safe.” Douglas gulped and placed the goggles on his nose. He took tentative steps into Kitchen 2 and took in his surroundings. The kitchen had a traditional white tile floor, along with a pantry, a microwave, an oven, a counter, several cabinets, and a table with four seats. “A-activate,” Douglas stammered. He cleared his throat before trying again. “Activate.” The goggles flickered, startling Douglas. The click of the lock sounded with finality. The experience had begun. Before him, the kitchen seemed the same, but his eyes felt different. They were supercharged with excitement and playful energy. He felt the youth coursing through his body, all the way down to his fingertips and toes. His eyes sought out entertainment in the room. They were almost hungry for it. It didn’t take him very long before the young eyes latched onto a broomstick that was leaning up against the floral wallpaper. His mouth stretched to form a rare smile and his legs were ordered by his eyes to move. He gripped its plastic handle, and just like magic, he was no longer standing in Kitchen 2. The setting of his adventure had switched like a slideshow. A dense and hilly forest now surrounded him. His suit had transformed into an explorer’s uniform. In his hand was a sleek rifle, waiting to be fired. Through the brush, Douglas spotted a fluffy hare a few feet away. He lifted the gun and fired, catching his target right in the chest. A brisk wind swept through the woods and Douglas let
Fiction
The Mystical Creatures of Blue Spout Bay
Viola, clad in her tight scuba mask and with the weight of her oxygen tank pulling her towards the water, leaned over the edge of her small boat, and fell through the soft, smooth surface of the bay. Viola adjusted her eyes to the pale sunlight streaking the sands and oriented herself as she did every day. A fish, a common Gray Spout, swished by her face, narrowly missing. That’s funny, she thought, Gray Spouts are usually predators, but this one seems to be running away from something. Just as she finished her thought, Viola saw a streak of glittering orange fly by her eyes. She looked after it and saw a fish that looked to be made of solid gold, unlike anything she had seen during her life by the sea. Viola had come by plenty of goldfish in her day, but nothing quite so massive. The girl immediately kicked off from a bit of coral, rocketing after the fish. Because the creature was going at a breakneck pace, it was quite a challenge for Viola to catch up to it, and the Gray Spout was long gone by the time she did. Viola watched the golden beauty retire into a home in a rock and disappear from sight before she realized what was living around it. Beautiful glittering seaweed towered above her, as far as the eye could see. It shimmered like nothing the girl had ever seen, and continued on in every direction. It was like a forest bathed in bright, full sunlight, the same color as that fish. Daisy would love this, she thought, thinking of her sister lying in her bed, yearning for the waves they had so loved in their childhood. Viola snapped out of her awe and cut a small piece of the plant to inspect later, tucking it into a pocket in her wetsuit for further examination. She swam up, finally surfaced, and saw her boat nearly a mile away. Viola began the long journey home. * * * Viola arrived home, hair damp and very exhausted as she did every day. “Daisy, I’m home,” she shouted. “I’m up here, right where I always am,” a soft voice called back. Viola leapt up the stairs, the seaweed in hand. It had a lovely odor, not one of salt water, but one of warm sunny mornings, a breath of fresh air. “Look what I found,” Viola exclaimed as she entered her sister’s room. Daisy lay in her bed, very weak and pale from having been sick for one year. Viola showed her the plant, and the girl’s face lit up. “It’s incredible,” she gasped. “Where did you find it?” “Out on the reef,” Viola explained, telling Daisy of her adventures. “I wish I could go with you,” said Daisy. “I miss the days when we went diving together. But that plant, it smells fantastic! I wonder. . . Could you perhaps make a wonderful tea with it?” Viola figured that it couldn’t hurt to try, and the seaweed seemed so magical. . . If there was anything that could help her sister heal, it was the mysterious plant. She boiled some water and steeped the plant in it, then gave it to Daisy. To Viola’s relief, her sister didn’t die, but nothing else happened either. She called Max and in the meantime she began to inspect the plant. * * * “Mornin’,” Max called as he stepped into the lab that Viola had made from the basement; he could always count on finding her there. “Max, you’ll never guess what I found!” Viola exclaimed, stepping aside so he could look through the microscope the plant lay under. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured as he peered through the glass. “I found it out on the reef,” she explained. Suddenly, she heard a shout from above. Viola sprinted up to Daisy’s room where she stood, overwhelmed with joy, staring at her reflection in a small hand-mirror. “Are you alright, Daisy?” “Look at me,” she said, trembling. “I look like I did before. . .” Her voice trailed off. “Before you were sick,” Viola finished, noticing for the first time that Daisy’s cheeks were rosier, her thin face and limbs were no longer thin. She felt happiness that she hadn’t felt since a year ago. “Daisy, you’re not sick anymore!” she exclaimed, hugging her sister closely. At a floorboard creak, Viola turned and saw Max, stunned. “Imagine how much money you could make from this,” he said, but in a tone Viola had never heard from him before. He sounded as though he had a horrible idea. Viola suddenly regretted telling Max of the seaweed, remembering what he had done a year ago, when Viola had discovered a new sort of fish. Max had taken it and sold it to a marine biology center, which named the fish after him. Max told her he needed the money to help his dad recover from a broken leg, but his expensive car and the fact that she had seen his father up and walking the next day said otherwise. Before she went to bed, Viola took the seaweed and laid it in her bedside table, where no one could get to it. “ If there was anything that could help her sister heal, it was the mysterious plant Maybe I’m overreacting, she thought. Max had been a good friend to her when her parents left them, when she had studied to become a marine biologist and turned her basement into a lab, when her sister fell ill. He had apologized extensively for the mix-up and said he had gone back to try and change the name of the fish, but why then had it stayed the same? * * * Viola expected to sleep that night like she never had before, without worry over
Fiction
Oswald awoke, as he did every day, to the grating sounds of his alarm clock buzzing insistently, until he swatted the off button with his hand. He really would have rather slept in, and, as he frequently found himself doing, he wished he could whack his ten-hours-younger self for setting the infernal alarm the previous night. But he knew that today he couldn’t sleep in, no matter how much he wanted to. Today was The Day of Waters, the annual festival within his isolated Community. It was repeated each year as celebration of all that they had accomplished since the founding of the Community six years ago, although why their current state was worth celebrating was too difficult for Oswald to fathom. Although he didn’t feel like attending, the festival was a city-wide holiday, and attendance at the big ceremony was mandatory for all citizens. So what choice did he have, really? Plus, there was free, quality food, a rare luxury in modern society. He kicked off the thin sheet he had lain under, sweating voluminously. He sat up, and walked to the bathroom to get a towel. He despised the weather, which had grown increasingly hotter since the ice caps had melted and started this whole nightmare. He glowered, remembering a vacation he had once taken, travelling to Hawaii for a week. Nobody could ever do that again, though, since all of the islands were underwater. He pulled on a pair of light grey shorts and a thin short sleeve shirt. Even how people dressed had changed. Although the seasons’ names didn’t change, not for any reason other than nostalgia, they became fundamentally different from how they used to be. As the atmosphere trapped more heat, the hotter it became, no matter what season. Snow doesn’t fall on the vast majority of the world, and in some places it is too hot for all but those with nowhere else to go, barely clinging to humanity, and their life. Tapping his thumb against the pad to the left of the doorframe, Oswald trudged outside into the austere hallways of the Community. Many factors lent themselves to the feeling of cold emptiness that seemingly clung to the walls of the Community. There was the lack of plants, due to how inhospitable the hot environment had become to most plants. There were also very few windows showing outside the Community, but this was because there was nothing to look at. The extreme heat had dried out all of the plants in the vicinity, and the only source of water, a landlocked lake, was isolated from the terrain by the technology of the Community, which periodically siphoned some of the lake’s pure water. The lack of plant life had severe effects on the ecosystem. Much of the flora died due to lack of things to eat, and without plants to hold it down, dust swirled around the barren landscape like the souls of the dead plants and animals. Not that it mattered—after all, because the Community was located in rural Nevada, crisis or no, there would still be nothing but dirt and sand to look at. Oswald reached the end of the stark hallway and pressed a button, signaling for an elevator. This wasn’t actually the worst it could get, he begrudgingly accepted. The Community, a safe house for people displaced by the disaster that had gripped the Earth in its hand, was one of the most well-equipped communities in the world. It housed over 10,000 refugees inside its shining walls and had stockpiles of food to last for ten years. Not that it needed it, though; the Community was self-sustaining. It grew crops beneath the compound, and collected rain water as well as purified the water from the nearby lake. And besides, it would all be over in about five years anyways. The elevator beeped, and the doors slid open, letting Oswald step inside. The elevator was already full of members of the Community, most of whom were dressed more elegantly than Oswald. The stainless steel doors slid closed, and the elevator rocketed up, fast approaching the Parlor. With another resolute ding, the elevator stopped, and the elegantly dressed party-goers disembarked. The Parlor was the fanciest section of the Community, which is to say that there was no stainless steel in sight. Today it was filled with cushy red folding chairs, each facing the stage, where a classical orchestra was playing. Later in the day, the High Chancellor of the Nevada Community would be giving his Day of Waters address there. For the time being, though, the seats were empty, and all of the guests were bustling around, talking and eating. Oswald waded his way through the crowd of people, grabbing a cheesy potato gratin from a passing server as he walked. Or rather, it was a substitute for potato, since most of the potatoes had been submerged when the ice caps melted, raising the water level more than 200 feet over what it had been previously. Oswald’s stomach growled hungrily as he neared the food table. The table was covered with an assortment of foods, as exotic as they came these days. Although the Community couldn’t serve any fish, sushi, or shrimp, as a result of the toxicity of the water, they made up for it by training skilled chefs to create top of the line pastries and elegant meals. But that didn’t stop Oswald from craving sushi. He swiped a bear claw from the table and contemplated all the foods he couldn’t eat anymore. Seafood was an impossibility, more trouble than it was worth; when the climate grew warmer, the permafrost in Alaska melted, revealing a nasty surprise for the people of Earth: there were about 800 million kilograms of mercury hiding there. That, coupled with rising waters, proved to be a disaster. Countries scrambled to contain the mercury, but they were too late, and it leached into the water, killing almost all ocean life in a span of
Memoir
During my visit to Tucson, Arizona during the winter break, I had many close encounters with cacti on the hiking trail, including getting pricked by a jumping cholla cactus. However, I decided to research possibly the most iconic cactus in the world: the massive saguaro cactus. The saguaro cactus is not very common; it is only found in Arizona and parts of northern Mexico. The Sonoran Desert in Arizona is one of the few places with naturally growing saguaro cacti. Saguaro cacti are amazing plants. For one thing, large saguaro cacti are incredibly valuable. This is because it takes a saguaro cactus several hundred years to grow to that size. In fact, the signature “arms” of the saguaro actually don’t grow until the cactus is at least 60-years-old. The saguaro cactus has a unique, accordion-like skin texture that can expand to gather more water in wet weather. Amazingly, some can expand up to 16 inches during a rainy season. Yet another adaptation that the saguaro and some other desert plants have developed is a thin web of roots just below the surface. This allows them to capture rainwater even if deeper soil is not very saturated. Weather significantly affects the growth of a cactus’s arms. If a winter is unusually cold, the cold could weaken an arm and make it sag. If the damage is not too severe, the arm will continue growing in its new direction. The saguaro flower, the state flower of Arizona, is typically only open for one day. When it is open in the day, it is pollinated by various birds and insects, including bees and white-winged doves. At night, it is pollinated by lesser long-nosed or Mexican long-tongued bats. The spines of a saguaro are very unique adaptations. While they resemble, say, a hedgehog’s spines, they are actually modified leaves. Their first purpose of the spines of a saguaro is fairly obvious—to protect them from predators. But this does not deter all predators. For example, javelinas (a type of wild pig), tortoises, and pack rats are unfazed by the painful spines. The main reason that the leaves of a saguaro have evolved into spines is that spines lower the transpiration rate, or the rate at which water is lost via water vapor. Stomata are minute pores on leaves, which allow water vapor to escape. Since saguaro spines have no stomata, the transpiration rate is reduced. The third purpose of a saguaro’s spines, surprisingly, is to provide shade for the cactus. While a single spine does not seem to provide much shade, multiply that spine by one hundred or one thousand, and you will realize how much help these spines provide. The shade these spines provide helps lower the surface temperature of a cactus, which lowers the amount of water lost to the atmosphere. The way a cactus has evolved to life in the desert is quite amazing. I can never forget the sight of hundreds of towering saguaros standing in the Sabino Canyon near Tucson. Despite their daunting appearances, they provide shelters to little birds and reach their arms out as if to welcome people to the Sonoran Desert.
Memoir
I walked out onto the balcony. I was barefoot and the balcony was hot, so I was jumping around. We were in South Carolina to see the eclipse. My dad put a blanket on the floor so I didn’t burn my feet. I swiftly jumped onto it to save my poor feet from being burned by the intense heat. I then put on my special eclipse glasses. Now I could carelessly look at the sun without blinding myself. I saw the moon hovering over the bright sun, one quarter of the way to totality. I ducked down, and my mom handed me some cold, refreshing iced tea we had gotten just for this occasion. I learned about the stages of a total solar eclipse on a NASA website. P1 is called first contact. The moon looks like it is touching the sun but it’s actually not covering it at all. When it was halfway to totality, I ducked down again, took off my glasses and gazed at the ground, wondering what totality would be like. Maybe an explosion of blinding light? A dark light? I imagined in my head what would happen. Now, at three-fourths the way to totality, it was much colder and much darker, like sitting under an umbrella. I slurped my iced tea and put on my special glasses, then I stared at the eclipse in amazement. For some reason, my mouth was wide open. I ducked down, removed my glasses, and pretended to be a tour guide. "Shade break. A beautiful experience," I said to my sister. She laughed. P2 is second contact. It looks like the moon is covering the sun and there are more sun rays than the sun, but the sun still shows. It is the last instant before totality. It usually looks like a diamond ring! I drank some iced tea and gurgled it in my mouth. Racing the clock, I put my glasses back on and looked up right in time to see... TOTALITY! In an explosion of light, the sun and moon seemed to pop out, then arranged themselves into a beautiful, shimmering, ghostly ring. Everyone around me cheered. My dad took pictures by putting his glasses onto his camera lens. I could not believe it. Totality is the point when the moon covers the sun completey so you can only see the sun rays. Totality can only be seen in a path of totality, which is less than ten miles wide but sometimes more than 10,000 miles long. Totality only occurs because the sun’s radius is approximately 400 times the radius of the moon, and the moon is approximately 400 times closer to the earth than the sun. This makes the sun seem smaller than the moon, so the moon can "cover the sun." Afterwards, when the moon started to show the sun again, sunglasses were not needed anymore. Totality was really fun. P3 is third contact. It looks like a mirror image of the diamond ring. It is the moment right after totality ends. P4 is fourth contact. It looks like a mirror image of First Contact. It is the first moment after totality where the sun is not being covered by the moon, but some of the sun rays are. Later on, I thought more about eclipses. I was amazed at the sun's brightness in the beginning and the darkness during totality. I would like to see an eclipse again and share my experience with others. I wondered what others thought of the eclipse and if they liked it as much as I did.
Memoir
There is a need for organ donors all over the world. Many people lie in hospital beds hoping for a replacement organ. There just aren’t enough available, and no wonder. To get just a few, someone young and healthy would have to die in a way that doesn’t affect their organs. In the U.S. alone, an average of 10 people die every day because there weren’t organs for them. Scientists have worked with this problem for a while. First, they turned to animals like the monkey as donors. But most of these experiments failed. In 1984, scientists transplanted a baboon heart into a newborn. The heart seemed to work at first, but baby Fae lived for only 20 days. Two more men with livers transplanted from monkeys only lived a little longer, one living for 70 days and the other for 26. These experiments failed because our immune systems recognize the transplanted organs as foreign and attack them. Recently, however, scientists have had a breakthrough, not with apes, but with…pigs! Pigs have organs of similar size to ours, and they have the same functions. But, as with the ape organs, there are problems. The two main issues are that pig cells are coated with a distinctive sugar that alerts our immune system that there’s an intruder, and that the pig genome carries dormant viruses that could hurt humans. These viruses are called Porcine Endogenous Retroviruses, or PERVs. For this problem, scientists use a gene-editing technique called CRISPR. They are now able to knock out the gene for the sugars on the cells, and some groups are identifying and trying to cut out some of the PERVs. It’s a huge task. But progress has been made. One team of scientists identified 45 genes that need to be removed. On August 10th, 2017, 37 piglets lacking some PERVs were born in China. 15 survived. Another big step forward was the creation of a pig lacking 3 PERV genes. 30% of patients should be able to host those organs. Even though the technology has leapt forward, I wouldn’t count on a porcine organ anytime soon. Scientists have only gotten to testing the pig organs on apes, and those experiments have had mixed results. And even if they could identify all the PERVS and remove them and successfully create a litter of pigs missing the PERVS, there’s no guarantee hospitals and doctors would accept replacement organs from pigs. The scientists definitely have a long battle ahead of them.
Poem
Once, In the middle of nowhere There hid a Tiny speck of dust Smaller than The smallest microbe. With all the playful energy The miniscule pinprick contained, It couldn’t wait A single moment longer To meet the world And make new friends. So The tiny speck of dust Exploded, Launching a shower Of vibrant reds, Oranges, And yellows Into the swirl of gloom above. And that was how The universe began. Glamorous stars Blinked at each other In the inky night sky. Bits of cast off rock, Large and small, Sped around the stars Like race cars. More and more rocks joined; The racetrack became too packed And the charging rocks collided Until gradually, Planet Earth Emerged from the chaos. Back then, Our home planet Was a totally different world. Infuriated asteroids and meteorites Crashed into the Simmering surface. But planet Earth Tired of its intense workout, Finally settled down, Falling into rhythm Around the sizzling sun. All of a sudden, A stray ball of rock Came hurling through outer space, A furious untamed lion Ready to devour all in its path. But our newborn planet Fought back, Cracking the foreigner into pieces, Sending a spurt Of dusty stone Into the air. But the fight was not over yet-- Some of the stone Was squashed into a ball, Forming our Now dearest companion, The moon. Sights of life Finally appeared on Earth. Molecules linked together, And as more joined, Began to make Replicas of themselves. Membranes formed Around these molecules By fatty by-products. And humans finally made Their first appearance As invisible Single-celled organisms. This, Reader, Is how our dazzling universe, Full of all its stunning wonders, Came to be.
Poem
I wonder why we call bats “bats”— why do we call them that? I wonder why little kids burp and crickets chirp and why snow is in the winter. Speaking of snow, why is it called snow and not sand? Why is music sometimes called a band? And why do people walk on land? And why do they die or cry or get mad or sad?Why are we the ones that can talk and the ones that have technology? Why aren’t hedgehogs a sophisticated species? Why do spiders give you the creepies? It doesn’t seem right to me, why the world is this way. I think the world should be different but I can’t make hedgehogs talk or fish walk. So I think that I will just burrow under the earth inspect the workings of the world and see what makes the world this messed-up way. But I kind of like the world this way— just a little. So I will stay here where I am and watch the flow.
Poem
Many things are true, I know this is, too: there is no cold, there is only the absence of heat. Heat is a fluid thing that has no form except for life-saving warmth. Cold only happens when heat is not there. Cold is not a thing. It is a happening that makes the body shiver and shake. Heat relieves that pain, makes you sweat (and sweat can be a nuisance) but it is just heat reassuring you that it will always be there.
Honor Roll
Stone Soup Honor Roll: September 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. HONORABLE MENTION IN THE 2018 SCIENCE FICTION CONTEST “The Transmitter,” Sabrina Guo, 12 “Holding On,” by Macy Li, 12 “Shhh” by Harper Miller, 11 FICTION Madaline Moren, 9 MJ Lyon, 10 Melody Falcone, 11 Sri Koneru, 11 Anya Nasveschuk, 10 Riley Brodie, 12 Makayla Doyle, 10 Emma Russell-Trione, 13 POETRY Helena Kondak, 13 Esme Barker, 10 Rose Olshan, 9 Alyssa Schofield, 12 Kaia Hutson, 11 ART Nicole Qian, 13
