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May 2019

Stone Soup Honor Roll: May 2019

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. FICTION Reiyah Jacobs, 13 Ella Jeon, 11 Lissa Krueger, 11 Haeon Lee, 11 Grace Malary McAndrew, 12 POETRY Gia Bharadwaj, 12 Rhône Galchen, 11 Harry Kavanaugh, 10 Uma Nambiar, 11 Billy Ren, 11 Christina Smyth, 11 ART Catherine Gruen, 12 Natalie Johnson, 13 Sarah Pledger, 12 Sophia Torres, 11 Valentine Wulf, 13  

Portraits: A Multi-Artist Portfolio

Editor’s Note In visual art, a portrait is traditionally a painting, drawing, or photograph that depicts a person’s face. Before photography was invented in the 1800s, people would usually commission portraits of their friends and family so as to have an image of the person they loved. Important and wealthy individuals—like the monarchs in Europe—might have many portraits painted of them throughout their lifetime. But a middle-class person might only have one or two. And someone in the lower class—perhaps none. So, for a long time, a portrait was associated with status. Today, a photographic portrait is cheap: you can get your best friend to take a professional- looking photo of you with your phone on ‘portrait’ mode. But, because of the time and skill required, the painted portrait still remains rare. An excellent portrait is not necessarily the one that most accurately or realistically portrays its subject; it is the one that somehow captures the subject’s inner being—that gives the viewer some sense of who that person is, not just what they look like. In this portfolio of portraits, four different artists are exploring the form in their own unique ways. By using a variety of materials to make up the face in her portrait, Sritanvee Alluri emphasizes how each of us is composed of different pieces of the world: of what we read, hear, watch, and think. In her two portraits, Amalia Ichilov uses soft, visible brushstrokes to create a more realistic—yet somewhat dreamy—representation of her subjects, who appear refreshingly ‘normal’, like someone you could run into on the street. Using Autodesk Sketchbook, a drawing and painting software, Leo Melinsky has turned his attention not to people but to dogs—and succeeds in capturing their personalities: Ernie—standing, mouth closed, looking off the page—appears high-strung and hyper-alert, waiting perhaps for someone to throw his ball, whereas Hazel—drooling, sitting, relaxed— seems easygoing. Finally, Isabella Webb, in painting Queen Elizabeth II, reminds us of the history of portraiture, with an image that captures the Queen’s friendly- but-always-formal attitude. Emma Wood   In Through One Ear and Out the Other, mixed media Sritanvee Alluri, 12Austin, TX Portrait of a Woman Standing Against a Blue Wall, oil pastel on paper Portrait of a Freckled Young Woman, oil pastel on paper Amalia Ichilov, 9New York, NY Ernie, Autodesk Sketchbook Hazel, Autodesk Sketchbook Leo Melinsky, 12Clayton, NC The Queen, oil paint Isabella Webb, 11Berkshire, UK

Gone Fishing

Chapter 1 I lay on my bed, wracked with worry. Horrible thoughts floated on my conscience. I buried my face in my pillow, my long hair spread over the silk. I tried pushing the thoughts away, with no luck. It was hard concentrating on anything these days. I had pushed my friends away, and spent less and less time with my mother. I knew she was worried too, but I had to admit I was angry. I play the scene over and over again in my head: why did it have to be my family to suffer? *          *          * A month ago, my life couldn’t have been more perfect. I had sat at the table waiting for Father to come home. Wonderful smells rose from the pot of stew. Cloves of dried garlic and mushrooms hung from the ceiling. The light of the setting sun seeped through the window, casting a warm glow on the kitchen. I watched as the soft figure of Mother stirred in herbs and spices, her long, strawberry-blonde hair flowing down her back. Like Father, I had a head full of flame-red hair and a face swarming with freckles. Mother was 18 weeks pregnant and her stomach was really starting to swell; I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have a sibling, if Father would love him or her more than me. Soon, the front door swung open with a creak and the tall figure of Father stood in the doorway. He set his bag down with a heavy thud and hung up his hat and scarf. He walked in, shaking the snow from his hair without speaking. It wasn’t like him. He sat down wearily as if the weight of the world was resting on his shoulders. I ran up and hugged him, clinging to the plush arm of the chair. I looked into his eyes, which seemed more tired than usual. He gave me a small smile and playfully rubbed my hair, though his smile faltered and a grim expression took its place. “Holly,” he said, turning to Mother. “I have some bad news to share with you and Lily.” Mother turned around calm as ever, and slowly sat down next to Father. Her presence was reassuring. I sat quietly and listened, a bad feeling creeping up my gut. But I wasn’t afraid then. Mother had that effect on people. “It’s my job,” Father said, looking down. “I got laid off today. I’m to collect my last paycheck tomorrow.” He looked up at us. “I’m really sorry. I s-should have tried harder.” Mother and I, we wrapped our arms around Father, unsure of what to think or of what lay ahead. I laid in bed staring at my wallpaper: bright colors beamed from my walls, fields of livid flowers, a small cottage bordered in a white picket fence. My eyelids felt heavy. Worried whispers floated through the floorboards. *          *          * That Sunday I woke up to warm smells coming from the kitchen. I walked down the stairs, floorboards squeaking under my feet. Father stood grinning with an apron tied around his waist. “Morning, sunshine!” he called and placed a bowl of oats in front of me. “Where’s Mother?” I asked. “She wasn’t feeling up to it this morning. She’s in her room right now. I think it would be wise to leave her alone for right now.”  That’s not like her, I thought. Mother was a put together, down-to-earth woman, and was always the calm one. I wondered what was upsetting her so much. “Don’t worry too much, Lily. I was thinking we could go fishing today, just the two of us. We will have to stop by town to get some bait before we head off, though.” We walked into town. I was dressed in a plain, light blue Sunday dress with a Peter Pan collar. It’s a nice dress, but not my best by far. It was perfect for a day of fishing. We walked down the cobblestone streets. I walked slightly behind Father. His tall figure perfectly hid me from the crowds. I slouched, keeping my head down, hoping to make myself seem smaller and less noticeable. I’m a shy girl, and talking to strangers was never my thing. Mother always told me how much I was like my father, but in my opinion we couldn’t have been more different. I watched as Father tipped his hat to a gentleman walking by with a polite “How do you do?” I cringed just thinking of a social interactions, and felt more grateful than ever for Father’s protective shadow. We loaded our little rowboat on a lake with our bait, fishing poles and lunches. Here on the lake, there was a peaceful silence, away from the crowds and people. Away from the vendors and markets. I felt safe here. It was Father’s and my special place here, where we had come so often. I climbed into the gently rocking boat and straightened my posture. Father rowed the boat off the shore, the paddles breaking the water’s surface, sending ripples out on the emerald lake. Fog spread across the lake, weaving its tendrils over the still waters. The outlines of faraway mountains were barely visible, green with all the lush vegetation. I breathed in the fresh air, smelling hints of pine and the familiar earthy smell. Ancient evergreens and willows stood tall along the shore watching over us like guardians. “ Only two months, I thought, then Father will be back. Father cast his line, and I followed shortly after. We sat like that in a silence for a while and, after an hour with no catches, he turned to me. “Lily, you know we have a beautiful big house with a stove and three stories, but anything beautiful costs money.” I loved our house, decked with its colorful wallpapers, its big windows,