October 2020

A Window in the Evening

StoneSoupMagazine · Poetry by Julia Marcus, 13 I press my face against the glass, blowing circles of air onto its cool surface. I step back, looking at the filmy, blurred image that faintly appears on the other side of the window. I draw my name in the vapor. My finger squeaks on the glass as I drag it through what used to be my breath. I wipe it all away. The window is slippery. Through the night, I cast a shadow on my front lawn, illuminated by the room’s light. I see every sharp detail of my body, blurred by my breath. Julia Marcus, 13Culver City, CA

Playing Snatch-It

StoneSoupMagazine · Poetry by Julia Marcus, 13 Let’s see. Is there any place for an R? Can it be inserted into FLAP or GUM or BENCH? But no—I watch as CHART is made, and I half-heartedly sigh. I watch HIS turn to FISH and then to SHIFT. That could be a sentence. But they’re just random words, somehow conjugated from tiny letter tiles spread out on the table. It’s amazing how many words can be made—WATERY, CUBICLE, QUIZ, WISPY. Right here, when it’s just a game, none of it seems to mean anything. Julia Marcus, 13Culver City, CA

The Last Birthday Boy

It was the big day. After years of preparation, they were finally ready. The apocalypse had shattered, and would shatter, the lives of too many, and the government feared that Earth would soon become uninhabitable. It was too big of a risk to take chances and stay on the globally destructed planet. So, after many meetings and studies and conferences, they had decided on a solution that would change the lives and history of the human race forever: to ship the population to Mars. It was an enormous decision, a big leap of faith, a dangerous risk, but there were no other possible conclusions that the government of each country could unanimously agree on. So that was that. Once the public was informed, they began at once constructing tens of thousands of spaceships. It took many years, but it’d be worth it to flee the fatal consequences of the apocalypse. And now billions of people were crammed into numerous rockets like sardines in a tin, ready to leave their lonely planet behind. It was finally happening. The departure. Families held onto each other’s hands, and there was complete silence in each spaceship. The people were too flabbergasted, too nervous, too amazed, to speak. In rocket 310-LBZ, the crowd waited anxiously for the machine to blast off. Some people cried softly. Others were completely stiff. Everyone’s heart was pounding furiously as a loud voice on the speaker silenced the passengers by announcing the countdown to departure was about to begin. An old woman squeezed her eyes shut. A pair of twins held onto each other firmly. A worried-looking man comforted his sobbing wife. A teenage girl whispered to a frightened child that this was all for the best, but her voice quavered noticeably. “5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .” spoke the slow, rasping voice on the dirty loudspeaker. The passengers held their breath as, in one noisy, smoky lift, the spaceship blasted off into the sky, and up, up, up above. Somewhere in the bustling, anxious crowd, two panicked parents searched for their lost son. “Where is he?” cried the mother frantically. “He was right behind me the entire time!” cried the father as he looked around. A few long, worrisome minutes passed before the man exclaimed,“Oh! There he is now!” He pointed toward the very boy who had been a few steps behind him since boarding. The couple breathed a long sigh of relief and headed toward the young child, whose head was turned. The woman put a hand on his shoulder. “Son,” said the father sternly, “Do not run off like that again.” Slightly startled, the youth spun around, and his expression revealed obvious hints of confusion as he cocked his head to the side and stared at the man and woman. The couple gasped. This boy was not their son. *          *          * It’s a wonderful dream. I’m in a beautiful garden. Surrounding me are acres of colorful, exotic flowers in full bloom. Bees are buzzing around them, collecting nectar. I gaze to my left to observe a playful, bushy-tailed squirrel scampering down the neatly swept path I stand on, hungry for a snack. His soft tail brushes my bare feet, tickling them, as he dashes past me, headed toward an emerald-green bush to my right full of plump, juicy blackberries: a delicious snack. “Jayson!” A soft, familiar voice coming from behind me calls out my name. I turn around to see my mother smiling at me. “Jayson, Honey, I baked you some molasses cookies, your favorite!” In her hands, she holds a plate full of the delicious baked goods. Full of surprise and delight, I exclaim: “Oh, Mom, you shouldn’t have!” She smiles wider, her dark brown hair blowing softly in the light breeze. Her apron is stained with flour and in her hair, held back in a messy ponytail, there are bits of dough. She must have been working really hard. She chuckles as she watches me take first one cookie, then two, then three. I gobble them up greedily and reach for a fourth. “Be sure to save some for your friends,” she reminds me as she watches me begin nibbling the sweet treat. “They should be here any minute now.” “Of course,” I reply, then add: “I’m sorry for taking so many. But, really, what can I say? You’re an excellent baker.” She blushes at the compliment. I scarf down the fourth cookie but don’t take any more. “I’m sure my friends will love them.” I inhale the heavenly aroma of sugar and molasses. Of course my friends will love the biscuits: they are sweet, chewy, and still hot from the oven. Mmm. Standing here in a pulchritudinous garden with my mother, awaiting my friends’ arrival, eating homemade, freshly baked cookies, that’s paradise to me. And then it all ends. In one second, the entire scene is gone, disappeared. Poof. That’s just how it is with dreams, after all. You wake up, and the wonder and joy from your nighttime fantasy is over. Welcome to reality. Here it is in short: I’m the only person left on Earth. The last one. It’s just me. Everyone else left when I was about eight years old. I groan. The bags under my eyes are heavy, and I am still extremely tired. My eyelids are far from being fully open and are begging to be closed. I should go back to sleep, but I can tell it’s almost afternoon by now. I should probably get up. I try to sit up but don’t have the strength. And plus, my arms feel limp and weary. A strange, unpleasant feeling of emptiness and disappointment and of hollow, depressing sadness floods my mind. It’s all because of that dream I just had . . . I just wish I could grab it and pull it into reality.