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Our October 2024 Flash Contest was based on Prompt #309 (provided by Stone Soup students Sage Millen, Meleah Goldman, and Emma Hoff), which asked that participants write a short story about the life cycle of a pumpkin, write a Haiku about any kind of fall weather, or make an art piece inspired by fall leaves.

As always, thank you to all who participated, and please keep submitting next month!

In particular, we congratulate our Honorable Mentions, listed below, and our Winners, whose work you can appreciate below.

Winners
"Dark Skies" by Nathan Qu, 12
"Veiled Haze" by Gavin Liu, 14
"Somewhere Out There" by Isla Reuter, 11
"A mythical Red Maple Leaf" by Arwen Gamez, 15
"Autumn Love" by Anwita Lingireddy, 9

Honorable Mentions
"Life of a Pumpkin" by Chinedum Obiora, 11
"The Journey of the Pumpkin" by Mirei Okita, 11
"XOXO Fall" by Priscilla Chow, 11
"Happy Leaves; Happy Fall" by Aubree Dong, 11
"Autumn Spectacle" by Neeti Kulkarni, 10


Dark Skies

NATHAN QU, 12

Gray cloudlets pass through
Autumn, darkest time of year
Depressed skies weep rain


Veiled Haze

GAVIN LIU, 14

the world wakes cold and
peers through a window - blinded
by blanketing fog


Somewhere Out There

ISLA REUTER, 11

A hard shell surrounds me, keeping me safe from the damp, cold earth outside. I’m not ready to come out yet. I know it’s not my time. 

Suddenly, I feel a vibration above, a steady rhythm. Drip, drip, drip. The rains have come. The fresh, sweet water runs along the sides of my smooth shell. I cannot see the water, but I can sense it all the same. It’s tempting, but I know that if I leave my shell now, I’ll be as unprepared for the world as a newly hatched swallow chick.

No.

If I want to survive this harsh, dangerous place known as the wilderness, I must have Knowledge. And the only way to get that down here is to listen.

So I do.

The rain feels nice. The vibrations of these words are stronger than most plants, so I know that this must be the Great Oak Tree.

Yes. After all this dry weather the rain feels nice. The Birch Tree.

But the rains mean that we are only a few moon cycles away from the Festival, when ‘He’ picks the pumpkins. The Pine Tree.

I’ve heard them talk about Him before, and it makes me think that maybe I’m not so wild after all. Because what if I was planted in the ground by Him?

Who is He?

My question rings out loud and clear, and silence falls over us, like the calm before a storm. I know I am about to learn something significant. A terrible truth, one that’s going to weigh me down for the rest of my life. Then I sense new voices, and though I’ve never heard them before, I know deep down who they are. They’re all one of me; others of my kind.

Pumpkins.

The whispery voices are quiet, but hold a sense of importance, of Knowledge. They know something and they’re not trying to hide it.

He is terrible!

He took the ones before us!

Only a few are left!

Listen young one, the other voices quiet at the strong vibrations of this one, let me tell you a story.

The words echo inside my shell, and I wait for them to fade before listening intently for the older pumpkin’s story to start.

He is just another one of Them. Humans. Pine Tree can tell you all about them. But this human is different. There is a festival at the end of the time of falling leaves–that is what He grows us for. We are picked and bought by the humans, and they bring us back to their homes. We are baked into pies, set out for decoration, and worst of all, carved into lanterns. As the first pumpkin to sprout this season, I bear the responsibility to pass to you and the other seeds this Knowledge that Pine Tree so trustingly shared. Rest now.

I thank the pumpkin for this truth and turn into my thoughts. So, it’s not a wilderness. I’m going to grow up in His garden, with my future already decided. I will be picked and taken and baked, or turned into something I don’t want to be. I start to feel heavy and decide to rest.

I don’t know how long it’s been since I heard the pumpkin’s story. It’s hard to tell time down here. It could have been only a few days, or it could have been weeks.

The pressure of this truth has become unbearable. It makes it hard to think and to listen. Not that there’s much to listen to. It’s been unusually quiet lately. Even the Pine Tree hasn’t passed his ancient Knowledge in a while. I miss the other plants, for the first time I think I know what it means to be lonely. Thoughts, hopes, echoes, all fill my mind at once, and I scream my silent pain to the dark earth above. 

At first, nothing happens. Then my seed splits open, and I, the heart of it, spread my roots out into the soil further than I have ever been. My pain turns to joy, and hope, and, most of all, to determination. I spiral upward and burst through the surface.

There are no words to describe growing in the earth like this. Maybe this is why humans are full of spite. No, I mustn’t think that. They must have a reason to pick us pumpkins. 

Days pass. Sunshine warms my leaves, and I use it to create and conserve nutrients. On rainy days I pull the water in through my roots and begin to grow faster. By the end of the warmest months, I am almost fully grown. My leaves feel big and strong, and my roots have reached even deeper soil. In this time I learn many things, but the most interesting is that the human who grows us is called Farmer. The worst is that it’s almost Fall, the season of the Festival. 

Just then, Pine Tree’s rumbling sound reaches my roots. I listen.

Beware little pumpkin, They are here.

I’ve known that this moment was going to come eventually, but I’ll miss living out in the garden. They don’t take me today, or the next day, or even the next. And by the end of the moon cycle I am beginning to feel hopeful. Pine Tree shares that the cycle we are in now is the time of the Festival.

The humans take me the next day. 

My sense of touch is abruptly cut off when they clip my stem. Goodbye, I silently say to the plant friends I know are all around me, even though I know they can’t hear me; my ability to connect was taken away when my roots were pulled from the ground. But I wish they could. They know that I didn’t choose this for myself. That thought keeps me comforted.

I am far from home now. I sense the passing of time and wonder what I will be used for. Will I be eaten, or baked into a pie, or will I be turned into a lantern? All of a sudden, I perceive something at the top of me. A strange pressure that’s moving in a circle around my stem. And then on my side. Three triangles and a big squiggly gap. More pressure again, and they’re removing the cut pieces and taking my seeds out. 

Then nothing. 

Except, what is that? I faintly feel a pecking on my leftover seeds and the patter of light feet hopping around inside me. 

The humans have left and a bird has come. The bird makes me feel something I haven't felt in a while. Hope. The bird is reciting a song as it pecks away!

On the night of the festival, a candle is set inside me and I am put out on cool stone for decoration. But I don’t care, because I know that, thanks to the bird, somewhere far away from here some wild pumpkins are starting to grow. And with that thought, I become his song.

It is a silent song, but seems to ring out loud and clear in my quiet world. And though I can’t see or hear, it seems like even the whispering trees are swaying to the music.

When you catch the wind beneath your wings,

and fly above the ground,

And chase the leaves that are blown up high 

‘til only you can hear the wonderful silent sound.

When you’re lost and left to wander and roam, 

and don’t know how to get back home,

We’ll be there to guide you 

and stand right there beside you.

When you’re at a loss for all lights, 

Don’t doubt we’ll be there on your darkest of dark nights.


A mythical Red Maple Leaf

ARWEN GAMEZ, 15


Autumn Love

ANWITA LINGIREDDY, 9

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