Our November Flash Contest was based on Prompt #228 (provided by Stone Soup contributor Sage Millen), which asked that participants write stories (or poems) in which their characters confronted their worst fears. I’m particularly fond of this prompt as it is not only generative of new work, but it is also an extremely helpful exercise in revision. This month’s crop of submitters and submissions was particularly diverse, with pieces ranging from a story told from the perspective of a migratory bird to a poem from the perspective of a murderer to a love letter to baseball—just to name a few—and with three out of five of our selected winners being first-time winners! As always, we thank all who submitted and encourage you to submit again next month! In particular, we congratulate our Winners and our Honorable Mentions, whose work you can appreciate below. Winners “The Trick up Sam’s Sleeve” by Kyle Chinchio, 9 “I’m Sorry” by Eiaa Dev, 13 “Baseball Spirit” by Miles Koegler, 11 “Icarus” by Nova Macknik-Conde, 11 “A Long Journey” by Jack Ryan, 9 Honorable Mentions “Because of the Dog” by Sofia Grandis-Oliveira, 9 “Esmera’s Wish” by Kimberly Hu, 10 “Fear” by Yuqing Li, 11 “At Home with the Music” by Madeline Male, 14 “Wild Waters” by Natalie Yue, 10 The Trick up Sam’s Sleeve Kyle Chinchio, 9 Hi, I’m Sam and this, the story I’m about to tell you, is the scariest thing that’s ever happened — well at least to me. I’m a pretty ordinary kid. I have blond hair that reaches just past my ears, curling slightly at the ends. My face is dotted with freckles here and there; and I’m skinny, with knobby elbows and knees. And my personality? I’m shy and try not to call attention to myself. When I can, I grab a seat in the last row of every classroom, shrinking behind the kids in front of me. I go to school at Bellevue Elementary, and everyday my to-do list is the same. Get up, go to school, return home, rush through homework, play video games, have dinner, climb into bed – rinse and repeat. But at least I have my best friend at school, Daniel, to share it with. Daniel and I have known each other for forever. Our mothers met in yoga class while they were still pregnant with us and we were born within days of each other. Like me, Daniel is often bored by school too. He always asks plaintively, “Do we have to go to school today? Can’t we just skip it?” There’s one other thing that’s important to know about me: I have a weird phobia that pops up from time to time, preventing me from participating in seemingly innocuous activities like school assemblies, birthday parties, or museum outings. Not a boring phobia like a fear of spiders or heights, but rhabdophobia – which means I’m really scared of magic. My parents and friends always tell me, “Magic isn’t real!” Or my sister says, “You’re such a scaredy cat! Aren’t you eleven?” Despite everyone’s assurances, each stronger than the next, I’ve always felt magic was real -– not the Christmas kind, but something ancient and inexplicable, a malevolent force pulsing beneath the fragile fabric that makes up our reality. When I was three, I went to a magic show and my sleeve caught fire after a wayward spark flew in my direction. The magician, his ridiculous top hat askew on his head, looked at me as if we were the only two people in the room and smiled. From that day forward, I was convinced magic was real and I wanted nothing to do with it. But enough backstory, you’re probably thinking. Let’s get to the good stuff: Me, facing my greatest fear — Magic. It all began on a chilly Saturday evening. Daniel and I were walking toward the park, tossing a baseball back and forth, aluminum bats slung over our shoulders. The trees, their spindly branches bare of the leaves and flowers that will rebloom in the spring, rustled overhead as we walked past. We could hear the skittering of crepuscular rats and insects as they emerged from their dens, drawn by the darkening twilight. The vibe was decidedly eerie. That’s when I saw him: The magic man. Not a magician with trick cards and a box with a hidden compartment, but a real sorcerer — his crimson, velvet robe flapping in the air as he approached us and his steel-gray hair tied in anemic bun at the base of his neck. He didn’t say anything, lips pressed in a thin line, but I could sense magic — and evil — on him. Quickly, he strode past us, and although the wind was strong enough to plaster our jackets against our stomachs, suddenly the air stilled around him and he disappeared. I turned to Daniel, but he seemed unperturbed. “What?” he said, a crease had sprung up between his eyebrows. My eyes widened in surprise, but I only said, “Nothing, let’s head to Smith field and throw a few pitches.” I went to bed that night with a single thought crowding my brain “He’ll be back and when he returns, it’ll mean nothing good.” The next morning I told Daniel about what I had seen. To my surprise, he erupted into peals of laughter. “That’s so weird,” he said between giggling fits, attracting the attention of almost everyone in the hallway. “What do you mean you can ‘sense magic?’ I’m sorry about laughing, but this is just too funny! What does magic even feel like?” I knew to convince him, I needed to return to the park with him in tow. We slipped out after lunch and before math class when the playground monitors were busy with the first graders, who had released a box of earthworms by the swings. As I suspected, the strange figure was back, sitting with a few henchmen on the bench under a gargantuan oak. Like the
Stone Soup Magazine for young readers, writers, and artists
We Want Math, and Band Too!
In June of this year, I learned that New York City’s Mayor Adams was planning to cut public school funding, which, considering our already underfunded school system, was an extremely bad decision. My school’s budget was cut by 16%, and there was a threat of losing teachers and our beloved band program. I wrote a petition which was signed by seventy-five kids in my school in just one afternoon; I sent it to local politicians and newspapers and attended a rally in protest of the cuts. Many people did things like this, and much more. However, despite the efforts of teachers, students, and parents, schools still lost the little they had left. My school lost its band program — one of only two extracurricular activities we had. We used to have two music teachers, but now some grades are without music class because we have only one teacher for such a large school. However, even this is lucky compared to other schools, which might not have any music teachers. This is just one example of the many injustices schools in New York City and many other cities experience — and most of these challenges fall upon public schools in poor neighborhoods. In wealthy neighborhoods, it’s possible for parents to fundraise, so the cuts don’t have much effect. However, in poor neighborhoods, parents cannot afford to do the same. Wealthy parents are willing and able to donate and organize fundraisers so that their children can be educated in a comfortable environment; however, not all parents are able to do this. In the United States, the quality of public schools varies based on students’ family wealth: a school full of rich kids will have arts programs, sports, and small classes. A school full of poor kids will be lucky to have even acceptable conditions — besides good teachers and a wide range of activities, the school needs money for things like air conditioning, heating, and sanitary bathrooms. Many wealthy parents, too, will send their children to private schools. So, while much money is pushed towards private schools, public schools are left in a predicament. However, the government also doesn’t provide schools with enough money — this year, for example, New York City’s Mayor Adams claimed that he was “weaning schools off the pandemic money” (though COVID is still not over), and that schools didn’t need so much money because many students were leaving the schools. But this seems counterintuitive: students are less likely to come back to public schools if the schools’ budget is reduced; they can find a private school or wealthy suburban public school that is able to provide them with more than their old one. In much of the United States, schools also get money from property taxes. What this means is that if you live in a rich neighborhood, you are more likely to have a better school because the many people that live there own expensive homes and pay high property taxes. Because people that live in poor areas are often poor themselves, their schools are consequently underfunded. If students are provided with supplies and good learning conditions, they will do better academically — but where will this money come from? Many students in lower-income neighborhoods need counselors and therapists, but hiring someone like that is a luxury usually only available in schools with more money. And, though students in poor neighborhoods may need more individual attention because they have fewer resources at home, their classes are usually much larger than in schools in wealthy neighborhoods. It’s outrageous that the kids who really need extracurriculars (like music, art, theater, phys ed, after-school sports, and a variety of clubs) don’t get them, but the people that can afford lessons outside of school have everything. Basically, schools are given “just enough” to show that the government cares — and most schools get even less. But why are the resources given to schools calculated in this way? Why can’t we have more, which is what we deserve? We could be discovering more and more talent — because talent isn’t just something you’re born with, it’s a skill that you get better at. But so many people don’t have the chance to get better at anything because they don’t have enough money. For them, school becomes a babysitting system, designed to turn students into low-wage workers. These students will never discover what else they could be. The fact that politicians think that this is acceptable shows that they don’t consider education important at all. Quality education is a right, not a luxury. The common cry for working people’s rights is: “we want bread, and roses, too!” Well, we want math — and band, too.
Weekly Creativity #229: Write a Backstory for a Supporting Character from a Novel You’ve Read
Write a backstory for a supporting character from a novel you’ve read.
