Stone Soup Magazine for young readers, writers, and artists

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