Stone Soup Magazine for young readers, writers, and artists

An update from our twenty-fifth Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop held on Saturday October 17, plus some of the output published below This week’s class focused on writing about nature, thinking about landscape, plants, animals, weather, and all the elements of lyrical writing that go into bringing the natural world alive on the page and in the minds of our readers. The Writing Challenge: Write a piece of nature writing, delving deep into an animal, a landscape or other piece of nature. The Participants: Anya, Peri, Maddie, Ava, Nami, Nova, Tegan, Ma’ayan, Lena, Georgia, Gia, Rithesh, Lena, Emma, Lucy, Madeline, Lucy, James, Olivia, Hera, Liam, Charlotte, Lina, Margaret, Janani, Enni, Samantha, Tilly, Simran, Angela, Madeline, Jonathan, Charlotte, Sophia, Elbert. Lena Aloise, 11Harvard, MA The Plum Tree Lena Aloise, 11 He was happiest early in the daytime, when the sky was painted over crimson and violet, when the crisp breeze flushed his cheeks a rosy red, when the birds sang their soft melody, whimsically conversing. Nowadays, there was nothing that brought him more pleasure than such a beautiful silence and he was content to be alone, for the most part. Human company depressed him. There was a plum tree up on the hill, surveying her lower domain with a watchful, protective eye. She sat on her throne of grasses, boughs reaching towards an infinite expanse of sky, bearing leaves of olive green and sagging under the weight of her indigo fruits. She bore the look of not a queen, but a mother, like the ones he had only read about in story books. He could not help feeling a twinge of jealousy, looking upon the spherical children that she loved so dearly. Why could not someone hold him with such tenderness? It brought him such anger that one day, he walked up to the tree with his hatchet, planning to end it’s happiness. The tree sat there, calmly, waiting for the worst. He threw his blade to the ground and sunk to the ground, leaning up against her trunk, tears spilling from his eyes. Her branches touched his hair and the wind murmured words of consolation. From that day forth, the tree acted like the mother he had lost. He told it everything and she listened, in a way that only a mother could. She did not speak words, but was alive and growing. She cared about him and was a constant presence throughout the rest of his childhood. And when her fruits were picked at the turn of the season and when the boy was a young man, she lovingly bid them farewell. Because that was what mothers did. Ava Angeles, 12Chicago, IL The Brook Ava Angeles, 12 Flourishing bushes enveloped a small brook that babbled to itself as it ran along. It weaved between the protruding clumps of leaves, which sometimes broke free and ran along with it, tumbling over small pebbles and stones that had been lying there for decades. The bushes gave an occasional rustle now and then, and this was a sign that a small animal or insect was making its way through the thick branches entwined beneath the cover of leaves. It looked peaceful from the outside, but underneath the leaves of the bushes was another hurried, bustling world: earthworms burrowed through the earth, poking their light pink bodies up here and there; a small colony of ants were crawling up and down their anthill, scurrying, vanishing into the small hole at the top; and a beetle, sporting a glossy black shell, scampered along on its six legs in a quest to find food. Full Moon Lena D., 12 The wind blew wildly A full moon arose Across the path I run across the breeze Rain pours down Giant oceans of puddles. Crossing over the river. I growl. The sound of my friend calls me. I howl. She doesn’t stop. I ran towards her. The breeze blows wildly. A sudden tornado goes into the distance. Tree leaves drop. Thunder rumbles. I head to my friend. “I was so  worried about you,” she says. “I’m sorry,” I told her. She nodded. “It’s fine, but don’t go running off again.” I crawl under the corner of the cave. I close my eyes. “Wake up,” says my friend. I open my eyes. “What’s wrong?” I ask her. “Nothing. The storm went away,” she says. I look up. It was true. It was gone. I ran outside. “We must find a home,” I told her. She nodded. “Yes.” Soon we would find a home. Someday we would find peace. Someday. Anya Geist, 14Worcester, MA Underneath the Tree Anya Geist, 14 The child glided through long waving grasses, grasses that flickered and danced like fire in the setting sun. A small breeze was pushing its way through the air, just a puff of breath that caused the small girl’s cheeks to grow the slightest bit rosy, and her soft blond curls to sway gently about her little face. On she walked, her sandaled feet making hardly any noise, her eyes casting their gaze out all around her at the large field which spread for miles, until it was abutted by a small house -her house- to the east, and the great, looming mountains to the west. There was no buzzing of bees, no chirping of birds, as she passed, for they had all fled this silent field, afraid of the power that the quiet bestowed upon the land. After a few minutes, the girl’s footsteps slowed, and then stopped. Stopped in the middle of the plain. She breathed in and out and looked at her surroundings. She had some upon a small oasis in the field -although perhaps oasis is not the right word, for the field was already a beautiful paradise. Here the grasses were clipped short; they were small and green and neat, like a carpet beneath the girl’s feet. In the middle of the oasis was a tree. It wasn’t terribly tall; and its branches