“Reaching” by Jackie Cutrona, 13 (Bedford, MA) Published in Stone Soup October 2020 A note from William Honor for Abhi Sukhdial: Here is the link to an interview with Abhi, the winning novelist in our first long-form fiction contest (the 2021 contest is still being judged, with the award announcement coming soon). The interview is in a publication from the prestigious Duke University, in North Carolina. Abhi started out with Stone Soup writing for our blog. The writing advice he gives in the interview is spot on. I’d like, in particular, to highlight his advice that you do not need to work in chronological order—that if you have an inspiration for the ending, then write the ending. Ultimately, your success in writing fiction of any length is to be engaged with your work, and to stay engaged until it is finished. But you can’t finish if you don’t start! You can support Abhi’s writing ambitions by buying his book! It is available directly from us at Stone Soup and also from Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Annual Drive: We will be sending out letters within a week or two initiating our Annual Drive. This year, Stone Soup substantively increased the range and scope of its programs with the writing prompts, weekly contests, writing workshops, a book club, and more. We know that these programs have been a lifeline for many of our young readers and contributors during this difficult time, and we need your help to continue them, so please respond to our Annual Drive when it is launched. Thank you. Amazon Smile: The most effortless way to support Stone Soup is to sign up for Amazon Smile. If you go to Smile.amazon.com, you can register so that your purchases will each contribute something to Children’s Art Foundation—Stone Soup Inc. If all of you were to do this going into the holiday season, each of those tiny donations would add up to something profound. The “Stone Soup” story itself is about each of us contributing something small to a community project, achieving together what we may not be able to achieve on our own. Using Amazon Smile takes a small change in behavior at first, but it is fully integrated into your normal Amazon account, so you lose nothing while helping us. What a brilliant photograph! What a strong image by Jackie Cutrona! A magnificent transformation of a sculpture into an evocative photograph. Pay attention to the play of light and dark. While we normally think of light as the way to focus on what is important—think of the spotlight in traditional theater—in this photograph it is the shadow that highlights the face. Note that little vertical slash of sunlight in the middle of the image. In pulling that into her image, I think Jackie Cutrona really strengthened her vision. William’s Weekend Project: The project of this weekend is to photograph a sculpture—or an inanimate object like a chair, table, bowl, or car. The industrially produced objects that are everywhere in our life were, at one point, designed by an artist! Use your camera to explore what you are looking at, paying attention to the way the light illuminates the object. Move your camera around. Take lots of pictures; I think you will find that small shifts in perspective may make a big difference in how your photograph works. If you are taking pictures indoors, play around with artificial light to find inspiration. As always, if you like what you make, please go to our website and submit it so Emma, our editor, can consider it for the magazine. Sabrina Guo: Today I would like to report on some of the work of Sabrina Guo, now a high school student but for many years a regular contributor to Stone Soup. As I have mentioned before, Sabrina has risen to the COVID-19 challenge. She has raised over $80,000, some of that from our Stone Soup family. She has created on ongoing nonprofit that is still involved in getting protective gear to people who need it but has also expanded to, for example, sending art and letters of thanks and encouragement to people who are in special need. I am sharing a recent video about her work below. Until next week, Highlights from the past week online Don’t miss the latest content from our Book Reviewers and Young Bloggers at Stonesoup.com! Take a virtual trip to Switzerland by reading Vivaan’s latest travelogue on the blog. Read Vivaan’s account to learn more about the country, including its tradition of yodeling. Blogger Eunice discusses all of her mixed emotions about going back to school during the pandemic. Are you back in school? Leave a comment on Eunice’s post to say how you feel about your school experience this year. Flash Contest Winners We received so many wonderful entries to this month’s Flash Contest, answering the following prompt: Write a Poem That Can Be Read Up or Down. Congratulations to our winners and honorable mentions listed below. You can read the winning entries for this contest (and previous ones) at the Stone Soup website. Winners “Home” by Arishka Jha, 12, Redwood City, CA “Perspective” by Lily Jones & Sawyer Hanley, both 10, Eugene, OR “A diary of a young musician” by Alice Ruan, 8, Beaverton, OR “Fall Fiesta” by Adele Stamenov, 11, Bethel Park, PA “War, Love, and Peace by Chloe Zhang, 9, Portland, OR Honorable Mentions “Save the Earth” by Prisha Aswal, 8, Portland, OR “Wild Fire” by Cathy Jiang, 11, Portland, OR “The Light” by Grace Mancini, 12, Glenside, PA “Fire and Water Collide” by Sophie Yu, 12, Houston, TX “My Toys” by Jessie Zhang, 8, Portland, OR Contest, partnership & project news More readers for the podcast needed! We’re still looking for a few more young readers to record stories and poems from the archives for our podcast that will be released soon. Email sarah@stonesoup.com for more information. From Stone Soup October 2020 The Book With No Words By Michaela Frey, 12 (Herndon, VA) Photographed by Jackie Cutrona, 13 (Bedford, MA) One word today, thought Meri. * * * Yesterday was three words. For Meri, speaking was like a honeybee sting. The bee has
Stone Soup Magazine for young readers, writers, and artists
Flash Contest #24, October 2020: poems that can be read in both directions – our winners and their work
Flash Contest #24: Write a Poem That Can Be Read Up or Down. Our October Flash Contest was based on our weekly creativity prompt #121, another great prompt from Stone Soup intern Anya Geist. It always feels like a little miracle that our writers can craft these pieces of work, and give us two poems in one! Whether we end up with two poems that emphasise one another’s points, or whether the poem says the opposite depending on which direct you read it in, all of these poems really make the reader think, and even when the topic is sad, the form brings great pleasure. It wasn’t easy to narrow the choices down with the large selection of poems on a diverse range of topics, but with Anya’s help we were able to come to a decision. Thank you, Anya, for a great writing prompt and some wise judging! Congratulations to all this month’s entrants, and especially to our Honorable Mentions and our Winners, whose work you can appreciate below. Winners Home by Arishka Jha, 12, Redwood City, CA Perspective by Lily Jones, 10, & Sawyer Hanley, 10, Eugene, OR A diary of a young musician by Alice Ruan, 8, Beaverton, OR Fall Fiesta by Adele Stamenov, 11, Bethel Park, PA War, Love, and Peace by Chloe Zhang, 9, Portland, OR Honorable Mentions Save the Earth by Prisha Aswal, 8, Portland, OR Wild Fire by Cathy Jiang, 11, Portland, OR The Light by Grace Mancini, 12, Glenside PA Fire and Water Collide by Sophie Yu, 12, Houston, TX My Toys by Jessie Zhang, 8, Portland, OR Arishka Jha, 12Redwood City, CA Home Arishka Jha, 12 lost. hope is not truly important and the belief that happiness can exist here is simply an illusion. ignorance is beautiful and life is money, power, destruction, and nothing more. it is unrealistic to believe that we live in a world of happiness, learning, and freedom. we are surrounded by constant confinement. really, there’s no such thing as home. Sawyer Hanley, 10Lily Jones, 10Eugene, OR Perspective Lily Jones, 10, and Sawyer Hanley, 10 By him I am hurt It’s a lie He is nice And what I say next is not true He is a despicable mean guy No, I believe He is kind and caring Never will I accept He’s rude He’s friendly And I refuse to consider He is selfish Alice Ruan, 8Beaverton, OR A Diary of a Young Musician Alice Ruan, 8 Today is the day I will make myself clear I am no good at music And I refuse to believe that Violin songs are heartwarming I hate harp It is not true that I would rather play piano instead of video games Scales, songs and practises are a waste of time I refuse to believe that Music brings harmony I am positive that No one likes music It is not true that Music is strong, and brings people together Today is the day I will make myself clear Adele Stamenov,11Bethel Park, PA Fall Fiesta Adele Stamenov, 11 The wind blows freely Crisp air fills with excitement Leaves glow through the breeze Colors splash above Small kites dominate the sky Dancing in the park Like a fiesta There is always so much joy In windy fall days Chloe Zhang, 9Portland, OR War, Love, and Peace Chloe Zhang, 9 War is everywhere It is a lie that Everyone is at peace It can not be more true that People can not love Only the morons think that The world revolves around love and peace I am sure that We will never see a day of peace It is a lie that Love exists I’d rather believe that Life is cruel and harsh It is a lie that Anyone can be at peace
Writing Workshop #24: Personification
An update from our twenty-fourth Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop held on Saturday October 10, plus some of the output published below This week our founder William Rubel led a workshop on personification: writing that brings objects, places and things alive by ascribing human characteristics and emotions to them. We read some vivid examples and discussed some techniques writers use to apply personification to their work, from passages that depend fully on personification, to others where it is used sparingly to really highlight a particular point. The Writing Challenge: Write a paragraph, short story or poem rich in personification. The Participants: Nova, Rithesh, Charlotte, Georgia, Peri, Lucy, Simran, Liam, Maddie, Jonathan, Olivia, Tilly, Samantha, Janani, Madeline, Chloe, Ma’ayan, Ying, Juniper, Lina, Ava, Sophie, Enni, Elbert, Dhesh, Sophia, James, Lucy, Emma, Gia, Sophia, Georgia, Angela, Lena, Olivia, Anya, Abby, Hera, Becca. Araliya, 11Sandy Hook, CT The Sunset Araliya, 11 As the sun set on the old dilapidated house, the trees bowed up and down with the wind. The birds danced in the sky as the clouds angrily flew through the air. The crickets sang their song in the tall grass as it waited for the rain. Then it started to pour. The sky roared and lightning shot through the air like shooting stars. Soon a dark scary silhouette appeared in the sky and it approached me. “Are you the door master?” he asked with a deep rough voice. “Yes, are you the code keeper?” I asked. “Yes,” he replied. “Did the boss send you?” I asked. “Don’t you mean the King?” he said . . . The White Pillow Just like a pillow or cushion, it was soft and stuffed, but inside it was a stopwatch. That stopwatch had a button and when pressed the stopwatch would turn into a sword. A sword so sharp that it could cut through the world’s strongest metal. A sword so sharp that if you drop a single hair on the blade, it could slice it in half. That sword was once yielded by the most powerful elf soldier in Xroga, Lily Shasatra. Mother only said to use it in case of an emergency and right now was a big emergency. Anya Geist, 14Worcester, MA A Delicate Day Anya Geist, 14 The air was very delicate that day; it seemed to hover in the sky, perfectly still, as if afraid that the slightest movement, the slightest sound would shatter it, sending it down to the ground in shards of glass. And the air was cold and still, frosty and frozen, holding its breath until some unknown future day came. The trees all around were bare and frail. Their branches stuck into the air like the decrepit fingers of a lady about to die–they were thin and small against the blank, white sky overhead. And on the ground there was snow, just a few precious inches of snow, that blanketed the impoverished, cracked dirt beneath, that covered scattered cobblestone streets, and clung silently to the roofs of houses. It seemed as though there should be more snow to fall, more flakes to twirl peacefully and gracefully to the ground, but there was nothing. The air was still. There was a house a little ways from a small village–just a few dilapidated buildings covered in that drab layer of snow which seemed to be bleakly grey although it was in fact white–that was atop a small knoll. The house did not perch nor did it stand on this hill; it was not in a condition to do either, as its walls were crooked, the windows smashed, and the door slightly ajar. A man walked up to the house, his footsteps making near to no sound on the snow, and he stared at it, exhaling a wintry puff of breath. He was of medium stature, wearing a black hat and wrapped up a black wool coat, a coat that writhed with the mysteries that the man himself did not know the answer to. He pulled his hands out from deep pockets–they were gloved–and stepped cautiously toward that open front door. As he approached the front stoop–which had caved in–he pulled his fingers out of the gloves and flexed them slowly. They were long and pale, but very much alive; although in some undefinable ways they were resemblant of those fragile branches nearby. Taking a deep breath, he crept over the wreckage of the stoop and stood before the front door. Then he held out his hand–it shook terribly–and pushed on the rotten wood. It swung rustily open, as though movement was a concept which was foreign to it. And he walked inside. This was a fast action; he wanted to get it over with, and soon it was. He was now in the front hall, if it could even be called that. If there had ever been any furniture there it was long gone now, replaced by–nothing. There was no mold, for it was too cold for that, and the house was just intact enough that it didn’t let too much of the weather in. Instead, an aching emptiness filled the space. Old faded wallpaper was peeling, exposing even older crooked walls. The man took off his hat as he looked around. He held out the hat; ghosts of a hatstand, of loving hands which would lift the hat away, flickered before his eyes. But they were only that: ghosts. A flash of pain contorted his face and eyes momentarily, and then he nestled the hat in the crook of his arm, shook his head, and kept moving. He moved through a warped doorway and there was a kitchen. In the windows there were no panes, only jagged bits of glass that glinted like tears which had thrown themselves to the sill. The room felt exposed, alien, like this, and now there were real tears blossoming in the man’s strong blue eyes. He brushed the tears away with his cold hands, and looked around. A table
