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Our November 2024 Flash Contest was based on Prompt #310 (provided by Stone Soup students Sage Millen, Meleah Goldman, and Emma Hoff), which asked that participants write a short story, poem, or create an artwork that tells a fairytale from the perspective of a secondary character 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 “The Wolf’s Side of the Story” by Isabella Fu, 13 “The Diary of Mrs Fitzgerald, Cinderella’s Stepmother” by Keziah Khoo, 11 “The Seven Dwarfs and Snow White” by Arshia, 15 “Home of Nature” by Shixi Wu, 8 “The White Rabbit’s New Life” by Tang Li, 12 Honorable Mentions “Little Red Riding Snack” by Lucia Tang, 12 “Through the Wolf’s Eyes” by Ethan Chen, 13 “True Tale of The Three Billy Goats Gruff” by Lydia Chen, 10 “Little Red Riding Hood: Wolf’s Plan” by Nidhi Gudigantala, 11 “Snow White” by Minakshi (Mina) Codyraman, 12 “A Candle’s Point Of View” by Silvia Anita Visoiu, 10 “The Doe and Baby Bear” by Jiya Parekh, 10 The Wolf’s Side of the Story ISABELLA FU, 13 It’s a chilly morning in the forest. The birds nestle up together in the shadows of the trees. The squirrels tuck away in the tree hollows, their tails shielding them from the cold. Meanwhile, us big ones don’t get any warmth, no matter how much we call. We’re silenced. Expected to thrive off of a few prey. Categorized as big, bad, and cunning meanies. All when we wolves are simply trying to live, just like the others. But I know I can’t just stay in one spot. I have to get moving. Hunger gnaws at me as I wander the woods. I desperately need somewhere to stay and something to eat. After a long while, I stumble upon a little pig’s house made of straw. When I catch sight of a welcoming fire burning inside, hope flickers in my chest. I knock gently. “Please,” I beg. “I’m cold, and I haven’t eaten in days. Could you spare a place by your fire?” After a few seconds, the door creaks open, just enough for the pig’s snout to peek through. He narrows his eyes. “You must be lying,” he says with a sneer. “I’m no fool. So just stop already, you scary wolf!” Suddenly, a gust of wind rushes through the air, carrying dust from the straw to my nose. I sneeze, causing the walls to immediately collapse and the fire to die away. The pig squeals and bolts, leaving me with the wreckage at my feet. Guilt forms up inside me, and it outweighs my hunger. I decide to follow the pig’s tracks and do my best to apologize. To my surprise, the path leads to another pig’s house built of sticks. It’s eerily getting darker, so I try speaking again to hopefully find a place to stay for the night. “Please,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I don’t mean harm. I just need rest.” The second pig appears in his doorway, looking me up and down. “Sorry, but I can’t trust you. My brother told me everything. Everyone knows what wolves are like.” He shuts his door before I get the chance to say otherwise. Then, another sneeze overtakes me. I can’t resist; the smell of the sticks is too strong. The sticks topple to the ground and the pig runs off, screaming. I follow him, yearning for sympathy. By the time I arrive at the third pig’s house, I’m practically hopeless. If snow starts to fall soon, I’d be doomed. The house is made of bricks, sturdy and well-constructed. Maybe here, someone would listen. I needed someone to listen. “Please,” I beg, scratching at the door. “I’m not the monster you think I am. I just need help!” The third pig laughs from inside. “Go on formulating your little schemes. My house is so robust, I literally have trouble hearing you right now.” I huff—not in anger, but in frustration, trying to explain myself. The pigs had falsely assumed my intentions. Their laughter rang from the safety of the bricks, and I knew by that point I was alone. Every single animal was cozied up in a loving home, while I appeared as an enigmatic outcast. Us wolves are always portrayed as evil creatures. Not a single story casts us as heroes. Not one. They say I’m the big, bad wolf, but they never asked who I really was. If they had, they might have seen the truth. I was just a creature in need of a little to eat, while being indicated as an intimidating predator. I was just a creature in need of warmth, while being described as a deliberate destroyer of many homes. I was just a creature in need, while being depicted as a malevolent monster in their tale. I was just a creature in need. The Diary of Mrs Fitzgerald, Cinderella’s Stepmother KEZIAH KHOO, 11 13 January 1852, 6 pm. That Cinderella forgot to dust under the cabinet again. I already warned that scatterbrained lass not to forget, but she is simply indolent. I have done so much for her, taking her into this grand mansion, giving her the charity of two small meals a day and a straw bed. And yet she is too kind— so kind she makes Charmaine and Gertrude, my two dear daughters, seem dreadfully unkind as a result, though they only punish her if she forgets to do something on the six-yard list of chores, or touch their things. She also dresses too fancy. She wears a good, serviceable grey dress with only thirteen large patches — to think she had the nerve to ask me for a new one yesterday— and a pinafore. Why, if I were her— though of course I would never be so dreadfully indolent— I would be contented with a shabby frock.

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