Autobiography (iPhone 6s) By Amity Doyle, 11 (Katonah, NY) & published in the September 2021 Issue of Stone Soup A note from Caleb Classes We were so excited to see all of your faces last weekend—new and returning—for our first round of fall session classes! If you haven’t yet signed up and fear you’ve missed your chance, don’t be discouraged; we are still taking new students in all four of our classes (writing workshop with William, writing workshop with Conner, filmmaking with Isidore, and Book Club with Laura), though Isidore’s class will close after the fifth session. And if you’re worried about catching up for missed time, this won’t be a problem as each class in the session is a standalone lesson—plus, you’ll receive a video of each class you missed at a reduced price! Also, beginning today, and retroactively through the spring/summer session 2021, we will be releasing full videos of the readings from both William and Conner’s writing workshops, in which you can see yourselves reading your delightful writing aloud, and relive William and Conner’s exultant feedback. These videos will be available on our weekly Writing Workshop write-ups published on the blog as well as our YouTube channel. Tristan Hui’s The Other Realm As Emma did last week, I’d encourage you all to watch William’s lovely video celebrating the September 1 publication of Tristan’s novel The Other Realm. In other exciting news, we’ve launched a brand new book page featuring precocious Stone Soup contributor Lena Aloise’s interview of Tristan, which you can watch above. Keep visiting the page for other news—reviews, awards, events—regarding Tristan and The Other Realm. If after watching Tristan’s interview you find yourself hungry for more, there is a longer, more exclusive look inside Tristan’s experience writing The Other Realm on our author interview section on the blog. While you’re there, you might rediscover some of our other fantastic interviews with authors such as Abhi Sukhdial, Ariana Kralicek, and Lena Aloise. Write and Publish a Multimedia E-book! Dr. Jiang Pu, a member of the Stone Soup family, is offering a series of ten classes on publishing a multimedia e-book on Asian/Pacific Islander American heroes in conjunction with published authors Oliver Chin and David Siller! Students will have their multimedia e-books published in the world’s first student-made AAPI online library and present at SCCL Young Author Talk Forum and lunar new year event! This is a class for highly motivated young writers who want to practice research skills, media literacy and critical thinking, multimedia creative design, and more. As we all have different learning capabilities as well as varying schedules, Dr. Pu has split the class into three different start times: every Wednesday at 4 pm PDT starting September 29 for children grades 4–7, every Friday at 4 pm PDT starting October 1 for children grades 4–7, and every Monday at 4:15 pm PDT starting October 4 for children grades 8–11. Stone Soup subscribers get $100 off with coupon “Soup100″! Refugee Project Fundraiser Thank you to all who have contributed thus far! The fundraiser will continue to run until September 30th. Tell your friends! Weekend Project When I was first perusing the September issue of Stone Soup, I was immediately drawn to the title “Autobiography” located inside the art section. Why was a word like that—a word typically reserved for the written arts—describing a piece of visual art? And then I clicked on it. Now my question, though still fundamentally the same, had switched from “Why use this word to describe a work of art?” to “Why use this word to describe this work of art?” I could say that the photograph creates a juxtaposition between what is real and what is reflection, the subject’s “real” foot being more three-dimensional and distinguished than its counterpart. I could say that the dynamic curvature suggestive of dance that exists in the “real” foot is lost in its reflection, a blurrier, straighter image filtered through the barrier of the floor, which in this case takes on the appearance of water, perhaps a symbol for the subconscious. And I could try and cobble these observations together into a cohesive thesis, stating that this photograph questions the nature of the form of autobiography—what is gained, what is lost through its filter? And while I could not give a concrete answer, I could suggest that the relationship between autobiography and the subconscious is that when we sit down to write about ourselves, we can never be objective. Lines are blurred, curves are straightened by our own biased perception. But since I am not the brilliant artist behind this photograph, none of this I can say for sure. However, what I can say for certain is that the title of this photograph elevates it from a beautiful picture to a masterpiece. While Sim Ling Thee’s poem “Words of Snow” doesn’t offer the same insight on titles and the nature of autobiography, I found myself drawn to it the same way I was to Amity’s photograph. What I love most about this poem is its rendering of white space, the delightful suggestiveness of the colon. Is the poem the poem, or is it the space left after the colon, the time spent lingering in the mind of the reader as they can’t help but fill the space with their own imagination? This is a concept frequently explored within the realm of visual art, perhaps most notably in the works of Kazimir Malevich and, later, Mark Rothko. But Sim Ling, in just seven lines, takes something more typically reserved for the visual arts and applies it, effortlessly, to the written word. So, with their respective pieces both Amity and Sim Ling have borrowed from art forms outside of their own in order to elevate their art. Therefore, this weekend I’d like you to either borrow elements of visual art within any of its forms (dance, theater, painting, etc.), or elements of writing within any of its forms (autobiography, fiction, screenwriting, etc.), and meld them into one cohesive form as Amity and Sim Ling did. Then, once you’ve completed this project, I want you to think of a title that does more than describe your art. The title should enhance the experience of your art and complicate its meaning. As always, if you are happy with
winners
Flash Contest #35, September 2021: Write a story about you, but in a parallel universe where you had a different life—our winners and their work
Our September Flash Contest was based on Creativity Prompt #168 (provided by Molly Torinus, Stone Soup contributor), which asked participants to write about themselves with one small twist: the story had to take place inside a parallel universe where they led a different life. The prompt was interpreted in myriad ways, with many branching into the realm of science fiction, others into fantasy, and some choosing to remain within the world of the mundane. We were dazzled by participants’ creativity, our minds taken on journeys to a car ride with a yapping dad, a dystopian future where fires reigned supreme, a skillfully disguised Magic Store, and much, much more! As always, thank you to all who submitted, and please submit again next month! In particular, we congratulate our Winners and our Honorable Mentions, whose work you can appreciate below. Winners “The Concert” by Lucas Hinds, 13 (Lenoir City, TN) “Recognition” by Serena Lin, 10 (Scarsdale, NY) “Are you Ready?” by Lui Lung, 12 (Danville, CA) “Phoenix” by Eliya Wee, 11 (Menlo Park, CA) “The Magic Store” by Chloe Yang, 12 (Cranbury, NJ) Honorable Mentions “A Day with My Drox” by Tahra Araujo, 9 (Brooklyn, NY) “The Puzzle” by Anushka Dhar, 12 (Hillsborough, NJ) “Normal Universe/Parallel Universe” by Nova Macknik-Conde, 9 (Brooklyn, NY) “Mechanical Master” by Rishab Suresh, 13 (Sanford, FL) “Duplicates” by Emily Tang, 12 (Winterville, NC) Lucas Hinds, 13 (Lenoir City, TN) The Concert Lucas Hinds, 13 “Time to get up, boys!” my mom shouted, waking me. “Please, just 30 more minutes,” I mumbled. “No way!” she said sternly. “We have to get ready. We have a concert to go to.” A muffled sigh came from behind me. I looked back, but didn’t see Peyton anywhere. He was buried in the warm, comfy sleeping bag. Tired from our late sleepover shenanigans, we grudgingly got ready to go. When we finally walked out the door—the sun shining high and bright in the sky—we got into the truck and headed out. My dad plays trombone for the Oak Ridge Community Band, and all the concerts are at the amphitheater in Oak Ridge, so we get to visit the ‘Secret City’ any time my dad has a concert, which is quite often. Today was one of those days. “What a beautiful day!” I said sleepily. “I hate mornings,” I heard Peyton mumble. “I’ve always been a night owl.” The trip was extra uneventful. My family has never been that talkative during car rides. You hear stories about games and songs and all kinds of things families do during rides. Not our family. All we do is listen to the radio and enjoy the scenery. Only the occasional history lesson from my dad about the Oak Ridge National Laboratories or stories about the river being radioactive. My dad was so predictable in this respect that you could sense when he was about to go off. I knew he was about to go off on a tangent. “Get ready. My dad is about to go off on one of his stories. I can sense it,” I warned Peyton. “Wait wh—” “Boys, we’re about to pass by one of the most secret laboratories in the US. They made a lot of progress in nuclear technology and—” My dad was interrupted by a powerful force hitting our truck, nearly toppling it over, then we heard an ear shattering BOOM! As we looked outside, the sky was thick with a purplish hue. “What was that?” Peyton asked. We looked around and were surprised to see no effect on the surrounding environment. “Probably just some dumb teenagers trying to cause trouble,” my dad guessed. “I remember doing things exactly like this when I was your guys’ age. In fact, back in my time, you could…” “Oh, here he goes again,” I whispered to Peyton. The rest of the ride was filled with tales from my dad’s childhood. When we finally made it to the concert, everyone was shouting at us. “Tom! We’ve been waiting for you! What happened?” “Come on! Are we gonna warm up or what?” He was visibly confused at first, but then he realized something. “Alright! Let’s get started!” He shouted to the band. “Let’s start with something simple, ‘The Star Spangled Banner!” “What’s going on? He’s not supposed to be the conductor.” I whispered to Peyton. “I don’t know, but something’s up.” He replied. “I think it has something to do with the explosion back there. Maybe an experiment gone wrong.” The rest of the warm-up and concert went by without conversation. Everything went smoothly, even with my dad in charge, and we didn’t discuss anything until we got back home. “What happened?” I questioned my dad, hoping he had a simple explanation. “We’re in a parallel universe.” “Funny joke, dad. But I’m being serious! Why were you the conductor! And why did nobody find it strange that you were suddenly in charge?” “I just told you. One of the trombone players told me what happened. Apparently, he’s a scientist at the labs. He said they were doing experiments with time travel, but instead of time travel, they figured out how to go to parallel universes. One of the experiments with these universes got out of hand, and now here we are,” he said. “I knew I shouldn’t have done this sleepover,” Peyton complained. “Something weird happens whenever I’m with you guys.” “Do you have his phone number, honey?” My mom asked. “If he’s the one doing these experiments, maybe he can get us back.” “I already arranged a meeting. Today at 3 PM.” “Well? What do we do until then? We have about 2 hours!” I said. “Play games, duh,” Peyton said. “Well, I think we should go shopping. Just because it’s a parallel universe doesn’t mean they don’t have good deals!” said my mom. “Sounds like a plan,” my dad said, and we left for the nearest grocery store. When we got there and started shopping, I saw a familiar face. Zander, or, as his close friends called him, Z.
Flash Contest #34, August 2021: Use J.M.W. Turner’s painting The Banks of the Loire as a starting point for a stream of consciousness piece—our winners and their work
Our August Flash Contest was based on Creativity Prompt #164 (provided by Anya Geist, Stone Soup ’20–21 Intern), which, combining art and writing, challenged participants to write a stream of consciousness piece based off of J.M.W. Turner’s painting The Banks of the Loire. The result was, unsurprisingly, breathtaking! In their own unique ways, each piece evoked Turner’s painting with stunning vividity. Reading the participants’ work, it was easy to envision the kneeling lady in red, the arching trees, and the backdrop of the seacliff, the tops of sails just visible through the mist. Participants also interpreted the qualification of stream of consciousness in a variety of ways, with their submissions ranging from meandering prose without punctuation to highly structured poetry to paragraph blocks written from the perspective of a tree! As always, thank you to all who submitted, and please submit again next month! In particular, we congratulate our Winners and our Honorable Mentions, whose work you can appreciate below. Winners “A River Flows in Me” by Inca Acrobat, 11 (San Francisco, CA) “The Melancholy Landscape” by Sophie Liu, 9 (Surrey, BC, Canada) “The Watcher” by Lui Lung, 12 (Danville, CA) “Scattering Beams” by Emily Tang, 12 (Winterville, NC) “The Banks of the Loire” by Alexis Zou, 13 (Lake Oswego, OR) Honorable Mentions “A Dream or the End?” by Phoenix Crucillo, 13 (Los Angeles, CA) “Thoughts Harbored” by Rex Huang, 11 (Lake Oswego, OR) “Perspectives Not Human” by Ivy Liu, 9 (San Jose, CA) “So Still” by Sophie Yu, 13 (Houston, TX) “The Magical River” by Natalie Yue, 9 (San Carlos, CA) Inca Acrobat, 11 (San Francisco, CA) A River Flows in Me Inca Acrobat, 11 You fail to speak to me Even when the moon has risen Above the glittering Loire When my mind is awake But my body still Especially then You turn your back away My dreams fade away Sophie Liu, 9 (Surrey, BC, Canada) The Melancholy Landscape Sophie Liu, 9 A Dreary, Undisturbed, Abandoned, Landscape. As gloomy as a muddy, Dark, Overworked, Horse, In the rain. The trees wilting in the sky, No longer proud and sturdy, But miserable. The sky covered in menacing, Evil clouds, Hiding the jumpy, Comforting, Blue, Sky. Peaceful, And calm. Not even a single shout, A single bird chirping, Or the wind howling. The place is as tranquil as a person sitting beside a campfire, With the stars glittering above them, Without a sound being uttered. Only one, Lonely, Human being in the whole, Vast greenery world. The place is a boring Blobfish, Without any beings, Except blobs of nature to make up the empty, Lonely, Land. The unwelcoming, Still, Desolate, Landscape. Lui Lung, 12 (Danville, CA) The Watcher Lui Lung, 12 There was a stillness that hovered in the air. It wasn’t the peaceful kind, more of the silence before a storm struck and razed everything in its path. I dutifully remained unmoving, listening faithfully for the endless thrum of life already etched into my memory. It was constant and ever-changing all at once, the irresolute rhythm to an unfinished song. This had become my existence: eagerly awaiting nothing by the riverbanks, observing a world I could not make a difference in until I grew too old to stand. The crunch of a fallen leaf snatched my attention, a discordant note in the delicately balanced symphony. A woman knelt, the sleeve of her dress slipping from her shoulder. This sight was not new to me. There had been hundreds before her who had visited, and thousands before them. Those who came and went were far too many to be remembered, both old and young, some carrying joy, but most bearing misery. Whether it was happiness or grief that led them to my home, I knew they all sought something for themselves, and I could tell from their faces what it was that they looked for. The desperate found comfort in meaningless details that went unnoticed by another, so that even the babbling of water could be heard as a familiar voice, or a breeze could be the huff of a lost lover’s breath. Then the woman shifted, my gaze leaping to her again, and her face was turned from me. The gleam of her dark hair gilded by noon sun was all I could see. Her perch was motionless beside the river, enough so that she could have been a painted figure listening for what only she could hear. She was indecipherable this way, a statue carved to be admired but never touched, beautiful but unreachable. Who was this mystery? What brought her here, to sit by these banks as I did? Did she hear the music in the rush of the Loire? I wanted to… I simply wanted, I realized. I wanted, and I could not have. Frustration burst like a wave. The sky inevitably splotched to orange and red, and the woman left me. She rose, the hem of her skirt against the ground a whispered addition to my song. I remained rooted in my position. People wandered here to find their purpose, but what was my own? I was the Watcher, I supposed, and I always would be. My purpose was to see and not feel, to ask my questions and to know they would not be answered. It was a bitter truth. I watched until the crimson of her dress became a faint speck, until the spell she had cast was lifted. How much longer would I continue to watch? Was I to stand here for a lifetime? I’d crumble eventually, slower than those I saw passing by, but I was dying all the same. Perhaps everyone did have a place in this grand composition I could not yet make sense of, and this was my cruel fate, a punishment for a crime I did not know of. A cool gust of wind rustled my branches. I stood still once more. The river murmured on. Emily Tang, 12 (Winterville, NC) Scattering Beams Emily
