Untitled, tempera, watercolor, cellophane Chloe Goodman, 7Santa Cruz, CA
The Clock of Emotion
“Blast you, too, clock!” Aunt Stephanie screamed, hurling the beautiful clock of emotion into a ditch behind her home. Her emotion rapidly changed to misery and loneliness. “I am ruined!” The clock seemed to tremble hauntingly as Aunt Stephanie dropped to her knees and wept, head in her hands. An owl hooted as the darkness of night fell over the city. The moon rose like a ballerina in the ash black sky. Shy stars peeked out of the blackness and twinkled. The clock of emotion seemed to shiver with the unpredictable tick of Aunt Stephanie’s emotions. One second he ticked to misery, the next to anger, the next to loneliness, and then to sleep. There Aunt Stephanie lay, on the side of the ditch, a tear still streaming down her face. * * * The wind whirled, the sirens rang, and voices screeched in terror. Aunt Stephanie slept and slept. Water gushed down the ditch. As the clock was being whisked away to sea, firefighters came and pulled Aunt Stephanie up from the water, dirt, and rubble of her house. Aunt Stephanie finally woke with a jump. No one saw the clock bobbling along in the icy, harsh water, though Aunt Stephanie did seem to take one last lamenting glance at the ditch. Then, with a flick of her brown, muddy hair, she left the clock to be seized by the sea. White gulls flew above the clock like feathery angels, occasionally swooping down and pecking at the clock, thinking it to be a fish. This was an easy mistake to make because the moon shone on the clock’s ivory back, making it stand out in the dark ocean. The clock avoided the distraction, and simply sped up, leaving the gulls to find real fish. The clock felt like he had control of the sea. The clock went down, down, down. Finally, BUMP! The clock hit the bottom of the ocean. The clock bobbled around, sand trailing behind him. At last, a fish swam over, followed by several of his friends. All of the fish—probably a grand sum of 85—seemed to be investigating the clock. Suddenly, all of the fish began to swim away in two single-file lines, about a fish length apart. They all glowed as they swam, faintly swaying with the flow of the water. The clock quickly picked up on what the fish were trying to say: follow us. More fish and other creatures joined the lines, making a path going down a rocky slope and then up a seamount. On top of the huge seamount, there was a hole. The clock bobbled up the hill. Suddenly, a swift change in Aunt Stephanie’s emotions threw the clock off the mound, and onto the rocks beneath it. A sharp stone left a small scratch on the clock’s ivory back. With a creak, the clock righted himself and made his way up the seamount, and dropped down into the hole with very little hesitation. After all, the clock went to the bottom of the ocean. The clock could go to the bottom of a hole and have utter confidence in the fish. They knew the sea. One of the curious fish followed the clock, watching to make sure he arrived safely at his destination. The clock just kept falling, and falling, and falling. Finally something warm, something very warm, blew up at the clock. The fish gently pushed the clock into a passage on the side of the hole, as not to be pushed out of the mound again by a hydrothermal vent. The passage was narrow, dark, and stuffy. The clock of emotion had to turn sideways to get through. Then: something made out of wood appeared. As the clock neared the object, he realized it was a scary and mysterious old shipwreck, overgrown with barnacles. It was hidden underneath the seamount that encapsulated it. One half of the ship had already decayed. The fish motioned into the shipwreck, and the clock traveled in through a splintered hole on the side of the ship. “ “If my owner truly appreciates and seeks good times, then I make the happiness feel longer, and the bad times feel shorter.” The clock took a right, then a left, then a right, and then climbed up to the deck, as conducted by the fish. Then the clock was directed by the fish to go into what would have been the captain’s quarters. Inside, behind the captain’s large desk, there sat a very small person, if you could call it that. It was more like a mermaid, except its ears were the wings of a butterfly, its eyes were entirely purple, and its hair was made out of seaweed. In the language of emotion, the being said, “Tell me, what is your emotion, clock?” The clock responded, “Confusion.” “Tell me your story, and your purpose. There you will find what you want, and that will lead you out of confusion.” “My purpose is to regulate my owner’s emotions. If my owner truly appreciates and seeks good times, then I make the happiness feel longer, and the bad times feel shorter. When Aunt Stephanie first received me, she was young and promised to always seek good times. But it has been 47 years, and she is now lonely, miserable, and wretched. She no longer looks for the good times. In fact, she seeks nothing at all. I cannot regulate her emotions, so she threw me away. I have had many different owners since I was first created, and I have noticed a pattern among them. When my owner does not feel gratitude for the good times, then the bad times get longer, and the good times fly by. That is what happened to Aunt Stephanie. But in contrast, if my owner looks for good times and happiness, even when they are sad, then I can help them.” “Oh, I see…” the being replied. “You
The City
Stoplights reflect off the bay The faint sound of glasses clinking and people talking is carried on the breeze The moon is shrouded by clouds Towering buildings blink with neon lights A lone car drives across a scarlet bridge Karinne Ulrey, 10Los Gatos, CA Eli Breyer Essiam, 10Cambridge, MA
Connected with Nature
Connected with Nature, watercolor Antara Gangwal, 10San Jose, CA
Editor’s Note
Stone Soup was co-founded by William Rubel 45 years ago this year at Porter College at the University of California Santa Cruz (UCSC). This past semester, I got to work on this issue with a group of eight students in a Porter College classroom at UCSC. It was exciting to hear their ideas for the magazine and to discuss their reactions to submissions as we went through the difficult process of selecting pieces for the issue. I’m very proud of the result. What ties these pieces together is a spirit of experimentation and adventure. I hope this issue inspires you to try new things—whether that’s a screenplay, a review of a TV show, or a short poem. For those of you reading online, a few of these pieces also include audio of the writers reading their work!
Ostriches
Ostriches Sierra Glassman, 12Watsonville, CA
Stone Soup Honor Roll: June 2018
Welcome to the Stone Soup Honor Roll! We receive hundreds of submissions every month by kids from around the world. Unfortunately, we can’t publish all the great work we receive. So we created the Stone Soup Honor Roll. We commend all of these talented writers and artists and encourage them to keep creating. – The Editors Scroll down to see all the names (alphabetical by section), including book reviewers and artists. STORIES Nicholas Taplitz, 12 Asha Baudart, 13 Tudor Achim, 8 Jasmine Li, 12 Macy Li, 12 Molly Tulk, 13 Genevieve Gray, 10 POEMS Max Cummins, 13 Anna Dolan, 12 Jayden Bolick, 10 Sophie Yu, 10 Arielle Kouyoumdjian, 9 Nandita S, 11 ARTWORK Jaya Shankar, 11 John P. Anson, 7 Audrey Tai
Red Fern
Red Fern, by Hannah Parker Hannah Parker, 13South Burlington, VT
The Red and Blue Thread
Stella Addle pushed through the school building door, a wave of sound hitting her. Kids yelling and laughing, smiling and scowling. The air felt weighty; the anger, the confusion, pushing down on her shoulders, feeling heavy as bricks. Stella lugged her backpack to her locker. She stared at the lime green paint, then fiddled with her lock and pulled open the locker door. She dropped her backpack on the bottom of the locker and pulled out her math books and her calculator, which was covered in leftover heart stickers from Valentine’s Day. Usually seeing the stickers made her smile, but today she felt as though nothing could make her lips turn upward. This was a tragedy, an absolute tragedy. Forty five presidents and none of them had been women! Hillary Clinton should have won, she should have been the first woman president, but that stupid Donald Trump had to ruin everything! Stella thought as she slammed her locker shut with gusto. November 8th 2016 is going to be the worst day of my life! Stella walked to her homeroom, her legs feeling unsteady, her whole world feeling out of balance, broken. Feeling dizzy, she sat down and scanned the room for Gabby while taking in the rest of the scene. Gabriella Carmann had been Stella’s best friend since second grade. They did everything together; they had sleepovers and shared their deepest secrets with each other, they knew they could tease the other about their clothes and not offend them. They balanced each other out, Gabby was the flashy, stubborn, strong headed leader of the two, and Stella was the quieter, gentler one, keeping them away from heated drama. When Stella was around Gabby she felt a certain strength, a sense of courage that she didn’t feel when she was alone, as if some of Gabby’s confidence was magically seeping into her. For Gabby, Stella was the source of cool water that doused Gabby’s flames, the flames that burned the same color as her orange hair. It was because of Stella that Gabby was starting to find some of that water in herself, way deep down, but still it was there. Pink Finally she saw her: Gabby walked into the classroom sporting a pair of gray hand-me-down sweatpants from her older sister Franny, short for Frances, and a purple t-shirt with a turquoise flower print. Her denim backpack hug over her shoulder and her long red hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. This was Gabby’s usual look, so what surprised Stella was the smile that spread across Gabbys face. Stella knew Gabby and her family were Republican, but for some reason Stella never thought they would vote for Trump, or be happy if he won. Puzzled, Stella stood up and followed Gabby to her locker. “Hey,” Stella said leaning against one of the lockers. “Morning,” Gabby replied as she unpacked her backpack. “So…” Stella said nodding slowly. Thoughts were racing through her mind; conversation usually came easy to the two of them, why was it hard now? “What?” Gabby said. “What is it? What’s wrong?” You’re happy…. Trump’s our President-Elect…. Stella thought as she looked at the floor. “If something’s up, just tell me,” Gabby slammed her locker shut and stared at her friend. Just tell me. Please. “It’s just… you… are you glad Trump won?” Stella’s face turned red with shame. “Oh! Uh, yeah, I mean, I guess…. I mean my parents voted for him.” She thought we voted for Hillary? She knows we’re Republican, Gabby thought. The bell rang and the hallways were filled with noisy sixth, seventh, and eighth graders. Stella had math first period and Gabby had science. “I got to go. See you later?” Gabby asked. “Sure,” Stella said, and she turned and walked to math, wondering what had just happened. * * * Stella plopped down in her chair, feeling exhausted. Family dinners were an important part of the Addle household and usually Stella enjoyed them, especially on lasagna nights like these, but not tonight. Margaret Addle, Stella’s mom, placed the lasagna on the table and sat down across from her husband. Usually, though it was only the three of them, the table buzzed with conversation, a light and fluffy happiness, almost as delicious as Mrs. Addle’s cooking, hanging in the air. Tonight however, the air felt heavy and cold and the conversation that usually flowed easily, had vanished. “ Did Stella’s parents know Gabby’s parents had voted for Trump? “Well, how was everyone’s day?” Mr. Addle asked. His eyes were wide and he had an awkward smile. He began scooping lasagna onto plates. “Where do I begin!?” Mrs. Addle rolled her eyes, looking generally annoyed. “Sarah and Megan were talking about the election during our lunch break, and guess what?” She put a fork full of lasagna into her mouth. Sarah and Megan were some of Mrs. Addle’s coworkers. “What?” Mr. Addle asked. Stella looked back and forth between her parents, she could tell this was not a good “guess what.” “They both voted for Trump! Both of them!” Mrs. Addle was yelling now. “Women! Women voted for Trump! They’re uneducated women, that’s what they are!” She let out a heavy sigh. “Uneducated women,” she said, shaking her head. Stella stared at her mother. She had never seen her like this: yelling, looking close to tears, yet not sad. “Margaret, please, calm down,” Mr. Addle said putting a hand on his wife’s hand. Stella kept looking at her mother. Mrs. Addle’s blue eyes looked foggy and gray. Her body shook with anger, but slowly as she got back her cool, the anger lessened and a sadness settled in. Her shoulders sagged and Stella noticed something she had never seen in her mother before: helplessness. Suddenly a frightening thought came to Stella, and her parents conversation about taxes and broken printers at work became muffled and hard to hear. Gabby said her parents voted for
The Hobbit
The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien; Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2012; $14.99 “In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit.” J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit, published in 1937, is a timeless tale of adventure worth reading over and over again. If you manage to pull open the green door that guards the cozy home inside, what do you see? Try to take the yellow brass knob placed picturesquely in the center. This door guards an adventurous tale of thirteen dwarfs and a hobbit. The “unexpected party” sets off to reclaim the dwarfs’ treasure from Smaug “the Chiefest and Greatest of Calamities”. You creep inside this door and hear faint singing; Tolkien’s poetry and songs fill this story with fun rhymes and longing hopes. Down the hall, in the kitchen, is Bilbo Baggins a clever, courageous and persistent hobbit. Farther inside the well-kept hobbit hole, you see lessons Bilbo learns along his journey. You look out the window, and in the distance you watch fourteen figures on horseback. Will the burglar and the dwarfs reclaim their “long-forgotten gold”? Whether you’re on your way far over the Misty Mountains cold, chipping glasses and cracking plates, or maybe tra-la-la-lalling in the valley, Tolkien’s dexterous poems and songs are sure to please for ages to come. The poems are either funny, longing or ingenious. They add an extra layer of descriptions that makes one feel as if one is actually in Bilbo’s parlor listening to the dwarfs singing of the Lonely Mountain and the dragon’s great greed that led to the destruction of Dale. No hobbit is smarter, more stouthearted and steadfast than Bilbo Baggins. Throughout the course of The Hobbit, Bilbo is clever. For example, he rescued the dwarfs when they had been captured by the Wood-Elves in Mirkwood. No one would have come up with the escape plan Bilbo thought of: saving the dwarfs by way of barrel. But that is only one side of the Tookish hobbit. It takes courage to go on an adventure with thirteen strange, uncouth dwarfs. For instance, Bilbo was brave and bright when he bested Gollum in the riddle contest while inside the dark, damp tunnels of the Goblin King. Lastly, Bilbo is persistent. Finding the keyhole when all the other dwarfs had given up shows his sense of perseverance. All in all, Bilbo is valiant, quick-witted and never quits. The books that have withstood time’s test have lessons to teach. The Hobbit did, and still does, just that. Along his journey, the small hobbit, Bilbo, learns many lessons. Smaug’s greed for gold and jewels lead the scarlet dragon to destruction. This teaches us not to live for ourselves alone. The theme of good verses evil teaches us to fight for what is right. The company’s determination to succeed in their goal is admirable. This inculcates us to never give up. The lessons learned in this valuable book have endured. As Bilbo said, or more rather, sang, roads do go ever on and on. Sometimes the road is made of difficult terrain, rocky and hard to climb; but sometimes the road is smooth; the sun is shining, and the sky is clear and blue. You stop short as you see your neighbor’s hobbit holes – you’re home! However, you notice something different. It isn’t something you can hold in your hand, but something imprinted in your heart. What you find are clever songs; an endearing character—Bilbo—who teaches you life lessons. You gently close the round door, smiling. Catherine Gruen, 11Chino Hills, CA
What’s inside my messy head?
What’s inside my messy head? Being funny And when I’m dead. Things I should’ve Done and said. And always stress About things lost And of my actions What will be the cost. Was that joke Weird or funny? Or what I’ll do outside If tomorrow’s sunny. So what’s inside my messy head? Maintaining strength And the day’s Shortening length. Being a star And messed up jokes That I try to tell quietly And how to escape Authority’s yoke. Tommy Swartz, 12McLean, VA
Pink
Pink, watercolor, marker, and crayon on paper Abhi Sukhdial, 9Stillwater, OK
