We are now thinking we would like to record stories we haven’t previously recorded. We are looking for drama teachers, or anyone with recording experience who works with children, to work with us to record children reading Stone Soup stories for posting on this website and on iTunes. We may even produce a CD. We have been publishing Stone Soup for thirty-seven years and have a wealth of material by children up to age thirteen to work with.

If you might be interested in this project, please write to me, william@williamrubel.com. I am thinking that making recordings of children might entail a collaboration between a classroom teacher, a drama teacher, and a radio presenter at a community college or university radio station who could do the actual recording, and possibly the editing as well.

I look forward to hearing from you.

William Rubel
Co-Editor of Stone Soup

Project: Write a Play with at Least Four Characters.

The best way to develop an appreciation for how narratvie helps you develop your characters is by writing a play. Go back through stories you have written and find the one with the most dialogue. Transform this story into a play. You will probably need to re-imagine the story because you may find that, once the dialogue is stripped of the accompanying narrative, it no longer makes sense. Your challenge as a playwright is to tell your story exclusively through the words spoken by your characters!

Go to the library and look at plays to learn what format to use when writing your play. You will see that at the beginning of a play playwrights list the characters and tell how they relate to each other. Also, at the beginning of each scence the characters present in the scene are listed. Character are listed whether they talk or not. The beginning of a scene is also the place to include a short narrative description of where the action for the scene takes place. When writing your play you should follow these customary practices.

The Bear

by Lena Boesser-Koschmann

THE MORNING WAS cool. It wasn’t cold, but not warm enough to go without a jacket. Sandy and I were walking toward the field where Chipper, my seven-year-old pony, was staked. I was swinging the reins, and Sandy was walking beside me. We didn’t talk to each other, and it was quiet. A bird chirped, singing out a strange melody. When we arrived, I softly called to Chipper. He lifted his head and walked slowly over to me. He nuzzled my pocket to see if I had any treats for him. I laughed and slipped the bit into his mouth. He jerked his head a little at the coldness of the bit. I unhooked the rope from his halter and, grabbing the reins in my hand, jumped up onto his back. Since Sandy was taking the road, I decided to canter Chipper in the field.

As I neared the road that separates Chipper’s field and Timer’s field (Timer is Chipper’s brother), I noticed a guest from the Goldhill Inn. He was taking a video of the inn. He nodded a friendly hello to me, and I decided to show off a little. Maybe he’d videotape me. I clicked Chipper again and gave him a little kick. He loped faster. When he came to the edge of the field where Timer was staked, I stopped him and let him walk.

Timer was going crazy. He was running around in circles, bucking and kicking his legs. I thought his unusual behavior was just in his excitement to see Chipper. I let Chipper walk up to him, and Timer kicked him. Timer was acting really weird. It was then that I noticed the bear. He was sitting in the berry patch no more than sixty yards away. I gasped. Chipper jumped. Quickly, I leapt off Chipper and tried to pull him away from Timer. It was impossible.

Just then Sandy called, “What’s wrong?”

“Bear.” I spoke that one simple word.

“What?”

“Bear,” I repeated.

“Where?”

“In the berry patch, right over there!” I pointed over toward the raspberries that were around one side of the garden. I was talking fast and calmly to Chipper, pulling at his head a little at a time. Finally, we were walking away from Timer, who was as wild as ever.

All the time I have had Chipper, I have never actually come within sight of a bear while riding (unless you count the time I heard snuffling in the woods and saw fresh droppings). Chipper was getting excited by now. He was hard to control from the ground. I ran him to the nearest tree and tied him quickly to it. It was only then that I relaxed and looked closely at the bear. It wasn’t a big bear, but I’m not too good at telling what age animals are. Maybe he was the one year old that had been hanging around the town.

“He’s so cute,” I said to Sandy, who was looking at the small bear also.

“I know. That might be the one we saw in our yard the other day.”

Just then Mrs. Hall shouted out her window at us, “There’s a bear right there, ya known

“We know,” I shouted back and then untied the reins and started walking back toward my house.

Once we were out on the road, I leapt up onto Chipper once again.

“What are you doing?” Sandy asked.

“I’m going to put Chipper back in the pasture. Then we can come back to see the bear some more.”

“Thank you for your permission, oh great one,” she said.

I giggled. Then I loped Chipper down the short path way to our house. He seemed to know where we were going. He automatically went to the gate of the big pas ture. I opened the gate and he trotted inside. I slipped off his reins, and he loped across the pasture to scratch on a stake. Then I ran to tell my mom about the bear.

When I reached the porch, I didn’t bother to use the steps—I never did—but vaulted up onto the porch.

When I opened the door, Carrie, my sister, greeted me with a questioning look.

“I thought you were going riding,” my mom said.

“We were, but the horses are all hyped up because there’s a bear in Mrs. Hall’s berry patch,” I answered.

And at the same time Sandy said, “There’s a bear over at Mrs. Hall’s.”

I laughed. “I think it’s the same one that was in our yard the other day,n I said. “Sandy and I are going over to see what it does.”

“Well, Carrie and I are going down to the school in about fifteen minutes. I have some work I need to do before tomorrow. Tell me about the bear when I get back.”

“Sure.”

Then Sandy and I walked back across the road to Mrs. Hall’s place. She was yelling and screaming and banging pans at the bear.

“She’s mad,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Very good,” Sandy said sarcastically.

“I can’t see the bear,” I said, standing on my toes and trying to see it.

“Let’s go over where we were before.” But we didn’t get a chance to because just then we saw Bill slowly walking, gun in hand, toward the bear.

“No!n I gasped. Why would anyone shoot a baby bear? A bear without its mother. A bear with nowhere to go. Bill aimed. Then a shot rang out.

“God,” Sandy said, obviously mad. I couldn’t speak. I was boiling over with anger—a steam pot that can’t stop boiling, even when the burner beneath it is off. Maybe it wasn’t dead. Maybe he had just shot to scare it. Then why had he aimed the gun? I argued with my self. “I am never speaking to him again,” I said under my breath.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just feel sorry for the bear.”

“I know. I mean, it couldn’t defend itself. They didn’t have to shoot it,” Sandy said in a sarcastic voice.

“No kidding!”

Then, we walked wordlessly back toward my house. Mom and Carrie were just leaving. They had these looks on their faces. They had heard the gunshot, obviously. “It’s dead.” My voice cracked as I said it.

“Who shot it?” my mom asked.

“Bill Hall.” Sandy spoke his name in disgust. Just then we saw Mrs. Hall walking toward the Jones’ place, her kids hanging on her.

“Is it dead?” my mom called to Mrs. Hall, even though she knew the answer.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hall called back matter of factly.

“Why did you shoot it?”

“I didn’t shoot it, Bill did!”

Great, Mrs. Hall, blame it on Bill. Mrs. Hall went on, “You know what happened yesterday? He was growling at me from behind the woodpile.” Then Silvie started crying, and Mrs. Hall continued walking.

All my mom said was, “Come on, Carrie, let’s go.” And they rode off.

I slowly walked over to Chipper. He looked at me with his big brown eyes and yawned. I forced a smile. “He’s dead, Chipper, dead.” And I buried my face in his strong neck.

My daughter got interested in ballet from looking at clips on YouTube when she was a few months into being two. She was so interested in the YouTube clips that I bought her a ballet, the original version of Sleeping Beauty. She was fascinated. She watched it over and over.  And so, I began to buy her more ballet’s. She watches Sleeping Beauty, Swan Lake, Giselle, Coppelia, Nutcracker, and more. Rather than a goodnight story we have have goodnight ballet. Of course, she loves to dance and dances down the street, in restaurants and cafes, wherever there a flat space she is dancing. And seeing this, and my own reaction to it, has clarified for me who Stone Soup is really for.

Once can say that Stone Soup is for children who love to read and write, but I think better put is to say that it for children who are passionate about reading and writing. I can guarantee that if your child or grandchild is between the ages of 10 and 13 and is really passionate about reading and writing, then Stone Soup is the perfect gift, no qualms or hesitations about that.

We get letters from kids and from their parents telling us that when Stone Soup arrives in the house that the kid grabs the magazine and runs to her room and reads it cover to cover. Kids with passion for reading. We get letters from kids who write at a rate that most adult writers only dream of. Kids with passion for writing.

As one moves down from everyday passion to  sometimes passion to no never Stone Soup becomes less sure. Only you know your child and what inspires. What I can say is that Stone Soup is by children. So, it is different from any other book or magazine you might bring into the house. There is many an adult author who was given up on at some point but who then found a spark and a deep interest in writing. We also know from letters that there are children who have been given Stone Soup and who then found their voice.

As with so many things we get for our children, it is often helpful if we put in effort, too. I watch ballets with my daughter. My enthusiasm (I am new to ballet) reinforces hers. You might want to read Stone Soup along with your child, at least at first.

If you have any questions about Stone Soup, please don’t hesitate to write. And if you have an experience to share about how your child interacts with Stone Soup, please leave a comment, below.

A clear problem that we find reading through the stories and poems that are sent to us for consideration by children, their parents, grandparents, and teachers is that so much of the work sent is inspired by reading that it is itself not creative. The source of inspiration for writing that is genuinely creative is life itself. You will find that the stories in Stone Stone tend to be about life — and that is the reason.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, one of America’s first great writers, was also one of the first to use the term “creative writing.” In his Phi Beta Kappa Oration of 1838 that “There is then creative reading, as well as creative writing.” Creative reading implies a dynamic act, it implies a reader who brings his or her own life to he reading — full engagement. It is the natural way with children to fall into books.

Amongst children it is common for the child who loves to read to also be the child who loves to write. It is often true that great writers are also great readers, but it is almost invariably true with children that reading and writing go together. of course, it is from reading that children learn to write.

The greatest problem we find in reading through manuscripts sent by children, their parents, grandparents, and teachers in the hopes that we will publish them, is that so many of the child writers are so clearly readers of writing that is itself not creative. To create is to invent. It it is to bring something fundamentally new into the world, to say something that hasn’t been said ideally in a way that hasn’t been said. Because we are each different, if we each write from the center of our own differentness, then it is not such a tall order to write creatively. The problem comes when we don’t write from the center of our being.

One of the biggest impediments to creative writing is the fact that stories and poems are themselves inventions of culture. There are many literary traditions — not all of which are informed by the goal of being fundamentally creative. Clearly, works that are produced for the mass market are, by definition works in which the goal of accessibility to the largest possible audience takes precedence over the goal of the author speaking from his or her soul. Unfortunately, there is a smaller literature written for children that speaks from the author’s souls than there is for adult writers. And children, I think, are less in control of what they take in than are adults. We negotiate the thicket of unlimited options to choose what we want, but we have more agency than children. But what children have is a remarkablecloseness to unbridled curiosity and a drive to learn. That drive to learn is part of the drive to grow up.

If you find that your child, or your students, are stuck in writing that is not particularly creative, that their stories and poems rely on formula and cliche on ordinary ways of talking about the world, then you will need to give them a little push. You will find at the Stone Soup web site hundreds of stories and poems that we have selected  for more than thirty years out of literally tends of thousands of submissions. The best of what you will find here are transcendentally best, works that reward reading and rereading. But even at our most ordinary, I think you will find in Stone Sou’s stories creative writing that engages creative readers and that will inspire your child or your students to reach into themselves to find the words and the way of weaving those words together that genuinely reflects the unique way in which they experience the world.

We think it is important to encourage children to observe and write down their observations. This the builds the practice of looking to the world for the source material for fiction and poetry. It also builds the practice of the struggle that is every writer’s struggle, regard of age, to say what we mean and mean what we say.

In “The  Clay Pot,” Sashi gives in to this temptation and lies. In “The Mother’s Day Gift,” Mathew resists temptation and tells the truth. Fiction is often used by authors to explore difficult human problems, and few human problems are as difficult as the ones dealt with in these two stories. Mathew’s test, in “The Mother’s Day Gift,” is not as severe as Sashi’s. Mathew was careless and broke a window on a rebound, but his mother’s life wasn’t bound up with the window in any way.  His mistake was in the form of an accident.

Sashi’s mistake was more serious. She purposely, out of laziness, did something she was prohibited from doing. In both stories the mothers responded to what their children did by seeing it as an opportunity to strenghten their bond with their child. They both understood that the most valuable object between mother and child is something that cannot be touched but can be broken, and that is trust. Both mothers used the actions of their child to lovingly nurture trust so the bond of trust would be made stronger.

Project: Write a story about trust and lying

It is easy to be honest when there are no consequences to telling the truth! But it is not easy to tell the truth when you think that your words may get you in trouble. There are many famous stories and novels written for adults that explore the difficulty of telling the truth when lying seems safer or easier.

Create a test of trust for your character.  Your character might, for example, want to go out to play before finishing his or her homework. A friend offers a solution: lie about the homework  and finish it later. A bigger test might be that your character borrows something and either loses it or breaks it. An even bigger test of trust would be one where your character is actually tempted to steal something, does steal it, and then lies about stealing it.

Show us how your character responds to the test you create. Show us what, if anything, your character learns from his or her experience. Of course, there will always be at least two people involved in a story about trust. Show, as Naomi and Mathew do, what the other person expected of your main character and how that person responds to what happens.

In order to test your character’s trustworthiness you need to build up the significance of the trouble your character thinks he or she could get into by being found out. Naomi and Mathew took different approaches to building up their characters’ problems. Naomi builds up the significance of Sashi’s problem by showing us how important that one clay pot was to her mother. “It wasn’t the beauty of the pot, it was that it was part of her mother.” Mathew builds up the significance of his character’s problem by showing us how upset he was by what he had done. “My stomach immediately pole-vaulted into my throat . . . I could feel my body beginning to sweat and I felt sick.” Mathew’s character clearly thinks he will get in big trouble for what he did, and this is what makes his response courageous.

When you tell your story, you have a choice of voices — the “I” (first person) voice that Mathew uses, or the “he/she/it” (third person) voice that Naomi uses. The first-person voice emphasizes the experience and feelings of the central character, while the third-person voice emphasizes the larger world in which the tale takes place.

Whichever perspective you choose as the author of your piece, be sure, like Naomi and Mathew, to tell us the whole story, from the beginning — the whole “who, what, where, why,  and when” of what happened to test your character’s honesty.

The Clay Pot

by Naomi Wendland, age 12

Lusaka, Zambia

It was a cool, dusky morning in a village by a river bank. A mother and her daughter sat and watched the sky above the horizon change colors—from blue to purple to pink to orange-red. It was a good start to a new day.

It was only when the sun peaked over the horizon that the other people of the village emerged. Sashi knew then that her mother would have to start the fire. Sashi and her mother, Betra, had sat and watched the sun every morning since Sashi could remember, but once the families started to awaken, the chores would have to be started.

Her mother would usually start up a hot fire for the porridge to be cooked. Once she had done that, the task of feeding the family would be under way. It was Sashi’s job to make sure there was enough wood for the fire and that her two younger sisters and younger brother were ready and awake for the new day ahead of them.

Sashi and her mother had a special relationship between them—unlike any other relationship between a mother and daughter in the village. They could always share feelings and jobs. But there was something that they never did together—pot making. Her mother was a well-known potter. She specialized in her pots. Betra’s pots were sold in the city, and the money from the pots was used to support the family, for the father of Sashi had gone away and not returned. There was a strange feeling and look about Betra’s pots that lured people to them. Sashi thought it was partially because Betra spent so much time on them, but mostly because Betra would talk to the pots and the pot would talk to her. While Betra would be making the pot, she would have to be alone. Not even the little child, Chachala, could talk to her. Betra would make sure that she didn’t spend too much time on the pot instead of being outside with her family.

Out of all the pots Betra made, there was one that Sashi had seen all her life. It was the only one that Betra ever kept. It was a big pot with many small designs on it. This pot was not as pretty as the pots that were sold in the city, but it was said that it was Betra’s first pot that she had made with her mother. It wasn’t the beauty of the pot, it was that it was a part of her mother. It sat to the right of the doorway of the small hut and had never been moved. Betra had told the children since they were babies that they were never to touch it.

Soon the porridge had been eaten. Two of the three older children ran off screaming with laughter to go play with the other children of the village. Chachala, the youngest, who hadn’t learned to walk yet, started to play in the dirt. Her dark skin had been lightened by the tan dirt from the earth. Betra and Sashi both knew it was time for bathing her, but Betra needed to make her pots, so it was obvious that Sashi would be stuck with it. Betra staggered away behind some bushes with the heavy bag of clay on her head to do her pot. Sashi and Chachala were left alone.

Sashi went to fetch the big tin tub from inside the hut. She dragged it out beside the ashes left from the fire. She looked around for the bucket that was used to haul water, but it was nowhere in sight. She checked inside the hut. Then she remembered that Mrs. Tembo from the western side of the village had borrowed it to water her garden. She looked around her. The only other things to carry water were a small dried gourd and the old pot. It was logical, the pot was bigger so it could carry more water. If she used the pot, it would take a much shorter time. She went over to the pot and held it in her hands. Then she remembered what her mother had said. She was just going to put it down when she remembered that she wanted to play with Lyan.

At first on her way to the river bank, she held the pot tightly in her hands. As she walked further, she found it easier to put it on her head. She held a tight grip with her hands, one hand on each side of the pot. As she walked further, she found it easier to put it on her head. She held a tight grip on it with both hands. However, both hands soon reduced to one; then she slowly let go and balanced it on her head. It wobbled a bit, but it was a light pot for its size. Finally, she reached the cool water. The water was soothing to her hard dry hand, and when she sipped the water, she could feel it go down her throat. Sashi dipped the pot in the water and the water filled to the brim. She found the pot surprisingly heavy and had great difficulty lifting it out of the river. Once she had placed it on her head, it felt as if a ton of bricks swayed down on her. Her steps were slow strides. The water splashed over the sides and got Sashi wet. Slowly the pot started to slip off her head. She felt it when it was too late. As her hand went up to catch it, it slipped, plummeting to the ground, smashing into hundreds of pieces. She cupped her mouth as she stared at the scattered pot pieces. Sashi fell on her knees and started to cry. She held a few broken pieces in her hands and began to wail louder. It hurt her to know that she had just broken something that meant so much to her mother. It was her mother’s history. Still sobbing, she swept up all the pieces with her shaking hand. She scooped the pieces into her dress and started home. Chachala watched as Sashi poured them into a small gourd cup. She then hid it under her blankets. Meanwhile she swept the ground around the hut.

Soon after, Betra returned. Her first sight was Chachala’s face. “Why is she not clean?” Betra questioned.

“I forgot and played with Lyan,” Sashi lied.

“Well, you better fetch some water. I will help you wash her.” She looked around as if looking for the bucket to hand to Sashi. As she scanned the room, she noticed her pot wasn’t in its place. “Where is my pot?” she spoke angrily. She walked over and touched the spot where it used to be.

“Well, Mother, while I was gone, Chachala rolled it over and cracked it by hitting it with stones.”

“Tell me how she could have turned that pot over and hit it with such force that it broke. Besides, you know to take her with you,” Betra said fiercely.

Sashi looked aside, for she could say nothing. Tears filled her eyes as she thought of what happened. Betra’s face was tight. Her eyes flamed red with anger. Sashi felt so small in front of her mother. She thought, Will we never watch the sun together again?

Sashi was ready to be yelled at, but instead, her mother said in a soft weak voice, “You lied, you lied to me. Can’t I trust my own daughter?” She covered her face and wept sorrowfully. She collapsed on her knees and began to cry. Sashi ran into the hut and got the pieces. She placed them before her mother. Betra took her hand from her face and stared at the small gourd shell. “How can a big pot be in a small gourd?” Betra asked slowly as she reached for the gourd and poured out the pieces. Then she put two of the pieces in her hand. She stared at them for a long time. Suddenly, she began to gather all the broken pieces in her torn dress and walked behind some bushes. Sashi knew that she wouldn’t return for a long time so she started to make a fire for the porridge at mealtime. By the time the two children returned from play, the porridge was ready to be eaten. Although the children didn’t see their mother, they didn’t ask any questions. That meal was a quiet one.

The sun was nearing the horizon when the mother appeared from the bushes. She called for Sashi, and Sashi followed her as she walked on a dusty path. It was the same path her mother would take when she was going pot making. Finally, they came to a spot with a lighted fire and clay pots scattered all around. She and her mother sat down. “We are going to make your first pot. This will be no ordinary pot. It will be the pot that reassures us both that we will never lie to each other. It will be like the pot my mother and I made.”

So Sashi and Betra made that pot from the remains of the former pot, and it stood at the right of the hut. It always was a reminder that they should be true to their word and never lie.

The Mother’s Day Gift

by Mathew Thompson, age 11

Dallas, Oregon

IT WAS MOTHER’S DAY, 1993. My friend Adam had come over to spend the night on Saturday. We watched old movies until about eleven p.m. and then camped out on the living room floor. Sunday morning Adam and I got up early and made pancakes. After breakfast we went outside to play cops and robbers and ride bikes.

Dad came home from work for lunch at noon and we ate with him. After Dad left, Adam and I decided to go out and play ball. We live on top of a hill, and the only field nearby is behind a big metal water tower. The city uses a little building beside that for a pump station, so everyone up here will have good water pressure. We pitched the ball back and forth to each other and took turns batting. Beginning to tire of this, Adam went in the house to get my Super Soaker Fifty squirt guns and I stayed outside, bouncing the ball off the water tower to practice my pitching.

Pitch—THUNK—catch it. Pitch—THUNK—catch it. Then, bouncing the ball, I threw it extra hard against the water tower. What a mistake! The ball bounced back off the water tower, almost hitting me, then flew through the window of the water pump station. CRASH!!! Did I mention that the window was not open? Well, it was now!

My stomach immediately pole-vaulted into my throat! Just then Adam came around the corner. Seeing my pale stare he said, “Close your mouth or you will catch bugs. Hey, what’s wrong?”

My stomach in a knot, I blurted out, “I accidentally broke the window.” I pointed to the water shed. The ball had made a perfect round hole through the glass, with rays shattered around it.

“Uh-oh,” Adam said. “Just walk away and nobody will ever notice. You’re gonna get in trouble if you tell!”

I pushed Adam aside and walked to the front yard where Mom was working. I could feel my body beginning to sweat and I felt sick. Swallowing hard, I told Mom about the window. Mom said, “Let’s go take a look.” I felt like a doomed man walking back toward that building. Mom looked at the window. Nothing magic had happened — that window still had a big hole in it. “Well,” asked Mom, “have you learned anything from this?” We talked about angles and glass strength and throwing things against the water tower. (My mom can make a math lesson out of almost anything!) I could feel my eyes beginning to burn, and two big tears snuck out and dripped down my cheeks. I’m telling you, I felt just awful! I leaned my head against Mom’s shoulder and she put her arms around me.

“Son,” she said, “everyone has accidents, but it is how you deal with those accidents that makes the difference between honesty and dishonesty. I know that telling me about this wasn’t easy, especially when your friend said he thought you shouldn’t, so that makes me very proud of you.” She gave me a big hug and Adam reached out and touched my arm. “The only time you’d be in trouble with me over something like this is if you didn’t tell me, or if you lied to me about it. And besides that, if you lie or try to hide these things, you get black, ugly-feeling places inside because you still know what really happened. You cannot cover up the truth of your actions from yourself.”

I sniffed and tried to clear my throat. “I will pay for the window,” I said, even though a picture of the tent I had been saving for floated through my mind. . . .

On Monday morning, before school, I went down to the city shops and told the water people about my accident. I told them I wanted to pay for my mistake. I said to fix the window and send me the bill. They did. It cost me forty-eight dollars and sixty-two cents. It certainly wasn’t a very fun way to spend my money! So my pockets are empty, but my conscience is clear.

The funny thing is that my mom says telling her was the best Mother’s Day present I could have ever given her.

(From the Summer 1999 issue of Stone Soup.)
Copyright 1999 Children’s Art Foundation

How does Piper do it? She does it by immediately making us feel our own body – “My palms are sweaty. My whole body is tense, waiting. I’m up next.” These are the feelings we can all relate to, whether or not we have ever participated in a music competition, and the direct language makes us relate to the feelings immediately.

Piper creates an almost dream-like state in which we are acutely aware of our body but also of external events, like the leaves falling. She creates a psychological place where we hear sounds differently – “My name dives down upon me, echoing as it comes.” This is a work of great creative power, on in which the experience of tension and tension released is thoroughly imagined and then translated into powerful word-images and word-feelings.
Project: Write a short short story about a tense moment.

Start your story, as Piper does, when you are already in the midst of the tension. Use the first person, the “I” and the “me” voice, to help your readers identify with the moment. Think of your story as a spring being wound tighter and tighter to finally, suddenly, at the end, in a tremendous release of tension, unwind.

Tension has its physical effects, like sweaty palms and difficult breathing, and it also creates dream-like states where we get focused on certain sights and sounds. Write the first draft of this story in one sitting. After first imagining a super-tense situation, let the feelings pour out, like a flood. Think of this as a story written in one breath.

Will They Like Me?

By Piper Dorrance, age 12

Danville, Pennsylvania

MY PALMS ARE sweaty. My whole body is tense, waiting. I’m up next. At ten years old, my six years of fiddle-training are being put to the test. The Ligonier Highland Games, more specifically, the Fiddle Competition, has begun. Winning last year gives me a speck more confidence, but it also means I have more to lose.

As I wait, the cold morning air blows itself out and the warm air of the afternoon replaces it. It is a sunny autumn day and the brassy- and rusty-colored fallen leaves dance crazily to the music of the fiddler in the soft breeze outside of the sturdy gray pavilion. I look longingly out and wish that I could be out dancing with those leaves instead of sitting still, waiting for the last note of the person ahead of me. That note comes. I get ready, setting my fiddle on my lap.

My name seems to be floating above my head, hover-ing, waiting to strike. My name dives down upon me, echoing as it comes. I take a deep breath and get up. I mechanically walk up the steps to the stage, almost in a trance. I look down. The ground is miles away and the silence, oh the silence! It gives me chills. The judge looks at me and goes back to her work. She finishes. Her papers are put aside and a fresh one passed to her. She looks at me and motions for me to start. I let go a long, deep breath. I walk up to the microphone and adjust it. I open my mouth and somehow my song titles come pouring out. The silence roars over me and tears me apart. I raise my instrument up to my chin and play like I’ve never played before.

My air is slow and full of love. My march pounds out a booming pace. And last, but not least, my strathspey runs along merrily with a dancing melody. I am done! Never in my life will I forget this moment!

A great clapping soon covers over me. It feels sensa-tional! The judge is clapping and my teacher beside her is doing the same! My parents are clapping! Suddenly, my cousins are there clapping too! People I don’t even know are clapping! They liked me! They really liked me!

(Originally published in the January/February 1994 issue of Stone Soup)
Copyright 1994 Children’s Art Foundation

Nicholas gives substance to Julie’s horse obsession by showing us that the she is surrounded by images of horses – prints on the curtains, horse stickers on the VCR, horse posters, and, very importantly, her own drawings of horses. Through all these details we are let outside of the time frame of the story to imagine Julie drawing horses and looking for horse images when she goes shopping and talking about horses with her family and friends.

Nicholas is also good at relationships. Julie doesn’t live along. We see from the beginning when her mother calls her to breakfast that she lives within a family. When Julie loses the peaches, she thinks of her father and, when she sees him, very simply and realistically says, “Sorry.”

The weather plays an important role in this story, as it often does in fiction writing. The storm brings dangers that develop tensions and emotions that would otherwise remain untested and unexplored.

Project: Write about a Character Who is Obsessed with an Interest.

Some children love horses, others trains, others collect rocks, others just junk. Some children read all the time, while others play football. Show us through details how your character is fully involved with his or her interest.

To make your portrait more interesting, confront your character with a problem that would make sense in the context of your character’s interests: the football player might lose a very special game, the rock collector might lose a very special rock, the child who reads all the time might become obsessed, not just with books in general but with a particular character, and start pretending that he or she is someone else.
As you both imagine and write your story, keep in mind that your character has friends and lives within a family. In addition to showing your main character and his or her obsession, show how this character interacts with family and friends.

The Horse’s Reins

by Nicholas La Cortiglia, age 10

Cincinnati, Ohio

IN A QUAINT little farm at the edge of town, in Kansas, there lived a family of four: Julie, the youngest, and Jeremy, the eldest, along with their fa-ther and mother, Frank and Clara.

One morning in July, the air was brisk, Julie Harris climbed out of bed on account of the rooster. She glanced at her model of a teak horse that was propped up against her row of horse books. Julie loved horses. She would do anything to have a real one. Her room was filled with horses. At one end of her room she had a VCR that her grandparents had given her for Christmas. She had stuck horse stickers all over it! Over by the window, that overlooked the river, she had horse curtains! All over her walls were horse posters, pho-tographs, drawings, and pictures!

Julie strode toward her dresser and opened the draw-er, revealing a numerous amount of horse clothing. She had T-shirts, sweatshirts, sweaters, and blouses, all that had some kind of horse picture on it. She picked one out and slipped it on, as well as her jeans. She walked into the kitchen, snatching a book off of her shelf on the way.

She sat herself down at the breakfast table and began to read. “Oh, for goodness sakes, Julie! Stop reading! C’mon, eat your breakfast!” Mrs. Harris scolded.

Julie set the book down and began eating. After finishing, she put her plate in the sink and walked to the door to go outside.

No sooner did she open the door than a ray of sun-light burst into her face. She squinted and looked around. The orange-beaked woodpeckers tapped their beaks on a tree. Julie could hear the mockingbirds singing a sweet tune. The chipmunks scampered about, cracking twigs and crunching leaves as they went. The sun continued to shine. It shot straight into the old oak tree that wilted over the lawn. The light seemed to shoot in a million directions when it reached the branches. She quickly chose a spot on the grass to sit down and began playing with her toy horses.

Her father came walking past her. “Julie, stop playing around! Make yourself useful, go pick some peaches or something!”

“All right.” Julie walked into the garage and got a peach bushel. She began skipping along the bank of the creek. Sometimes water trickled over her shoes. Julie soon reached the stretch of fruit trees that encircled a small pond. Her father had planted the trees when they first moved to the farm. Julie started to climb up the tree. Branch by branch she climbed higher and higher, until she was mid-way up. Julie scanned the tree. She reached out and pricked a very small peach off of the branch. Then she spotted a very big peach that stood out from all the rest. But it was just out of her reach. So she stretched as much as she could. But just as she was about to grab it, her fingers slipped and she fell out of the tree. She landed on the meadow and couldn’t help herself from rolling into the pond. She bolted out of the pond, gasping for air. The bushel and the one peach had sunk. Julie trudged home, picking seaweed off of her on the way.

When she got home her father was disappointed. “Oh, no! What happened?”

“Sorry, Father,” was all Julie could say. She made her way to her room and changed clothes. After dinner it was soon time for bed. In her sleep she had a wonderful dream that she had gotten a horse. But when morning came she did her usual things: got dressed, ate break-fast, did her chores, and fed her pets. As she was feeding the ducks, she felt a nudge on her shoulder. She whirled around and there was a horse! A real, live horse! Julie’s whole family was standing next to it. “Surprise!” they all shouted.

Julie jumped with delight. She ran to pet it. “A horse! I got a horse!” Julie was speechless.

“She’s already been washed,” her mother said.

“Oh, she’s beautiful! Where did you get her?”

“Well, Mr. Bailyup the street was going to sell his, so we bought her for you,” her father explained.

“Show me how to ride her! Please?” Julie pleaded.

“Of course, let’s bring her out in the field.”

Julie, holding the reins tight, led her new horse into the field.

“What’s her name?” Julie asked.

“You get to name her!” Jeremy replied, beating his parents to the answer.

“Oh, well, I’ll have to think about it. In the mean-time, show me how to ride her.”

Julie’s father leaped up onto the brown horse.

“You get up like this,” Julie’s father explained, “and if you want her to go, give her a little nudge like this, and if you want her to stop, pull the reins like this, got it?”

“Got it.” Julie climbed up. But she must have nudged the horse too much because when she did, the horse took off into a full gallop. Julie’s hair blew wildly.

“Stop! Stop!” she pleaded. But the horse kept on going. Julie had to close her eyes to avoid the gale of wind that was blowing fiercely at her face. The horse jumped the white picket fence that encircled the field. But when the pond came into view, the horse stopped abruptly. Julie was thrown from the horse and landed gruffly on the dry ground. Her family ran to her aid.

“Julie, Julie, wake up!” Jeremy shook her. Finally, Julie fluttered her eyes and stood up.

“I think that horse needs more training,” was all she could say.

Days passed and soon Julie knew how to ride her horse just like any old pro. (She let Jeremy ride it too, of course.) Julie named the horse Windfall. Julie would brush and wash Windfall every day. She would feed her, too, mostly hay, oats, and water, sometimes an apple or carrot for a treat.

When Julie went to school, she would always day-dream about riding Windfall over a rainbow, and when her teacher called her name, she wouldn’t answer.

One day, Julie got up and went straight outside to ride Windfall. She climbed up on her and started to ride. Windfall wandered deep into the brush. Then she wandered farther into the forest, near the storm sewer, where the water from the creek went into. Soon Jeremy came running.

“Oh, Julie, I finally found you! Mom and Dad are looking for you!” Jeremy’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, while I’m here, can I ride Windfall?”

“All right.” Julie leaped off and Jeremy leaped on. Windfall trotted at a slow pace. Julie followed behind. There was a rustle in the bushes, but they paid no attention. Then Julie spotted some dark rain clouds.

“C’mon, we’d better go home. It looks like it’s going to rain,” Julie warned. The clouds got closer.

“All right,” Jeremy replied, leading Windfall the other way. There was another rustle in the bushes. But this time a snake slithered out, right under Windfall’s hoofs.

“A snake!! Look out!” Julie screamed. Windfall whin-nied and reared. She shook and neighed. Then, Wind-fall stepped on a rock and lost her footing. She tumbled into the storm sewer, along with Jeremy. “Windfall! Jeremy!” Julie held Windfall’s reins and Jeremy’s hands.

“Don’t let go!” Julie yelled.

The sky darkened. It began to rain. Lightning danced across the sky. Huge raindrops splattered onto the ground, gathering into puddles. You could probably hear Julie and Jeremy’s screams a mile away. Lightning flashed. The thunder cracked and boomed. Water gushed out of the sky. The rain fell in such torrents that Julie and Jeremy couldn’t see anything. It was all gray. A flash of lightning shot out of the cloud and struck a tree. It smoked, split, and fell to the ground on fire.

The storm sewer filled up fast. The water gushed over the brim in a blink of an eye.

“Julie! Help!” Jeremy gasped and gulped. Julie’s arms couldn’t hold Windfall and Jeremy at the same time. The rain churned against Julie’s face like a hammer hit-ting a nail. Windfall shook. Water was rising up farther and farther on her neck. Julie’s gold necklace snapped off of Windfall and got caught on a rock that was stick-ing out of the water. Windfall let out the loudest whinny Julie had ever heard.

“I’ll get it, Julie!” Jeremy yelled over the pouring rain.

“Jeremy, no!” Julie tried to get him to stop. But it was too late. Jeremy had let go of Julie’s hand and he was now clinging to the rock…. Julie finally pulled Windfall out of the water. She shook herself dry, but the rain kept on pounding on her. Julie reached her hand out into the water. “Grab my hand!” she screamed. But then, she got pulled into the rushing water.

It began to rain more. Water was everywhere. Julie gripped Jeremy’s feet. “Don’t let go, Julie!” Jeremy screamed, water pouring into his mouth. Just as Julie was about to let go and be sucked into the tube, Windfall knelt down on her knees and threw her reins out to the children. Jeremy grasped hold of them. He pulled himself out of the storm sewer and then pulled Julie out just before the water burst into a giant whirlpool and started being sucked into the tube.

The clouds drizzled and stopped giving rain. They rumbled and started to clear. The sun came out and shone brightly. There was a rainbow. Julie and Jeremy staggered to the bank. They lay down. Julie got up and went over to Windfall. “You saved us, Windfall. You and your reins saved us.” Julie knelt by Windfall.

The birds began to sing again. The raindrops dripped off the leaves. The animals began to come out of their homes.

Julie, Jeremy, and Windfall walked back to their house. Their mother and father came running to them.

“What happened?”

Jeremy told them the story. From now on, Julie and Jeremy were only allowed to take Windfall into the field.

Jeremy stuck his hand into his pocket. “Julie?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Here.” Jeremy handed Julie her gold necklace.

“Thanks, Jeremy.”

(This was first published in the January/February 1994 issue of Stone Soup)