Fire Eater (Nikon d3500) by Aaron D’Souza, 9; published in Stone Soup February 2022 A note from Caleb Greetings from Houston! The last time I wrote to you all I was still living in Santa Cruz, California, where Stone Soup got its start. I have since moved to Houston to pursue an MFA in fiction writing and, six months in, I couldn’t be happier with the program. This week I have the pleasure of talking about the blog which, since late summer and since I’ve begun grad school, has slowed down some, though with your help I hope to ramp things up. Simply, we need and want more bloggers. I want to publish all of your Covid related work—poetry, fiction, art, music, anything at all! I recently published a sprawling piece of Covid poetry in six installments, which you can read here, here, here, here, here, and here. Or, if you’re submitting to the blog, I want all of your creative non-fiction, whether in the form of book, movie, album, or game reviews—like Abhi Sukhdial’s comprehensive review on the power of storytelling in video games—or an essay like Anirudh Parthasarathy’s deep dive on the initial alliance between Stalin and Hitler, or a memoir or personal narrative piece like Jacob Chan’s “Flamethrower,” excerpted below. Ideally, I’d be so overrun with submissions from full- or part-time bloggers that I’d be publishing five pieces a week! So, if you’d like to submit your work to the blog, or become a full-time blogger (around two submissions per month), please submit your work via this Submittable link for the Covid blog, and this Submittable link for the regular blog, keeping in mind that we no longer publish fiction or poetry to the regular blog unless as part of the monthly flash contest. Until next time, From the Stone Soup Blog Flamethrower By Jacob Chan, 11 I was almost 11 in the warm windy fall of the year 2019, when my baseball team, the Bulldogs, were playing in the little league semi-finals. But still, I couldn’t help but want to crawl under my bed, where I would be safe. I couldn’t even bear to glance at the opposing pitcher’s deep blue eyes. His fastball was so fast that if you rode on it around a highway, you would get fined for speeding. My team crammed in the dugout before the game started, each of us getting to know one another way more than we wanted to. I swear I smelled vomit on the jersey of one of my teammates. “Listen up, Bulldogs!” My coach Adam began to yell. “It’s the semi-finals—if we don’t win this, each of you owe me five laps around the field!” Everyone groaned. Everyone, with the exception of me, and a few other boys. Not that we wanted to run laps, mind you, but because we were staring at the five-foot-seven kid on top of the mound warming up. He was literally throwing fireballs into the catcher’s rusty old, well-patted, brown mitt, with the glove strings tightly knotted. For a second, I didn’t care about the 10 pound gold trophy sitting on the table behind the dugout that would be handed out to the winner. I just cared about not getting plunked in the face by a 70 mph fastball thrown by the 11-year-old Godzilla. Alright, alright, call me a scaredy cat, but let’s face it—you would be freaking out, too. The tap of Bowen Orberlie, one of my teammates, brought me back to reality. More… Stone Soup is published by Children’s Art Foundation-Stone Soup Inc., a 501(c)(3) educational nonprofit organization registered in the United States of America, EIN: 23-7317498.
How Stories Work—Writing Workshop #42: The Poetic Line
An update from our forty-second Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday, September 24, plus some of the output published below “A poem does not make sense. A poem excites the senses.” -Nikki Giovanni “Poetry is the sound of language organized in lines” -James Longenbach This week Conner drew our attention to a more micro topic: the poetic line. To begin, we looked at an excerpted page of prose from Anna Karenina—we could see the margins, that prose goes all the way across the page. By contrast, Conner told us, poetry pays little attention to margins. We then paused for a quick exercise wherein Conner gave us a sentence “So much depends on a red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater beside the white chickens” (William Carlos Williams’s poem “The Red Wheelbarrow” written as prose” — and we each broke up the sentence into poetic lines in order to show how a poem and its meaning changes depending on the breaking of its lines. Continuing the workshop, Conner showed us four important tenets of writing poetry in lines: A poetic line is not a sentence The end of a line is not the end of a sentence A poetic line is a stand-alone unit of meaning Use enjambment (to break a line) to complicate the meaning of your poems With this knowledge, we read from the poems “Prism” by Louise Glück, “The Great Figure” by William Carlos Williams, and “Popcorn-can Cover” by Lorine Niedecker that showcased short lines, and then we read some excerpts of long line poems like “I Hear America Singing” and “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman, “A Supermarket in California” by Allen Ginsburg, and the opening lines of Homer’s Odyssey. The Challenge: Choose between one of the following, and write in 15 minutes: Look out your window and write a long line poem about what you see Find an interesting object in your room and describe it in great detail in a long line poem Write about Picasso’s Guernica in long lines Then change that poem into a short line poem. The Participants: Emma, Allie, Josh, Russell, Anushka, Aditi, Arjun, Tate, Samantha, Savi, Alice, Robert Guernica Emma Hoff, 10 The glowing lightbulb touching the candle that goes out when it hears the long, loud bray of the horse, we didn’t need it anyway, the people say as they look towards the birds that are praying, their heads jutting in all directions, slowly the ghost comes downstairs into the cramped basement, her head, neck, and hair are the only parts of her that are present until she grabs an arm, a wail, entering the paintings on the walls until the people fall and say, we are the painting! Do not hurt us! the bull slowly grins, leaning against the wall, horns on one side of its head, the ear from the slaughtered pig on the other, someone’s nails – sharp nails, scratching at the walls as what’s left of what was a human being tries to makes its escape, while the legs, quickly running legs are released and the man dog howls at the ray of light that is extinguished quickly, someone breathing on the door as they, too, are swallowed up, the knob left untouched, but why not just enjoy the party? It’s blood, but it’s my blood, and so you learn the joy of ownership as your face turns white and your eye slowly clicks and turns in its socket, and the smoky tail of the bull slowly runs over you, making sure you’re dead before it carefully tramples you, then picks you up and sings to you. Guernica Transformed It’s a body, cradled by wisps of what is left, it’s a ghost, a bull transformed with red, you say hello anyway, you’re just passing by, you’re just cold, it’s misty red, it’s a misty red bull wearing hooves for a coat. More Than Just a Clear Sky Arjun Nair, 10 The glowing clouds jog across the endless sky. Over the trees, over the planes, over the buildings. Giving us some shade from the burning sun. Giving us rain when our flowers are withering. Giving us more than just a clear sky.
How Stories Work—Writing Workshop #41: Beginnings
An update from our forty-first Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday, September 17th, plus some of the output published below To kick off the his workshop of the fall term, Conner taught a class on beginnings. We read the beginnings and opening sentences of works such as The Handmaids Tale, Catcher in the Rye, The Metamorphosis, Pride and Prejudice, A Tale of Two Cities, The Stranger, and Moby Dick. What we learned from these beginnings is that even though it is often impulse to begin a story with exposition, stories and novels are often much more exciting when they begin in medias res, or in the middle of the action. It was clear that these openings hooked the reader by not revealing everything—a technique known as withholding—and oftentimes by introducing the novel’s “center,” or major themes. These openings set the tone for the rest of the work. Based on these openings, Conner told us that we use our opening sentences/paragraphs to reveal something: the central object/desire/conflict in the first sentence. The Challenge: First, write 6 opening sentences, each in a minute and a half, in which the first sentence must include an image, the second sentence must say something specific but utterly ridiculous, the third sentence must contradict itself, the fourth sentence must use the word “and” at least ten times, the fifth sentence must use the words “yes,” “no,” “and,” and “maybe,” and the sixth sentence should include a metaphor or use an example of synesthesia. Then, in twenty minutes, choose one of your opening sentences and expand it into an opening paragraph. The Participants: Anushka, Emma, Allie, Arjun, Aditi, Savi, Josh, Alice, Madeline, Benedetta, Tate, Samantha, Russell, Sofia, Anna From the Sky Emma Hoff, 10 A shadow loomed over the hills, coming closer and attacking the delicate red roses that danced on the grass — all of a sudden everything shivered, and the sun fell in the sky, landing in a mixture of red, orange, and pink on the ground in front of a small house. Along with the sun landed the graceful cloud — eventually a curious human came out of the dwelling, and, with a tentative hand, touched the sun and was burned — they hurried back inside and never came out. The sun, knowing it was not wanted there, alighted upon yellow wings and flew away, for though the sun seemed like a clumsy and broken down car, it could fly quite beautifully if it wanted to — which it often did not. A little girl with blonde braids and a blue sweater waddled like a duck into the welcoming white cloud, and she was the sky which the cloud missed. She slept inside the warm place for a few days and then explored deeper caverns to take shelter from the rainy season. She found a forest and in that forest was a beautiful melody — and all the birds alighted upon her shoulders. A tree waved at her, and she was delighted. The tree took steps towards her, and she took steps towards it, but they were both rooted to the ground. But then she found another room which caught her interest, leaving the forest in dismay. She stepped onto a cold hard floor which spun and danced until she could do nothing but begin to sing, and other explorers entered and watched her notes slowly appear and fade on the wall. And then, all of a sudden she was outside — eventually snow began to fall, and she waited for the cloud to appear again to give her shelter — but it did not, for it had run away, and all she could do was spread her arms out, waiting for warmth.
