Teaching Writing

Weekly Writing Workshop #10, Friday June 5, 2020: Fairytales With a Twist

An update from our tenth Weekly Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop, plus some of the output published below The Stone Soup Weekly Writing Workshop is open to all Stone Soup contributors and subscribers during the COVID-19-related school closures and shelter-in-place arrangements. Every Friday, we meet for an hour and a half via Zoom to respond to a new writing challenge, write together in our virtual room, and then share what we have written with one another. Lena Aloise, 11Harvard, MA Our session on Friday June 5 was the first at our new time (09:00 PST), the first that we had a participant in Europe joining us, and–most exciting of all–the first run by one of its participants, Lena Aloise! Lena gave a wonderful, detailed presentation on the history and standard tropes of fairytales, and proposed ways of using those typical characteristics of traditional fairytales to subvert the form–and write a fairytale with a twist! After a lively Q&A discussion, the group got down to some serious writing, and came up with some marvellous variations on a lot of popular fairytales. Participants turned villains into heroes (and vice versa), played with setting and time period, recast the tale as a news story to look at things from a whole new perspective, and even combined multiple fairytales to make something new. What a great session. Thank you, Lena! The Writing Challenge: Write a fairytale–with a twist. The Participants: Lena, Ever, Peri, Katie, Tilly, Lucy, Georgia, Analise, Djin, Lalia, Emily, Anya, Gracie, Aditi, Ethan, Vishnu, and more! Anya Geist, 13Worcester, MA The Stowaway Anya Geist, 13 In the middle of the night, when the sky was clouded and dark, when fog cocooned all land, a plane took flight. But it was no ordinary plane, no. It was special, in a way. For this plane intended to travel to space. The planet Earth was growing crowded, stuffed with people like water in a glass, only this glass was spilling over, was dripping onto the ground, little droplets running away, falling off the edge of the world. And so evacuations had begun, begun with the magical citizens of Earth. And the two magical people in the world, whose powers could erupt like lava from a volcano or could be still, like a forest at night, were twins. Moon and Sun they were called, though no one knew their actual names. At any rate, they were the ones on the plane that night, being sent far into space, to some unknown planet, where their magic could help life begin anew. However, unbeknownst to them, there was a stowaway on board. You see, Sun and Moon lived in a grand palace, not in the north, south, east, or west, but in all places at once. And the children of Earth’s royalty, the ones who wouldn’t grow up to inherit polluted cities and razed farmlands, were often sent to the Palace of the Sun and Moon as pages, as servants. The stowaway in question was one of these servants, a messenger whose job was to bring notes from the people of Earth to the Sun and Moon. There was something about this stowaway, however, that was different than all of the other servants in the Palace. First, the stowaway–whose name was Mason–had chocolate-colored hair and caramel-colored eyes, and the sweetest temperament of any eleven-year-old to date. The other servants whispered about him, though, for his parents, the Lord and Lady Alberts of the North were dead. Their entire land, all of their cities and fields, their palace and their forests, had burnt. And Mason, their only son was left without an inheritance. There was another thing about Mason, though. Both of his parents had golden-blond hair, the color of honey, and their eyes were as green as the grass on the prettiest field. Rumors spread around the world that Mason was not actually the son of the Lord and Lady Alberts, that his parentage lay elsewhere. At any rate, Mason had stowed away on the plane because he had learned something very valuable in his job as a messenger. A secret about the world that could save it, and that could destroy Sun and Moon. One day, Mason had a job to deliver a message to a man underground, a man who lived deep inside the Earth. So Mason traveled to the location on the letter, somewhere in Antarctica, and while he crossed the beautiful snowy plains of the continent, something strange happened. The sun shone down on him, and for a moment, he was ablaze with light, as if wreathed in flames. He dropped the letter, and its seal broke upon the ground. It fell open, and Mason saw no option but to read it. This letter, as it happens, was intended to be of the utmost confidentiality, and had been sealed with an unbreakable seal. When Mason saw its contents, he was aghast. But he came to a resolution. The Sun and Moon were evil. Mason recounted these events as he hid in the back of the plane with the Sun and Moon. They were breaking through the cloud cover, and soon, Mason knew, they would emerge into space. It was then that he would have to confront them. The time came and Mason stood up. He coughed, and the Sun and Moon turned to look at him, with anger in their metallic, gleaming eyes. Mason winced as they began to advance. “What are you doing here?” they asked in perfect unison, their voices tempting and soft. “I know what you did,” Mason replied shakily, forcing himself to stand tall. “I know everything. And–and I’m here to stop you.” “Well, well,” they said, each seeming incapable of speaking on their own. “He knows.” They smiled and their teeth were horribly pointed, like jagged mountains erupting from the Earth. “Welcome, brother.” Mason paused, frozen. “You knew?” Then he shook his head. “Of course you knew. And you hid it from me. You let me be

Weekly Writing Workshop #8, Friday May 22, 2020: Stream of Consciousness

An update from our eighth Weekly Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop, plus some of the output published below The Stone Soup Weekly Writing Workshop is open to all Stone Soup contributors and subscribers during the COVID-19-related school closures and shelter-in-place arrangements. Every Friday, we meet for an hour and a half via Zoom to respond to a new writing challenge, write together in our virtual room, and then share what we have written with one another. At our session on Friday May 22, William Rubel, Stone Soup’s founder, talked to the group about Stream of Consciousness, sharing pieces of writing from writers well-known for practicing stream of consciousness (such as James Joyce and Virginia Woolf), some abstract art, and a short clip from a surrealist stream of consciousness film (with a lot of eyeballs!). The group talked about the challenge of really letting go when writing, and then agreed to give it a try… The Writing Challenge: Write a stream of consciousness. The Participants: Ever, Emily, Analise, Liam, Kanav, Peri, Suman, Djin, Ma’ayan, Anya, Lucy, Georgia, Tristan, Gracie, Lauren, Sophia, Allegra, Arianna, Aviya, Michela, Maddie, Silas, Justin, Vishnu, Lewis, Kendyll, Chloe, Gina, Abhi, Laila, Ethan, Shai and more! As usual, our participants took to the challenge with gusto, and wrote some extraordinary, accomplished pieces, some of which you can read below. Anya Geist, 13Worcester, MA Across the Field Anya Geist, 13 There’s a field in front of me. They tell me I have to cross it to get to the other side but I can see bees in between the grasses. I’ve been bitten by a bee before and yesterday a hornet was banging into the wall of our little house. Murder hornets. Do they really kill you? The sun is really bright today. By the time I go anywhere my back is going to be drenched in sweat. I don’t mind sweat so much, especially in the summer when it’s mingled with sunscreen and it seems so seasonal just like Christmas trees and snow in the winter. It’s been a long time since I saw snow I think. Maybe a few years ago when we were back in the North Country. Oh, Gus. There was a time my friends and I sledded down a hill there and nearly crashed into a river like in those Calvin and Hobbes comics. I wonder if there will be Calvin and Hobbes on the other side of the field. I have five books of Calvin and Hobbes. On page 16 of The Indispensable is the one where his dad makes him take a portrait photo. I know so many pages of those books. I think page 220 has something, or maybe 221. And then in the There’s Treasure Everywhere -or maybe The Authoritative (no that’s the one with the antelope)- is the strip of Calvin walking down the staircase. That strip used to hang in the kitchen in the North Country. Oh, Gus. Hardly anyone is like that in the South Country. What will people be like on the other side of the field? They told me I had to cross it if I wanted to see them again. Do I want to see them again? There was a time that they nearly broke our radio because they threw it against the refrigerator. And then the time at the lake with the radio. It’s still fine, though, or it was. Probably in some junkyard in North Country -oh, Gus- now. And then the fridge. That was always a little broken after the incident. Before, I could get ice out of it, but after, it just leaked. A real pain on hot days like this. The grass would always shrivel up and die. The grass here isn’t dead, though, it’s green. Flashing with dew, like pieces of ice. Oh, the ice rink… I wonder if there’s ice on the other side of the field. No, it’d probably get all melted if the sun is like this all the time. Will there be beaches, then? Because I still don’t know if I want to cross the field. Beaches could make it worth it, though. I remember when I was little and we went to beaches in the summer. I would ride my bike -ugh, the gears always cut me- and then try to ride on the sand, but my bike would get stuck. I hate when sand gets stuck in your sandwich, and then you feel all disgusting and grainy. And in the water, when you accidently swallow. I hate the salt. And, it means that sharks can live in the water. I’ve never seen a shark -except at the aquarium (oh, remember when Johnny fell into the penguins habitat)- but I’ve read books and watched movies -not Jaws, but that was mentioned in one of my favorite books. I love fantasy, honestly. And everything to do with mythology. But what were they thinking to send Percy, who’s 12, across the country by himself? Harry Potter makes more sense that way. Still, both series are good. If only magic was real… Will it be real across the field? Only one way to find out, I guess. But wait. I’m not going to rush into this without thinking. Binoculars. I used binoculars at baseball games and once at a play. They’re weird, binoculars. Like a camera but not. Over the field, I can see some mountains in the distance. They’re all faded like, and really tall. Mount Olympus? At any rate, I’m not going to climb a mountain just to see them again. Not like the people in The Sound of Music. Oh, that movie is so good. I probably know every word, to the dialogue and the songs. Fredrick looks really weird with his hair slicked back, though. And the Baroness. Ugh. I know all the words to The Princess Bride, too. That one sounds like music, as musical as The Sound of Music. It’s like a lullaby. The Cliffs of Insanity!

Weekly Writing Workshop #4, Friday April 24, 2020: Trapped!

An update from our fourth weekly writing workshop A summary of this week’s project, plus some of the output published below The Stone Soup Weekly Writing Workshop is open to all Stone Soup contributors and subscribers during the COVID-19-related school closures and shelter-in-place arrangements. Every Friday, we meet for one hour via Zoom to respond to a new writing challenge, write together in our virtual room, and then share what we have written with one another. At our session on Friday April 24, we introduced ourselves and got straight into a discussion of this week’s theme: Trapped! William Rubel, Stone Soup’s founder, presented some images and ideas about being trapped, entrapment, and prisons of various kinds: Traps for birds depicted by Breughel; pulp fiction “Trapped by Love” book covers; ideas about mental traps that people set for themselves; fear of entrapment in humans and animals. Before getting down to our own writing, groups members shared some brainstorming ideas for some more specific ways of thinking about the theme. Brainstorming ideas: – trapping yourself in a bad friendship – you might know this is not a good person, but you do it anyway. – a personal barrier acting as a trap: you want something, but you somehow feel prevented from reaching it, without there necessarily being an obvious reason outside of yourself. – an emotional barrier, such as fear, anger, disappointment, being scared for something, or of what might happen if you take an action. – being trapped by other people’s expectations of you. – being caught out by an enemy (which could be a person or a thing), e.g. being trapped in a elevator. The Writing Challenge: What are your ideas around the idea of being trapped? This concept is as broad as you want to make it, and can include: traps; those who entrap; those who are entrapped (who are either very conscious of it or, for one reason or another, feel themselves not to be trapped when they are); and even those who dream of escape or have escaped! The Participants:  Lena (10), Ever (10), Emily (10), Analise (9), Liam (12), Peri (10), Suman (10), Djin (10), Ma’ayan (13), Anya (13), Lucy (12), Georgia (11), Isabella (9), Emilia (6), Tristan (14), Gracie (12), Lauren (10), Maggie (11), Joanna, Sophia (10), Allegra (10), Arianna (9), Aviya & Kesed. There was a lot of free thought going on within the idea of being trapped–and as usual some great writing resulted from our half hour of concentration, which authors then read aloud to the group. There was some encouraging feedback for the writers in the chat section, besides lots of positive verbal responses to the individual readings. We are all overwhelmed by how talented all our workshop participants are, and how their ideas are just on fire for every workshop! Below you can read a few examples of this week’s great workshop output. Puppet Strings By Lena Aloise, 10 The Earth spins silently, In its unseen chains of gravity. The moon plays with the evening tide, On puppet strings. Our hearts flutter in our chests, Because our minds instruct them to. And clouds are pushed by the summer breeze. Are we all just things on our puppet strings, Being controlled by some greater force. Is the existence of humanity, Just an idea thought up by someone else? And if we are just things on a puppet string, Who is the person holding the other side? Or do we cut our puppet strings? Pave our own paths of destiny? Could it be that we bend the bars, Of the prisons of our universe? Concealed By Analise Braddock, 9 The only trap she could stumble through took her He trapped her desire concealing it in her Feeding her the past the trapped moments turn into hours Gripping her freedom but still holding the time Inside where she’s trapped and concealed Eventually she breaks out her desire forever lost Not Here By Anya Geist, 13 I’m standing, watching I know that most people Would give anything to be where I am Would love to bounce, weightless on the Moon Would love to walk in space Would love to see the Earth from afar But none of them are here They say they would love to be here But they aren’t, they’re aren’t here And I know, in my heart They won’t ever be And so I stand And I stare at the Earth Watching the clouds drift over land I remember land, the touch of soft grass I see the oceans, so expansive I remember the feeling of waves and water But will I ever see them again? Weeks ago communications went out No one has come, no one has fixed them I am here, on the edge of the Moon The place everyone dreams of being But I am not here, not in the place where everyone is Untitled By Anya Geist, 13 There is water all around me, murky and dark. Growing darker, darker. Light hardly reaches down here, in the bowels of the lake. It’s like being in a forest, a forest where evil whistles in your ear with every blow of the wind, where every crack of a branch is an enemy out to get you. The vague reflections of my friends on the surface shimmer before my eyes, mirages. I am viewing them from another world, a world no one should venture into. Oh why, why did I take the dare? Hardly anyone has ever reached the bottom of the lake? But I am trying. My chest grows tighter and my ribs and lungs feel tied together. I hardly dare to waste my breath and it seems to shrink inside me, shriveling until I barely know it’s there. Whenever I do risk a slight exhale, whenever bubbles of air rise from my nose, free to return to the sunny surface, I feel a brief respite. But it is like smelling food when you are hungry. In the end, it only makes the pain