An update from our first Writing Workshop with new teacher, Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday, April 17, plus some of the output published below In his first class under the official title of Stone Soup Creative Writing Instructor, Conner Bassett “called an audible,” and delivered a scintillating lecture on the use of “and” in literature as well as visual art. As he reminded us, although this was our first official workshop together, all of us, students and staff alike, are in the midst of our writing journeys, making this Writing Workshop less of a beginning, and more of an “and.” Over the course of the workshop, we learned about the uniquely conjoining, relational, and aggregational nature of the swiss army knife contraction, noting specifically its different uses within the titles Crime and Punishment and Being and Nothingness. We also looked at Marcel Duchamp’s conversion of a urinal into a “fountain” in his famous museum exhibition, noticing how this subversion of meaning connoted the effect of the word “and.” Moving through the expression of “and” in works by Magritte, Warhol, the general nature of Islamic art, and in the effect of the comic panel, we read an excerpt from Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses in order to see the “speed” of and. Finally, we considered “and’s” ability to transcend time and conjoin the present with the past in Ezra Pound’s poetic masterwork The Cantos, and Dylan Thomas’ poem “And Death Shall Have No Dominion.” And, of course, at the end of the workshop we wrote! The Challenge: In 30 minutes, write one of three types of pieces; one, write a story or poem where you replace every period with the word “and”; two, write a story or poem that begins “in the middle,” beginning with the word “and”; or, three, start a new story or poem at the end of an old one, beginning with the word “and.” The Participants: Emma, Harine, Georgia, Helen, Aditi, Olivia, Simran, Liam, Svitra, Noa, Anya, Audrey, Isolde, Alice, Samantha, Maddy, Sena, Sasha, Sinan, Emizzi, Jackson, Sophia. Anya Geist, 14Worcester, MA The House That Didn’t Fit In Anya Geist, 14 And the whole house seemed to not quite fit in, always a bit out-of-place. The floors were old and scuffed but regal nevertheless, so whenever I saw them I was reminded of the days when a creaky old house with rusty nails leaching through the peeling white paint was fresh and new, not a relic of a bygone era by the side of a road where motorcycles revved their engines late into the night. The windows, too, gave off this odd sense, with their dust-caked panes and sagging sashes and musty curtains. Not so much windows they were, as rippled, dirty pieces of glass shoved into the wall. And there was one window I recalled, in the living room above the stiff old couch with a stained glass drawing, again so hopelessly out of place—both out of place in this out-of-time mass of a house and out of place at the junction of two rural New Hampshire highways—where the sun would stream in, alighting the whole place, the rugs, the armchairs, the old wedding photos decaying on side tables in little ornate frames with a glow that perhaps belonged more in a cathedral; not, like I said, at a rural highway junction, nor in a house with a tiny first-floor bathroom painted with peeling wallpaper and smothered by this old, rundown smell, maybe which had something to do with the horrible squeaks that came out of the faucets—two faucets, one hot, one cold; that’s how old it was!—and washed your hands with slimy soap. Yes, even the soap didn’t fit in—or maybe it did, since it was all weird and felt gross on your hands when you thrust them under the frigid iron-filled water—but it didn’t really fit with the whole modern world; it didn’t leave you feeling clean. And then up the stairs—the stairs were steep, sharp, and one could imagine them in an old colonial town, and I do believe the house was from the 1800s—you would find the bedrooms. The bedrooms above the kitchen with the terribly old stove that I don’t believe could be used anymore and instead took up space and held different jars of jam which I always thought could be sold at the local farmer’s market, and we’d use the jam to make sandwiches with bread from that same farmer’s market on that little fold-out table that always seemed as if it might fall apart. At any rate, the bedrooms were stuffed with pillows and such because no one ever really used them except for the master bedroom, stuffed with Cabbage Patch dolls and little plastic toys from when we were toddlers—how out of place, 21st century manufacturing was in this house! Truly most things were out of place. This house, old and falling apart only ten feet from the highway—quite literally ten feet—and so near to that corner store which also was a gas station, and doesn’t even have heating for the winter. But then—when I walked around the side of the house—it didn’t even have a back door, except in the basement, and I daren’t go down to the basement—I saw the backyard, which was unkempt and wild and disturbed by those pesky motorcycles screeching down the road at ten at night, and maybe the house wasn’t so out of place after all. Emma Hoff, 9Bronx, NY Sensibility Emma Hoff, 9 And when she was picked, she had long hair. Long, flowing hair, dark as the night sky, which never seemed to be blue, and dark as the colors of the witches cloaks, which were always pulled so tightly around themselves, like how tight the buns on top of their heads were. We had a visit from the most important witches recently, they were here to choose. I had always been a promising child. “Lots of potential, just needs to speak up more.”
Workshops
The Winter/Spring Writing Workshop Showcase
An appreciation of those who participated in our Winter/Spring Writing Workshop Session On April 3, 2021, we held our second official end of term reading, a showcase wherein our authors read aloud their best work in front of an audience. While not all of our authors decided to share their work, the formal reading still served as a way of honoring all those who attended the Writing Workshop, whose sharing of work and space over the course of the session strengthened the writing of everyone involved. So, thank you Madeline K, Sophie, Lena, Hera, Julia, Ava, Sierra, Anya, Margaret, Peri, Grace, Liam, Enni, Nami, Anna, Lucy, Maggie, Lina, Sadie, Reese, Samantha, Katie, Tilly, Nova, Iago, Leo, Georgia, Eve, Simran, Ismini, Jonathan, Yasmine, Analise, Charlotte M, Elbert, Emi, Angela, Emma, Noa, Katie P, Pranjoli, Alice, Tegan, Rachael, Olivia Z, Kaidyn, Lucy, Sage, Olivia G, Olivia S, Ruhi, and Madeline S for your continued participation throughout the course of this session, and for inspiring each other to take your writing to greater heights. We are all so proud of all of you! A summary of those who read and their work, in order of appearance “Eclipse,” a short story by Nova Macknik-Conde, 9, written in Writing Workshop #34: Magical Realism. “Book Zero,” an excerpt by Leo Michelman, 11, refined in Writing Workshop #32: Intro to Invented Words and Artlang “Heart and Brain,” a short story by Peri Gordon, 11, written in Writing Workshop #34: Magical Realism “The Girl’s Revenge,” a short story by Lindsay Gao, 9, written in Writing Workshop #33: Larger Than Life Characters “Memory Loss,” a short story by Hannah Nami Gajcowski, 10, written in Writing Workshop #34: Magical Realism “Nothing but Black,” a short story by Lena Aloise, 11, written in Writing Workshop #35: Emerging From “Sunset,” a poem by Iago Macknik-Conde, 14, written in Writing Workshop #35: Emerging From “Fox Girl,” a short story by Sierra Elman, 11, written in Writing Workshop #33: Larger Than Life Characters “Pedestrians,” a short story by Liam Hancock, 13, written in Writing Workshop #36: Veering “No Way to Escape,” a short story by Rachael Lippe, 10, written in Writing Workshop #31: Chance Operations for Fun, Challenge, & a Different Kind of Expression “Shadow Wolf,” a short story by Lina Kim, 10, written in Writing Workshop #34: Magical Realism “The Finish Line,” a short story by Enni Harlan, 14, written in Writing Workshop #37: Antiheroes “What And Is,” a poem by Anya Geist, 14, written in Writing Workshop #31: Chance Operations for Fun, Challenge, & a Different Kind of Expression
Writing Workshop #38: Sense of Place–Beyond Geography
An update from our thirty-eighth Writing Workshop A summary of the workshop held on Saturday April 17, plus some of the output published below In his first class in the spring 2021 series, William visited the idea of of Sense of Space, taking us beyond geography to think about the impact of place on characters in our stories, and consider the sense of place through the emotions of our characters. Quoting Colin Thubron, William urged the class to take their characters with them in their heads and think about the impact of place on characters as individuals: for one, the jungle might be beautiful and liberating; for another, humid and claustrophobic; for another terrifying and synonymous with death. It’s all about perception. We looked at images through different lenses: how might the twisting branches of the trees in the forest look different to Hansel and Gretel when they think they are safe with their breadcrumb trail to lead them out again, and when they realise that night is coming and it is gone? What is the impact of memory on the sense one has of a place? What you see or don’t see, feel or don’t feel, might depend on what has happened there before. The Challenge: Write a short piece that conveys a strong sense of place as it is perceived through the senses and emotions of your character. The Participants: Chelsea, Hanbei, Gia, Maddie, Lena A, Lena, Delight, Julia, Leo, Mahika, Margaret, Peri, Nova, Lina, Pranjoli, Rachael, Wesley, Reese, Helen, Sage, Sierra, Angela, Anna, Madeline, Grace, Iago, Jonathan, Charlotte, Peter, Tilly. Sierra E., 11Mountain View, CA The Dance of the Sea Sierra E., 11 Rays of orange evening sunlight flew down the coastline, taking a calm breeze and charming birdcalls along. A strip of street, shimmering into the sunset glow, separated the sea from general humanity; vehicles in a rainbow of colors rushed down it, in a hurry to return home to their families. A thick, tall layer of green grass ran down the roadside, hiding the ocean from drivers’ view. The sky above was painted a rich, vivid and soothing violet, dotted with heaps of fluffy pastel clouds, as the sea danced. The water rose into frothy white crests, then fell, crashing to the shore, though it scared not a soul, dancing like it did each night, dancing as if it would never stop. The scent of salty sea air became intertwined with the sugary smell of ice cream in a thousand flavors, drifting from a renowned café back on regular land. The tide disappeared again, creating a pathway for the last few humans left on the beach to dissipate. And dissipate they did, laughing, and sprinting up the golden sand dunes that glimmered in the twilight, until the seaside paradise was empty except for its natural inhabitants. The ocean came in again, drenching forgotten shells that had been collected by small children, and breadcrumbs that hadn’t been swept up; the water threw them into the sea, giving the lost items a fresh start among the crabs with their mighty pincers and the twisting, winding stalks of forest-green seaweed. The sky was darkening at a rapid pace; within an hour it would be pitch black, and the sparkling, silver stars would begin to appear. But before then, in the last moments of dusk, the world was tranquil and silent, except for the dance and crash of the waves. Peri Gordon, 11Sherman Oaks, CA Last Night Peri Gordon, 11 The seat of my wool couch scratched my legs fiercely. The whir of the breeze through the window echoed in my mind, calling for vengeance. I wrinkled my nose at the odor of fish coming from the disorderly place I called my kitchen and scowled at the far-too-large heap of clothing still to wash. I tried not to recall the violence of last night; I tried to instead remember the gentle feeling of the chair I had been in right before and the melodious song that I had been humming thoughtfully. But the incessant buzzing of the pests outside–and most likely inside–and the pleading mews of the kitten I was supposed to take care of drowned out any positivity left, and I kept thinking about the violence of last night. It took me five minutes to summon the energy to get up off of my uncomfortable furniture. I trudged into my bedroom, looking at the stained carpet. My friend, Rita, was there; I hadn’t told her what had happened. She was whistling; I was sure my dry lips would protest if I tried to do the same thing. Rita said, “You like my hair?” My guess was it was styled in a fancy way or something, but I could only focus on how the colors of her clothes–orange and green–clashed so horribly. I mumbled, “Sure,” while still gazing at the floor, still thinking about the violence of last night. I couldn’t bear to be in a room with someone so vigorously optimistic, so I returned to the awful, itchy, expensive, not-worth-the-money-I-payed-for-it couch. And thought about the violence of last night. Lina Kim, 11Weston, FL The Dark Hospital Lina Kim, 11 I glanced around the hospital cautiously and shuddered. The walls were pure white, but I felt as if they were stained with the blood of those who never survived. The doors were clean, the windows shining. It was all a trick. A trap. I clutched my father’s hand. I rarely did, but the hospital gave me flashbacks of my dead mother. I needed comfort. The stench of a thousand disinfectants hit me. I gagged. Dad put his arms around me. We turned a corner and continued walking down the hall. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of people had died in this hospital over the years. It scared me that my grandmother might be next. We found the section of the hospital where grandmother was. The man at the desk searched through the names. “Jiwoo Lee, Jiwoo Lee,” the man
