I found a project through Twitter for teaching students to think like a filmmaker. The project, for grades 6 to 8, is written by Judy Storm Fink and is published at the NCTE website, readwritethink.org. The project title is You Know the Movie is Coming—Now What?. This is a complex project with lots of supplementary material. As someone who sees very few movies I think that the ability to teach this as written would depend in part your own familiarity with the books and movies discussed. Some experience as a filmmaker would also be helpful. That said, this is a well thought out project which will, at the least, offer you lots of ideas for getting your students to think about the difference between telling a story with words and telling a story through video. The hook for the assignment as Fink proposes it is that there will soon be a movie released based on a familiar book. Given how easy it is to show a movie in class I don’t think it necessary to tie this project into a topical new release. Perhaps my biggest critique of this project is that its goals are too narrow. I see this project as a way of getting kids to understand that thinking about filmmaking helps them think about the mechanics of storytelling in general. It teaches that your perspective as an author changes as you change formats of any kind, whether that is a change from poem to short story — short store to novella — novella to novel — or words to video. Along with changes in perspective that format changes entail, so too there are changes in the literary devises used to tell the story. Fink’s project focus on the technical devices of moviemaking. This is the project’ s strength but also I think its weakness. To teach the methods of filmmaking without being a filmmaker will be difficult. Two lists are provided, one (the online list) more detailed than the other. Many of the terms are complex in that they suggest a world of possibilities. From the online list I offer ellipsis by way of example: A term that refers to periods of time that have been left out of the narrative. The ellipsis is marked by an editing transitions which, while it leaves out a section of the action, none the less signifies that something has been elided. Thus, the fade or dissolve could indicate a passage of time, a wipe, a change of scene and so on. A jump cut transports the spectator from one action and time to another, giving the impression of rapid action or of disorientation if it is not matched. You could spend many writing projects on the ellipsis in a written narrative. The transposition to film is clearly complicated. This brief introduction to the concept lists five different cinematic techniques for implementing an ellipsis. Overall, I’d slow this project down, and simplify the exploration of cinematic technique. I’d work with one scene in one story and explore different ways — different cinematic techniques — that could be used to tell that story. In the same way, one might take that same passage and turn it into a poem which would make it possible to speak about the techniques of poetry as a literary form in the context of this project which requires students to think about the how of storytelling more than the what of the story. Lastly, making a film ought to be one of the possible products of the assignment. Take a look at our resources for young filmmakers pages to give your students some ideas about how they might do this.
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Writing Activity: using the power of analogy, with “Abigail’s Cove” by Brooke Hayes, 12
Analogy is a very powerful literary tool. It is hard to imagine what it feels like for someone else to have lots of competing thoughts in their head, but when we read this story it is easy to visualize the surf crashing against rocks and from this to understand, at the least, that Abigail has a lot on her mind! Of course, the core of the story is the relationship between Abigail and a wild animal. Notice how Abigail describes in detail what they do together and how she describes her feelings, sometimes using analogy to help us understand the relationship. Brooke uses feeling, descriptions, and analogies (describing one thing by comparing it with another) to establish the reality of the beautiful cove where Abigail spends the summer and the reality of her experiences with Alex, the seal. You can pick out examples of each of these techniques in this short story: Feelings: “Abigail could feel the excitement in her bones.” Description: “The front door was golden yellow, elegantly crafted out of solid oak.” Analogy: “All kinds of ideas collided in her head, like the waves clashing against the barnacle-covered rock.” Project: Write a Story about a Child and an Animal Who Love Each Other Children and animals go together: cats, dogs, horses, rats, rabbits, hamsters, and mice are some of the common animals who make friends with children. Like Brooke, clearly establish where the story takes place. Use as much detail as possible to let your reader visualize the scene. Remember that, in addition to seeing, smell is often important to us, as are feelings–how the sand feels between our toes, for expample, and how we feel emotionally about where we are. At the core of the story, though, should be the relationship between the main character and an animal. Describe what they do together and how they feel about each other. Notice how Brooke keeps the seal acting seal-like. Brooke’s seal is not a human. The seal moves and acts like a seal! Your animal friend should act like the animal he or she is. Describe movements and motivations that are consistent with a cat or a dog or a mouse or a squirrel or whatever animal you choose as your character’s friend. Abigail’s Cove Written and illustrated by Brooke Hayes, age 12, from Bangor, Maine From the March/April 1994 issue of Stone Soup ABIGAIL COULD FEEL the excitement in her bones. She knew that this would be the best summer ever. Abigail was returning from Detroit, Michigan. Her father had been transferred from Islesboro, Maine. Abigail’s father, Mr. Will M. Jeffers, is an architect for the company Bradford O’Day. Abigail’s mother, Mrs. Lynn A. Jeffers, is an attorney for the firm Johnson and Murphy. The two-and-a-half-story white house sat on high ground, peacefully overlooking a stretch of land that led down to a small cove. The old country house was framed with black shutters that shone like quartz in the sun. Jutting out from the window sills were flower boxes that cradled crimson-red geraniums with soft and delicate petals. The front door was golden yellow, ele-gantly crafted out of solid oak. If you were to sit at the living room window, a breath-taking view would enve-lope you. The big stone fireplace was always aglow on cool, damp days. Abigail breathed in the salty air as her toes tingled in the cool waters of the cove. Ashley, her twin sister, was already in the water. Abigail ran into the house and tried to squeeze on her old black-and-white-striped bathing suit. It was just too small. With disappointment Abigail scurried to her mother’s bedroom, where her mother was in the midst of unpacking summer clothes. Abigail explained her dilemma and Mrs. Jeffers suggest-ed a trip to the mainland on the ferry within the next few days to buy a suit. Abigail felt her bubble of excitement and fun pop like the air dribbling from a balloon. She dragged her feet to the wharf, tripped, and clumsily fell. What a great summer this was evolving into, she thought. Just as she sat down, feeling sorry for herself, something cold and hard rubbed against her skinned shin, tickling her knee. She couldn’t imagine what it could be. All kinds of ideas collided in her head, like the waves clash-ing against the barnacle-covered rock. From out of the gray-green water popped a white head for just a few sec-onds. Abigail sat very still in amazement, hoping that this slippery creature would re-appear. With a splash he did. Abigail spoke gently to the young seal. The seal seemed to understand that Abigail wanted to be friends. He barked and wiggled with joy. The horn on the ferry blasted upon its arrival to the island, frightening the young seal back into the sea. Abigail sauntered home, retreating to her cove, wondering whether she would encounter the seal again. Abigail would not share this special event with anyone except the gentle waters of the cove. The next day, at the same time in the afternoon, she sat very quietly waiting for the seal to appear alongside of her. In no time he did. Abigail patted his sleek fur coat as she gazed into his big black eyes. She whispered to him, “Alex.” Each day Abigail would rendezvous with Alex and bring a bucket of fresh fish, their love and friendship blossoming like wild roses in the ocean air. To remem-ber this budding friendship Abigail was carving a seal out of driftwood she found in her cove. One evening, having spent a lovely day in the cove and sharing special moments with Alex, Abigail plunked herself down next to her father to watch the news. An alarming weather forecast interrupted her feelings of tranquility. A severe hurricane watch was in effect. Hurricane Chad was moving toward the coast of Maine and it was anticipated to hit Islesboro within the next twenty-four hours. Abigail’s first reaction was, what will I do with Alex? She did not sleep well
Writing Activity: depicting an obsession, with “The Horse’s Reins” by Nicholas La Cortiglia, 10
Lots of girls dream of horses. And there are lots of stories about horse-loving girls. What makes this story special, The Horse’s Reins, by Nicholas La Cortiglia, is how Nicholas, through attention to detail, makes Julie into a full-as-life character, a girl with an obsession, but a girl who is also a normal child within a family. 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 left 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 alone. 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. “Don’t let go!” Julie yelled. The Horse’s Reins by Nicholas La Cortiglia, age 10, Cincinnati, Ohio Published in the January/February 1994 issue of Stone Soup 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
Writing Activity: increasing tension with first person narrative
This story, told from the point of view of the first person, is short but wound tight, like a spring. The story flows from beginning to end, concluding in a climax, Piper has succeeded in doing something that is very difficult – getting the reader of a short story to so identify with the character that we, too, feel the relief of the ending, we, too, feel overwhelmed by what is happening and a sense of exhilaration as we read the last words! 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. From Stone Soup, January/February 1994 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! © 1994 Children’s Art Foundation
As Long as We’re Happy, Part Two
In Part One, Mrs. Davids happily starts her teaching job and marries a doctor. Three years later, she is no longer happy; her husband has left home one day and never come back. She begins taking out her frustrations on her students, including Grace, the writer, Peter, the math whiz, and Danny, the class clown. Only Flora Pinecrust, the straggly but imaginative new girl in her class, seems to understand her. The next day I told Flora I wanted to speak with her about her paper at lunch time. She came and sat very quietly while I praised her imagination. All this time she was supposed to be eating her lunch, but I saw out of the corner of my eye that she had nothing. “Flora,” I said, “are you hungry?” “So hungry I could eat the school,” she cried with passion. I was startled by her outburst. “Did your mother forget to pack you a lunch?” “My mother never packs me lunches. I do it myself.” I nodded and thought that Flora must be a disorganized, forgetful girl. That couldn’t be helped. I decided to share my own lunch with her before the rest of the pupils returned from the cafeteria. I didn’t eat very much. I gave her half of my cheese sandwich, which she gobbled immediately. She ate my peach and most of my celery sticks, but I figured since she was a growing girl she was allowed to eat more. She didn’t even thank me. The next day as I walked past the cafeteria I heard shouts and laughter. Glancing in I saw practically all the children dancing around throwing food. Their target was the corner and cowering in that corner was Flora Pinecrust. “She says she’s hungry!” cried Danny. “Here, take my pie!” The flaky hunk of pie went whirling through the air and landed on Flora’s soft brown hair. She pulled it off and stuffed it in her mouth. She seemed to be enjoying the game. I was appalled that Danny, someone in seventh grade, would act so childish. Just then I saw my well-behaved Grace Matthews trying to scrub the mess off Flora, but at the same time she was saying, “You can’t spell. You must be really stupid. You can’t spell.” Peter Tyner was the only person who didn’t do a thing to injure Flora. He stood there looking distressed and bewildered. “Oh, Ms. Cunningham,” he said once he saw me. “Look what they’re doing to Flora.” “I see.” I grabbed his arm. “Come with me to Mr. Hammil’s office, quick!” Both of us walked speedily toward the principal’s throne room. All the while Peter told me how the other children had even taken his lunch and thrown it at Flora. Therefore he had nothing to eat. I told him he could survive but Flora’s only chance of eating was getting food from other people at lunch time. “You mean she doesn’t have any breakfast or dinner?” “That’s right, Peter,” I said, although I didn’t know that for a fact. Mr. Hammil was very cold to me since I had refused to be matron-of-honor at his wedding. He told me it had nothing to do with me or the school how hungry Flora was, and, as for the food fight, whoever was monitor in the lunchroom could take care of that. I had forgotten we had monitors. That afternoon as I walked home I heard the soft patter of feet behind me. I turned to see Flora walking home, too. I smiled at her and asked if we could walk together. “Come raspberry picking with me,” I said, “In the park, and take some home to your family. They don’t cost any money. They’re free.” I tried to impress this on her, but she seemed to be daydreaming. I told her how I made raspberry jam at home, and how I sometimes put them in pies, and how good a glass of cold raspberry juice was on a hot day. * * * * “My friends, we are all going to write a story using imagination. It doesn’t have to make sense. It can be the most ridiculous thing in the world. Do you understand?” “No!” cried Grace. “How ridiculous can it be?” “Oh, you can become smaller or larger, like in Alice in Wonderland. You can have a character marry one hundred times. There can be magicians. It’s just a fantasy all your own. Your Imaginative Fantasy. Now you may all go to lunch and think about it because when you get back we’ll begin writing. Flora, stay here.” The boys and girls dispersed, and Flora stood before me. Looking questioningly she said, “Yes, Ms. Cunningham?” “I have something for you,” I smiled, bringing out a large brown bag from underneath my desk. “But, Ms. Cunningham, I brought raspberries.” She showed me a huge plastic bag full of the raspberries we had picked the day before. “Well, just raspberries isn’t enough. I insist you eat some of the good food I packed for you.” Feeding Flora became a regular ritual of the day, and I found myself telling her a lot about my life. I couldn’t figure out why I did it, but she seemed a very understanding person. I hadn’t yet told anyone how it hurt me when my husband deserted me. But I told Flora! Of course she was just a child, and I was burdening her with my problems. In some ways I felt guilty. But she became my little friend. The rest of the class knew it well, and snubbed both me and Flora. Flora told me to ignore them, as I was prone to worry. “As long as we’re happy, let it be,” she said. And I think she was right. * * * * Among the stories my class had written, I sought out Flora’s first. Her papers were always the most enjoyable. However, she had not followed the assignment correctly again. Instead of a story she had written a personal letter to me. Deer Ms. Cunningham, You hay told a lot about yourself. I feal like I’m keeping a secret frum you. I hay no home. I sleep in the hotel lobbi all night. Before I came heere I lived in another state. I lived in the cuntry and my parents were nice, but I had to leev, becuz one day they left and they didn’t cum bak. I never went to scol before, but my muther red me many good books. I am trying to find a home,
Flash Contest #65, March 2024: Write a Story That Takes Place During a Sleepover–our winners and their work
Our March 2024 Flash Contest was based on Prompt #295 (provided by Stone Soup intern Sage Millen), which asked that participants write a story that takes place during a sleepover. These sleepovers were filled with fun activities; characters told scary stories, found a hidden portal, and chased after a runaway cat. They dreamed about transforming into fruit and meeting friendly dragons. One group of witches in particular even had to save Santa himself! As always, thank you to all who participated, and please keep submitting next month! In particular, we congratulate our Honorable Mentions, listed below, and our Winners, whose work you can appreciate below. Winners “The Perfect Sleepover” by Arden Cha, 10 “A Friendship Sleepover” by Aubrey Huang, 11 “For Jade” by Sophie Li, 13 “Saving Christmas” by Miya Ma, 8 “The Cherry Tree” by Miranda Wang, 11 Honorable Mentions “Amaya’s Story” by Elaine Bai, 12 “Under the Stars” by Elise Ben-Akiva, 11 “The Truth Behind the Glass” by Ella Chen, 12 “Sleepover Magic” by Jiya Parekh, 10 “Sarah” by Chris Ye, 12 The Perfect Sleepover ARDEN CHA, 10 I have always loved going to sleepovers. I remember going to my first sleepover when I was eight. My friend Calvin invited me to his house during December break. We devoured pizza, watched Home Alone, and spooked each other with eerie ghost stories with a flashlight placed under our chins (which gave the most epic spine-chilling effect). I enjoyed the sleepover so much that I hid in the bathroom when mom came to pick me up the next day. Now, I am twelve (almost thirteen!), and I have been to forty-three sleepovers. It feels like every Friday, I get picked up by a friend’s mom and … WOOSH … I am magically teleported to my new one-night hotel. But, there is one thing that is peculiar. Considering how many sleepovers I have been to, I have never hosted one before. Mom always dismisses the subject with her classic, “Leo, there’s just not enough space. And, you and Abigail are already a handful.” I did not mention this before, but Abigail is my younger sister who is eight. She is utterly annoying. It is as if she knows everything that I hate, and she checks them off on her daily to-do list. X Take forever getting ready in the morning in our shared bathroom. X Blame me every time she gets into trouble. X Blast Taylor Swift while I am studying. Just yesterday, Abigail entered my bedroom without permission and left behind a trail of chips. You should have seen me boil. It must have looked like there was fire dancing in my eyes. This year, for my thirteenth birthday, I persuaded (after much pestering) mom to allow me to invite friends over for a sleepover at my house. After many hours spent contemplating who to invite, I finally selected my dream team. I picked Levi, because he is as funny as the funniest person you know times one hundred. One time in science class, we were learning about the parts of the heart and Levi said, “Aorta go before Mr. Bronson looks at my homework!” The joke was so bad that we cried until our stomachs hurt. I picked Logan, who has been my best friend since preschool. Logan stood up for me against the second grade bully. And lastly, I picked Wyatt, because he is the most responsible of all my friends. If we get in trouble (which happens a lot), Wyatt always knows what to do. It is as if Wyatt’s memorized this unwritten book about what parents think is the “responsible” choice in dicey situations. If you have not noticed, I have really thought through my sleepover plans. Now, on to activities … First, we will head to Golf Spot that Rocks, a mini golf and rock-climbing adventure. Then, we will go home and eat pizza from the Pizza Place. Next, we will fill up on three types of popcorn: cheese, butter, and caramel, while watching Harry Potter. Because I have been to so many sleepovers, I have had a lot of inspiration. It is as if I can go through my mind library and search for the memory, grasp onto it, and decide whether to select that activity or not. One week ago, Abigail asked me, “Leo, can I join your birthday sleepover? PLEASE?!” I was too stunned to speak. She might as well have asked me, “Leo, can I use your toothbrush? PLEASE?!” “No way!” was all I could sputter out. “Oh,” Abigail replied with genuine hurt in her eyes. I almost wanted to forgive her for every horrendous thing she has ever done to me…. There was no way I was letting her anywhere near my friends and me. Sadly, Wyatt texted me that he could not make my sleepover because of a soccer tournament. Even without Wyatt, I knew that my sleepover was going to be a blast! After two weeks of never-ending school and swim practices, the day has finally arrived! In a few hours, my best friends are coming over for my sleepover, and in preparation, I have been doing things that my parents have been trying to get me to do for ages. First, I cleaned my room (vacuuming, window spraying and all). Next, I laid the dining table with paper plates and plastic cutlery. And finally, I actually read in the living room for an hour while waiting for my friends. DING-DONG! “Oh my goodness! The doorbell just rang! They are here!” I thought as I dashed to open the front door. It felt as if the next eighteen amazing hours of my life were on the other side of this door. I hurriedly turned the door knob, and … It was just the pizza delivery. I immediately asked myself, “Why would my friends come three hours early?” as I dejectedly took the pizza from the poor woman who was standing there waving her hand in front of
Deep Observation
For this piece of writing, students practiced their observational skills. Students were instructed to to do the following: Choose a place in your home, neighborhood or surrounding area where you can station yourself for a half hour in order to conduct a deep observation. This should be somewhere that is familiar to you and where you spent time regularly in your everyday life. There should be activity and social interaction in this place. However, this activity is based solely on your observations and you should refrain from using any interview techniques. Your goal is to collect and interpret information about this space through participant-observation and then to construct a narrative on what you have observed. This is your chance to start thinking and seeing like an ethnographer! Step 1: Take notes and observe the activity in your chosen space for approximately 30 minutes. Use all five senses to take notes on everything that is happening around you. These notes will inform your narrative. Gather enough data to allow for some reflection and analysis. Be descriptive! Describe the scene, paying attention to all sensory perception. Indicate when you observed the space (i.e. time of day). If it seems useful, draw a map of the setting, indicating the position and movement of persons. Observe the following kinds of things as you take notes: -Describe the setting. -Who is present? Who is absent? -Look for structure: are the people differentiated from each other? Does someone appear to oversee the space? -How do people interact with each other? -Do there appear to be spoken or unspoken rules that dictate behavior in this space? Step 2: Write up these rough field notes into a narrative with full sentences describing the details you have recorded. Here you will set the scene of your observation and you might even add a layer of analysis and interpretation about what you have observed. The above questions will help shape your analysis. In writing your summary and interpretation, try to avoid judgements in descriptions (i.e. ugly building, cute child); also avoid descriptive words needing background knowledge or a particular set of assumptions (i.e. ‘middle-class couple’). Instead, try to describe your seen as though your reader will have no insight into what you have observed. The length of your writing is up to you and will be based upon the depth and detail of your observations. This will be shared in tomorrow’s class.
Flash Contest #61, November 2023: Ask ChatGPT to write a short story; then write the sequel–our winners and their work
Our November 2023 Flash Contest was based on Prompt #278 (provided by Stone Soup contributor Molly Torinus), which asked that participants use ChatGPT to generate a story and then write their own sequel. Submissions this month were set in fascinating worlds. Some were desirable with mountains of candy and lush gardens and others were terrifying with swarms of rats and evil villains. Explorers traveled back in time, a girl breathed life into a snowman, and two friends became K-pop stars. As always, thank you to all who participated, and please keep submitting next month! In particular, we congratulate our Honorable Mentions, listed below, and our Winners, whose work you can appreciate below. Winners “Detective Henri Leclerc” by Rayansh Bhargava, 10 “The Dark in the Light” by Courtney Fong, 12 “The Sequel to The Elf with Royal Blood” by Chaesung Kwon, 10 “The Rise of Rob” by Taj Malinis-Jackson, 10 “Crime of the Future” by Emma Zhou, 10 Honorable Mentions “A Strange Encounter” by Angelina Chen, 13 “The Avalanche” by Vihaan D, 6 “The Resurrection Stone” by Mia Goldschmidt, 10 “Time Travelers” by Dara Jin, 10 “Reverse Evolution” by Luke Tang, 13 Detective Henry Leclerc RAYANSH BHARGAVA, 10 The Incredible Detective Amidst the turmoil of World War II, in the heart of occupied Paris, there was a detective whose intelligence shone like a beacon of hope. Detective Henri Leclerc was renowned for his sharp mind and keen observation skills. Despite the dangers that lurked around every corner, Henri was determined to outwit the enemy and protect his city from the shadows of war. One crisp autumn evening, as air raid sirens echoed through the narrow streets, Henri received a tip about a secret meeting between enemy agents in a dimly lit café. He adjusted his fedora and tightened his coat, his eyes gleaming with determination as he headed toward the rendezvous point. Inside the café, Henri discreetly observed the suspicious gathering. He overheard hushed conversations in German, piecing together fragments of information. With his photographic memory, he memorized faces and snippets of dialogue, his mind working like a well-oiled machine. Outside, the rain began to fall, creating a rhythmic tap-tap-tap on the cobblestone streets. Henri trailed the agents through the twisting alleys of Paris, his footsteps silent, his presence unnoticed. The enemy spies led him to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city, where they vanished inside. Peering through a cracked window, Henri saw the agents gathered around a table covered in maps and documents. Their sinister laughter filled the air as they plotted their next move. Unfazed, Henri pulled out a miniature camera and captured each detail, ensuring he had evidence to expose their plans. Just as he was about to retreat, he accidentally knocked over a stack of crates. The noise alerted the agents, and they stormed outside, guns drawn. Henri’s heart raced, but his wit remained sharp. “I wouldn’t make any sudden moves if I were you,” Henri said calmly, stepping into the dim light. The leader of the spies, a menacing figure with a scarred face, sneered. “Who are you?” Henri flashed his badge with a defiant grin. “Detective Henri Leclerc, at your service. I believe you dropped something back there.” He tossed a roll of film onto the table, showcasing the incriminating photographs. The spies exchanged uneasy glances, realizing they were outsmarted. “You won’t stop us, detective,” the scarred leader spat. Henri’s eyes gleamed with confidence. “Try me.” With the timely arrival of French resistance fighters, the spies were apprehended, their sinister plans thwarted. As the sun rose over the city, Henri stood tall, a true hero in a time of darkness. His intelligence and bravery had not only saved lives but also sent a powerful message – that even in the face of adversity, the human spirit, coupled with a brilliant mind, could triumph over tyranny. And so, Detective Henri Leclerc continued his fight against the enemy, his intellect serving as a guiding light, inspiring others to join the resistance and stand up against injustice. His legacy echoed through the streets of Paris, a testament to the power of intelligence and determination in the darkest days of history. Return of the Enemy Henri Leclerc didn’t suppose that the spies, also known as, in the French Resistance, the Enemy, would ever return after their embarrassing defeat they had in the warehouse. So when a case file landed on his desk with an intercepted message from the Enemy, he was surprised. “What is this?” Henri asked his assistant Jacques. Jacques didn’t answer. It was a rhetorical question. Obviously Henri knew. “Sir, we don’t know how to decode it. All we know is that it is titled ‘Operation Green Light.’” Henri observed the paper with great interest. After a thin silence, Henri laughed loud. “Oh, Jacques! This is the simplest code available — ever! The Enemy must think we are stupid!” He showed Jaques a slip of paper that had the simple code written down on it. Jacques shared in Henri’s laughter, and together they read the message, this time with ease. Hello, Agent 102. This is Agent 206 reporting from the Reichstag building in Berlin. We would like you and your team to steal the Mona Lisa and bring it to the National Treasury here in Berlin. Please do so covertly. It is only a matter of time before France and Paris are liberated, and we want to take all the treasure we can before that. Act immediately,
Flash Contest #57, July 2023: Write a story that ends in fireworks—our winners and their work
Our July 2023 Flash Contest was based on Prompt #260, which asked that participants write a story (or poem) that ended in fireworks. Participants were free to interpret “fireworks” however they desired, with most opting for the literal meaning, however some particularly creative submissions had their own interpretations; one story ended in the northern lights, and another ended in a magical flower bloom. Other submissions ranged from a story about a stubborn and crafty dog to a melancholic story about a baby shower to a story about a woman’s late-life realization. As always, thank you to all you participated, and please keep submitting next month! In particular, we congratulate our Honorable Mentions, listed below, and our Winners, whose work you can appreciate below. Winners “Glow” by Nova Macknik-Conde, 11 “Reflections” by Zoe Pazner, 12 “Fireworks of the Stars” by Makela S, 13 “The Baby Shower” by Zoey Shield, 13 “A Tail of Fireworks and Wonder: Coco’s Sparkling Adventure” by Milly Wang, 10 Honorable Mentions “It’s going to Be Alright” by Kyle Chinchio, 10 “The Deadline” by Mia Goldschmidt, 9 “An Independence Day to Remember” by Isa Hasan, 13 “A Home to Remember” by Madelynn Lee, 12 “Change” by Jeremy Lim, 10 Glow Nova Macknik-Conde, 11 The children dance around the fairy lights Trying to catch them in see-through jars Not sparing a thought that Their gleaming prisoners may die I would not be so unwise To think I could own fireflies That if I captured them As they fled from me in fright They should be my nightlight I would sit on my porch and watch Dazzled by the blinking sparks Joining the twinkling stars that make up galaxies That shine against the swirling blues, purples, and blacks I heave a sigh and pull my curtains shut Thinking of tomorrow’s glorious day, before The night when all the fireworks will crackle in the sky Wondrous shades of red, blue, and white The shy kid that hides when I come over will shout ‘Hooray! It’s America Day!’ And I will wave sparklers and eat S’mores And I will stop worrying for next school year And I will have not a care in the world Far from pain and sadness and hateful comments Wrapped in warmth and kindness and light Reflections Zoe Pazner, 12 I walked along the concrete road leading to a beach side bar. I had walked this path so many times before with my mom, my dad and my brother. I was the only one who was left. We came here every year for the fourth of July, my father always loved watching the fireworks. Now in my old age the memories begin to fade farther into my past and I begin to forget the unforgettable. I took a seat at a table, a feeling of deja vu washing over me like waves as I put my back against the hard chair. Music played loudly but it was still in the background of my thoughts. The chair that sat across from me felt like an empty void waiting to be filled with no one to fill it. For the first time in years I felt truly alone, reflecting on what I now felt was a meaningless life. A young woman snapped me out of my thoughts by asking, “could I borrow this chair for my friend?” I looked over to her table full of life and cheerful chatter with so much envy. I nodded at the girl and she gave me a warm smile, which I promptly returned. The sound of clapping filled the beach as the band finished playing “When Doves Cry” by Prince. When the clapping stopped the singer came to the mike and said, “Thank you! We will now be singing “At Last” by Etta James! I hope you enjoy it.” The crowd grew silent with the exception of a few couples who made shuffling noses as they got up on stage to dance. As I watched the couples dance and the music began to play, I was reminded of a distant memory. Many years ago when I was just five years old I came out of my room and into the living room. My dad stood hunched over the record player as he carefully put the easily damaged record into place. He pressed a silver button and I watched with amazement as the black needle slowly dropped itself onto the record. My dad turned around and smiled at me as the opening chords of “At Last” played through the speakers. By the time I had snapped back to the present the song was over and the couples had sat back down, laughing and smiling. The band leader came back up to the microphone and said, “Alright we’re going to take a break as the fourth of July fireworks commence, have a great night folks!” Many went back to their hotel room roofs to get a better view of the fireworks but I decided to take a stroll instead. I walked along the shoreline letting the water tickle my toes as the sand crunched against my feet. I watched as the waves crashed over and over in a never- ending loop of beautiful blue ocean. Then I heard the first boom of fireworks and looked up to see dazzling colors of red white and blue fill the sky. The colors reflected back on the water, a mere rippled version of the real fireworks shown up above me. Sometimes I think I spent so much time looking down that I ended up missing the magic that was right above my head the whole time. Fireworks of the Stars Makela S, 13 2712 CE SHE WAKES to gray and black: metal walls and threadbare pillows and meager quilts. She jolts upright, chest heaving as she tries to remember where she is, when it is. For a moment, all is darkness, until a message flashes across her vision. Please come. She scrambles forward, panic
Saturday Newsletter: March 18, 2023
Dream Dream (oil) by Sophia Zhang, 12; published in Stone Soup March 2023 A note from Emma Wood Hello, readers! I am sitting in the attic of our house with the wind blowing so hard that it is shaking the whole structure. It’s a cold, blustery day, and yet it has been raining not snowing—so not that cold. It has been a strange winter here in coastal Connecticut, in the village where we are living for the year. I can count on one hand the number of times it has snowed. And I have been experiencing some climate grief (and not for the first time). Margot, my daughter, loves snow—it dominates her imaginative play—and yet she has barely gotten to play in it. As my husband said, “She’s young!” But (I countered) she is only two this winter, and this winter, she didn’t get snow in a place where you are supposed to get snow! The image I selected for the newsletter is spring-like, however, because my thoughts have been tending that way as April, Easter, and the spring equinox approach. Soon, we will put winter, and my sadness about the lack of snow this year, behind me and enjoy warmer weather, green grass, and flowers. One of the best things about becoming a parent, for me, has been how it renews the world: seasons, holidays, simple errands—all those things that had lost their luster are once again imbued with meaning and magic. This month, I encourage you to write about an event or an activity that was once special to you, but which you now take for granted. Can you write about it in a way that makes it strange and exciting once again? As for Stone Soup business! We have a number of announcements this week. Regarding our classes: For anyone interested in getting a taste of our writing workshop in advance of our spring series, we are offering free attendance to the makeup session of the Winter 2023 Workshop, taught by Conner Bassett, on April 1st at 11:00 a.m. Pacific time/2:00 p.m. Eastern time. You can sign up here. Our spring session is also now open for enrollment. You can purchase tickets here. We decided to cap enrollment at 20 students and to increase tuition accordingly. While we would love to work with as many students as possible, our instructor has found larger class sizes limit his ability to connect to his students and offer feedback. This was the reasoning behind our registration cap. And to make the change sustainable, we needed to increase tuition. Subscribers will now pay $22 per session and non-subscribers will pay $27.50. Please write to stonesoup@stonesoup.com with any questions or concerns. Regarding our book contest: Our 2023 Book Contest has officially launched! If you haven’t already started working on your manuscript, now is the time! If you’d like some help kickstarting the project, we encourage you to sign up for the Design a Novel workshop, run by our partner, Society of Young Inklings. Till next time, 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.
