An update from our seventy-first Writing Workshop A summary of the workshop held on Saturday, October 15, plus some of the output published below This workshop covered stream of consciousness, a journey through a character’s mind in which their thoughts shift through free association, constantly transitioning from one topic to the next. These thoughts go off in different directions, taking a path that feels disorganized. William emphasized the difference between a story with a beginning, middle, and end and an impression of a character’s thoughts that isn’t meant to advance the plot—stream of consciousness being the latter. The participants drew inspiration from the abstract portrait The Fisherman by Max Weber, Fernand Léger’s avant-garde art film Ballet Mécanique from the Dada Art Movement, and a piece written at a May 2020 Stone Soup writing workshop about stream of consciousness. As a mini-challenge, the participants had five minutes to write a quick visit into a character’s thoughts. The Challenge: Write a stream of consciousness piece for 30 minutes. This journey follows a path that is set down by the mind you are portraying in your story. That mind might, itself, not know where the ideas are coming from. Become your character, and let her take you on a journey into her mind. The Participants: Anya, Ava, Celia, Crystal, Greta, Liam, Nami, Nova, Pearl, Rachael, Yueling, Zar Sprinting Pearl Coogan, 10 I can do it. I can win. Win the race. Beat the high schoolers. People are cheering for me, cheering for me, of all people. My four good friends are jumping up and down, shouting encouragement. But the finish line seems a million miles away. Wait, are there even a million miles on Earth? They are winning. The high schoolers. They are beating me. This isn’t right. Just like how it wasn’t right when a mean boy stole my ginormous Kit-Kat bar I had gotten on Halloween. Or was it a Twix bar? I like Kit-Kat bars better. But all chocolate bars are good. I should’ve practiced more, spent more time on the track. But being on the track is so tiring, and then I go to bed early, and then I don’t have time for homework, and then I get bad grades. Just because I ran. But there is no going back, just like how there is no going back after you turned in homework and realized that it had been wrong after you left school. Once that happened to me and I had panicked on the bus. Everyone had laughed at me. I hate homework. I need to go faster, as fast as the wind or as me and my friends during lunchtime on Taco Tuesday. I like Taco Tuesday. Especially the shrimp tacos, although the school doesn’t always have them, even on Taco Tuesday. Not having the best kind of tacos on Taco Tuesday! Unbelievable. Some of the high schoolers are behind me. Some are in front of me. Some look angry. Some even look amused. Amused? Doesn’t that mean like, funny? I’m not sure. I’ve never been good at vocabulary. I’m better at running and athletic stuff then actual school subjects. But even though I’m an eight-grader doesn’t mean I’m not fast. Oh, I’m as fast as those snobby high schoolers. Wait, are they really snobby just because they’re high schoolers? I don’t think so. Maybe some of them are. I mean, there were snobby kids in second grade. Once one of the snobby kids teased me at Christmastime because I was wearing an ugly sweater because my family wears ugly sweaters around Christmastime. I like Christmas but I don’t like ugly sweaters. They itch. What would an Olympic sprinter be doing? Probably running faster and focusing on the finish line. The Olympics seem really stressful. Who would willingly put themselves in so much stress? The finish line is closer, not a million miles away anymore. More like ten miles. There’s a lot of places within ten miles of my house. Like the ice cream place. I like ice cream. Especially chocolate ice cream. It’s so irresistibly creamy. Once I had vanilla ice cream I hated it. Just hated it. I’m going to make it. The high schoolers are behind me now. Oh no, one just passed me. I always beg my mom to pass slow cars on the highway. But she never does. My mom can be so annoying. The finish line is so close. But so far. But I’m only a millimeter away from the winning high schooler. Wait, how short is a millimeter? The finish line is right there! I need to get to it first. Maybe I should leap to it. I’m good at leaping. Really good at it. Leaping seems like a good idea. Well, no time to think. I’m leaping. I’m leaving the high schooler a millimeter, however short that it, behind. People are cheering. For me or for the high schooler? I’m not sure. Probably some of both. But I like when people cheer. It makes me think of happy things like roller coasters. I like being happy.
Stone Soup Magazine for young readers, writers, and artists
Overcoming Labels: Touching Spirit Bear, Reviewed by Olivia Shekou, 13
In our modern world, people seek to rid themselves of all anger, yet, they haven’t realized that anger can’t be disposed of. Similar to the broad spectrum of human emotions, anger is part of our human experience. However, through reflecting on this human emotion, we can gain perspective on how anger has a role in shifting our consciousness. Couldn’t we shift our outlook on anger as an experience that we have some level of control over, much like a flame that depends on the fuel it is fed? Ben Mikaelsen’s book, Touching Spirit Bear, follows 15-year-old Cole Matthews’s journey, as he learns to gain the upper hand over his anger. After viciously smashing Peter Driscal’s skull into a sidewalk, Cole is given the choice to serve a year of restorative justice on a remote Alaskan island. When Cole arrives on the island, he immediately burns down his shelter in an act of anger and soon after, he is mauled to “an inch of life” by the mysterious Spirit Bear. Although he is immobilized, Cole is determined to survive. In his emotionally vulnerable state, Cole demonstrates care for other creatures, and he begins to reform with the help of Garvey, his Minneapolis parole officer, and Edwin, a Tlingit Indian elder. Even though Cole has gained the upper hand over his anger, he is unable to truly reform until he has made amends with Peter, who attempted to commit suicide. When Cole invites Peter to the island, he mentors him, teaching him about healing and strategies to control his anger, and Peter eventually reforms too. Two valuable takeaways from Touching Spirit Bear are that anger is one of many human emotions and by itself doesn’t define us, and that second, anger can be rechanneled and repurposed to produce a positive outcome. Anger is just one emotion in the mixed bag of human feelings, and it would be unreasonable to label someone as angry simply because they are experiencing that emotion. We are more than our emotions. Society struggles to see beyond these exhibited emotions; it takes seeing through them to get a true glimpse of someone. For example, when a parent calls out their child as “selfish” or “rude” for how they behave, the child is being superficially labeled for what they did in the moment. In Touching Spirit Bear, Cole Matthews is driven by rage when he viciously attacks his classmate Peter Driscal, burns down his cabin on the island he was banished to, and attacks the Spirit Bear. While Cole’s attack on Peter may be seen as an act of anger, if we look deeper, Cole’s true motive was to make him care in ways that Cole was never cared for. Growing up as a neglected child, Cole was never cared for and even as a teenager, he still feels that others don’t care about his feelings. As a result, Cole turns to anger and violence because that was what he was taught. His very own father beat him to make him care and respect his word. Similarly, although Cole’s act of burning down his shelter was done out of anger, we must understand his past and the context in which he was raised. In the same way, when Cole attacks the Spirit Bear, he is angry that the bear doesn’t fear him, but on a deeper level, wanted to make him care about his presence. Eventually, Cole arrives at the conclusion that he is not defined by his anger and says, “I just realized that I’m not a bad person. Nobody is… People are just scared and do bad things. Sometimes people hurt each other trying to figure things out” (168). When Cole comes to this self-realization, he looks beyond the surface of his emotions, realizing he is processing his neglected and abusive upbringing. It was in this self-realization that Cole was able to forgive himself and move beyond labeling himself as angry. There is so much more than what meets the eye when it comes to our emotions, which are so often fueled by one’s past experiences, unprocessed grief and trauma. Therefore, it is too simplistic to label someone as the emotion they exhibit. On a subconscious level, anger can be one’s greatest teacher as it offers insight which can lead to change. Through reliving anger and experiencing the consequences of acting out in anger, one may process what led them to anger. When Cole attacks the Spirit Bear in an outburst of rage, the animal mauls him to a state of near-death. It is through reliving the mauling several times in his mind that he can process his anger and the motive behind his attack. Cole’s pride is tested when the bear isn’t afraid of him. Realizing his own pride and desire to be seen, Cole is able to understand his abusive father on a deeper level. He learns that his father was abused as a child and held on to his unprocessed grief and anger, which carried over into his relationship with his son. With this perspective, Cole is able to forgive his father’s countless acts of neglect, assault and abuse. With the help of Edwin, a Tlingit Indian elder, and Garvey, his Minneapolis parole officer, Cole sets out on a healing journey and a path of reform. Cole soaks in a frigid pond and rolls away the “ancestor rock” to let off steam, yet the most significant step to his reform is showing compassion to his victim. In the aftermath of Cole’s attack, Peter attempts to commit suicide twice. Feeling compassion, Cole invites Peter to the island. He hopes to gain back Peter’s trust and make amends for assaulting him. Cole is profoundly aware of his change of heart and tells Peter, “‘I’m part of some big circle that I don’t understand. And so are you. Life, death, good and bad, everything is part of that circle. When I hurt you, I hurt myself, too. I don’t think I’ll ever heal from what I did
Flash Contest #48, October 2022: Start the first line of your story/poem with a word chosen randomly from the dictionary—our winners and their work
Our October Flash Contest was based on Prompt #223 (provided by Stone Soup contributor Molly Torinus), which asked that participants randomly choose a word from the dictionary and use that word to start their story or poem. A welcome change from some of our more specific prompts, this open-ended prompt led to far and away the most submissions we’ve ever received for a Flash Contest: 62! As such, it felt fitting to select six winners and six honorable mentions instead of the usual five. Among the plethora of submissions was a poem that plumbed the depths of mythological oceanic lore, a story written from the perspective of a creature who claimed to live inside of computers, and a story featuring a race against time in which the dwindling hours punctuated every section of the narrative. As always, we thank all who submitted and encourage you to submit again next month! In particular, we congratulate our Winners and our Honorable Mentions, whose work you can appreciate below. Winners “Ghost Ash” by Josie Barrer, 11 “Finding Permanence” by Joshua Gordon, 13 “Uranomancy” by Emma Hoff, 10 “The Dream” by Mika Lim, 12 “Bittersweet Star” by Vanaja Raju, 11 “Plum” by Melody You, 12 Honorable Mentions “Reunited” by Wenonah Brewer-Nyborg, 12 “The Countdown” by Sophie Li, 11 “Football” by Jeremy Lim, 10 “Orange” by Lui Lung, 13 “Fathom the Depths” by Nova Macknik-Conde, 11 “Into Your Computer” by Aryaman Majumder, 11 Ghost Ash Josie Barrer, 11 Hypnotized by the alluring mountains before me, I stepped toward the edge of the cliff. The anabatic flow balanced out the humidity in the air. The trees confined the moonlight, also blocking the clear sky and the vacant clouds. The stars glistened in the empty night sky. Words could not describe the view that was put before me. I turned my back toward the breath-taking sight. The woods stretched far beyond the eye could see. The trees came apart at a narrow trail, creating a path for me to jog. I stopped suddenly, as the path before me turned to darkness. An icy chill sent a shiver down my spine. The campsite where I stayed for the night seemed to be miles away. “Dad!” I shouted, in a desperate wail of help. I froze, as the bush right beside me moved. I had an insecure feeling I was being watched. A faded body, shining in the dark night rose from the bushes. It wore a white cloth and its face was expressionless. I was too terrified to move. My heart and breathing stopped as the mysterious creature lurked before me. Reality snapped back to me and I ran down into the darkness. I tumbled and landed on the hard, rocky surface. I screamed. A loud and deafening scream. The human-like creature floated toward me, noiselessly. It rose higher into the sky and now came directly above me. It looked down at me for a harsh second. I closed my eyes and turned my head to the floor. I waited, a second, then a minute, then turned to see a pile of dust on the ground. Finding Permanence Joshua Gordon, 13 Permanent. That’s what I thought my life would be. I thought I would always have my loving mother’s sweet giggle, my lionhearted father’s bellowing laugh, Jack the dog’s big slobbery kisses, and me in the middle of it all in our small blue house on Elm Avenue, smiling until my mouth hurt. But, back then, I was just an innocent little kindergartener, unaware of the impending disaster. That disaster was the car accident. I was safely snuggled up in bed, sleeping, when my parents died. Somewhere along Highway 20, an intoxicated driver slammed into my father’s van coming home from an evening party. It was all over in a few minutes. That’s all the police at the front door could say before my wailing drowned out their voices that told me what they had told so many other people, not stopping even when their strong arms picked me up and hurried me into their car. That was the end of my life at Elm Avenue. As I moved from foster home to foster home, from Birch Street to Oak Boulevard to Maple Way, each night I lay on my back, unable to sleep in the alien environment, picturing that fateful night. The swerving car, the unsuspecting van, the ambulances and police cars with sirens blaring, rushing to the scene to try to save my parents. How they couldn’t. Now, once again, I was being relocated, as the woman in her white uniform informed me. Relocated like an object, I thought. An object nobody wants. This time, the reason was that my foster father had accidentally overwatered my beloved ficus plant. I had, of course, been reasonably mad. I just might have been too mad. One thing led to another, and he decided that caring for a foster child was too much work. In an instant, that impermanent life was gone forever. A gentle knock on the door startled me from my thoughts. I gingerly placed my new Boston fern that I had been clutching in my lap on the waiting room desk. I inhaled deeply, then slowly let the air out through my nose. I had done this before, but that same nervousness possessed me every time, that small flicker of hope impossible to extinguish that my new parents might truly love me. “Come in,” I squeaked feebly. The door swung open, revealing a single woman. Her short blond hair fell in curls to her spotless white lab coat. Our eyes met for a few seconds, and I realized she was almost as nervous as I was. Then she spoke. “What a nice specimen of Nephrolepis exaltata!” She exclaimed, noticing the plant on the table next to me. “Did you know that, according to old folk tales, Boston ferns are a sign that there are fairies nearby?” She looked around as if the stories were real before
