Apples A sweet fruit, round like a ball. Pieces split with a slice of a knife. Pushing and shoving, hands start to reach for the slices. Long after the apples are finished, a slice lies forgotten under the table. Entering the room is the family puppy, Sniffing, who munches the unseen slice.
Stone Soup Magazine for young readers, writers, and artists
The Twits, Reviewed by Petros Korahais, 8
The Twits by Roald Dahl is a disgusting, creepy, repulsive book full of gross descriptions of stinky people who are just as horrible on the inside as they are on the outside. In most books, the main characters are heroes, but in this one they are cruel, wicked villains that play mean tricks on each other and the animals that live around them. Even though all of that is true, I wanted to continue reading about these bizarre people and their wacky ways. The book introduces readers to talking animals, vindictive humans, hateful pranks and crazy plots of revenge. The Twits, a husband and wife, antagonize each other and the birds and monkeys that live and are caged in their yard. The book is funny, unique, and full of colorful descriptions that make you feel like you have met these awful people. In the end, The Twits reminds us that bad guys get their comeuppance. Their energy is spent hurting each other and those around them, but it all comes back to them in the end, reminding us to be kind to each other and to animals. And to clean the rotting food out of our beards. The Twits by Roald Dahl. Viking Books for Young Readers, 2007. Buy the book here and support Stone Soup in the process! Petros Korahais, 8 (Whitestone, NY)
How Stories Work—Writing Workshop #26: Defamiliarization
An update from the twenty-sixth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday February 5, plus some of the output published below “It is the function of art to renew our perception. What we are familiar with we cease to see. The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it.” -Anais Nin “The purpose of literature is to impart the sensation of things as they are perceived and not as they are known. The technique of art is to make objects ‘unfamiliar.'” -Viktor Shklovsky This week, Conner was unable to attend due to the birth of his second child, Sawyer Cruz Bassett-Wood (congratulations, Conner!), so his assistant, Caleb Berg, led Conner’s lecture on defamiliarization. To begin, Caleb familiarized—ha ha—the class with the concept of defamiliarization as it pertains to art: the artistic technique of presenting to audiences common things in an unfamiliar or strange way so they could gain new perspectives and see the world differently. We focused on the art of Leonora Carrington and Pablo Picasso in painting, noting their unique ability to portray the ordinary in spectacular, often dream-like ways. Finally, we looked at the poetry of Paul Celan and Velimir Khlebnikov, paying particular attention to Celan’s “An Eye, Open” and Khlebnikov’s “When Horse’s Die.” The Challenge: Write a story or poem in which one or more objects/scenes are defamiliarized. That is, transform one or more objects/scenes so that they represent the feeling they produce. Create, as Anais Nin says, “new meaning.” The Participants: Lina, Emma, Josh, Amelia, Penelope, Zar, Samantha, Alice, Ellie, Nova, Quinn To watch more of the readings from this workshop, like Emma’s below, click here. Emma Hoff, 9(Bronx, NY) The Lamp Emma Hoff, 9 The light shines innocently, but it blinds me, and my eyes become red. Did it glare at you? It glared at me. I shied from it and still it followed me with its intent gaze, boring into me as I walk around the room. I can feel the hot bulb, feel the lamp melting and morphing under its own heat, its own light. The business is done, I think, but my dreams that night are of hot light burning me, and the next day, I find the lamp, standing again. The lamp glared at me once again, and whispered in my ear, burning it red-hot, telling me that the sun’s light will not be enough for me. I ask it, what does it know, but the sun dies and the lamp is still glowing and I am grateful for it. I make my way through the darknes with this lamp, until it parts with me, saying it must go, saying that its lightbulb can not take the strain anymore and that it will lie peacefully, saying that the darkness isn’t as bad as people think. We both give in to the shadows, my lamp is happy, unmoving, unthinking, not glowing, but I am dragged away by figures cloaked in black, and I am crying.
