Stone Soup Magazine for young readers, writers, and artists

An update from the eighth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday June 5, plus some of the output published below Memory—fragmentary, incomplete, unreliable, contradictory, a key to explaining the present or future. “For me, there has been no difference in remembering something and creating something. When I wrote my fictional novels they always had a starting point of something real. Those images that are not real are exactly the same strength and power of the real ones and the line between them is completely blurred. When I write something, I can’t remember in the end if this is a memory or if it’s not – I’m talking about fiction. So for me it’s the same thing.” -Karl Ove Knausgaard This week, we began workshop with a light analysis of a few tenth century Chinese landscape paintings, thinking about the techniques at play, how they made us feel, and the words we may use to describe them. After a few minutes of thought, we connected how these paintings, specifically their relatively barren space, the emphasis on blank space over detail, and an inability to tell what’s what, enacted the function of memory. Most important to our discussion of memory in this week’s workshop was the fact that memory, often times, is in fact creation, as brought up in the quote by contemporary writer Karl Ove Knausgaard above. Jumping off from this concept, we moved towards a discussion of memory in the films The Tree of Life by Terrence Malick (a conflation of memory of the past and memory of the future) and Citizen Kane. We watched two clips from Citizen Kane, from the beginning and the ending, in order to show how Kane’s memory before death, that of him sledding, represented a key to understanding his character and the tragic function of memory. The next segment of the workshop was devoted to a discussion of artwork, beginning with a few landscape paintings by Pieter Bruegel the Elder in which the details were not cast in great focus, another function of memory in art. We then took a prolonged look at two surrealist paintings: Magritte’s Memory, and Dali’s The Persistence of Memory, both of which seemed to portray the obfuscation of memory. The final segment of the workshop focused on literature, more specifically the tradition of the “I remember” text, beginning with an excerpt from Joe Brainard’s memoir I Remember, and ending with Mary Ruefle’s essay “I Remember.” The Challenge: Write your own “I Remember” piece. You may write it as fiction or nonfiction, as poem, short story, or essay. The Participants: Josh, Georgia, Emma, Harine, Svitra, Simran, Sinan, Sophie, Sena, Liam, Anya, Madeline, Zhilin, Isolde, Noa, Joy, Olivia, Alice, Samantha Isolde Knowles, 9New York, NY I Remember Isolde Knowles, 9 I remember the days when dragons and phoenixes swarmed the sky. I remember the days when giants shook the ground. I remember the days when mermaids splashed in their ponds. I remember the days when ghouls and ghosts haunted the night. I remember the days when I fell asleep listening to goblins and imps crackling. I remember waking up to find it was all a dream. Svitra Rajkumar, 13,(Fremont, CA) Memories Svitra Rajkumar, 13 Puffs of Jenna’s breath clouded her vision as she rushed down the road. It was a frosty winter day in Mridaria, and the bustling streets were crowded with multicolored gowns. The cozy smell of nutmeg fit the winter mood perfectly. It was her best friend’s birthday, and Jenna needed to get there quickly, although the crowd wasn’t letting her through so easily. Winter in Mridaria was usually not that cold, considering that it was near the coast, but today delicate snowflakes were drifting down from the sky. The dark, paved roads were covered in a blanket of snow. Citizens had tried to clear them in vain; the snow was overpowering. Jenna weaved through the barrier of people, careful not to be noticed. Jenna worked at a part-time job that required a lot of stealth, so she was a master at being furtive. She stopped to check the time, but the impatient Mridarians kept moving. A lady in a silky red gown knocked Jenna over, in an attempt to get to Charlotte’s Jewels, a very popular jewelry shop. Unfortunately, they were having a Black Friday sale today. “Ouch!” Jenna cried out in pain, picking herself off the snow. Her calf had hit a sharp stone on the ground and was now sporting a large gash. Ugh! Now I’ll be late! She looked up to see people staring at her. The Mridarians were awful gossipers. Sure enough, she could see many of them whispering to each other. Ignoring all this she turned around to yell at the woman who had bumped into her, but her silky red gown was no longer in sight. “This is the worst day ever!” Jenna grumbled while looking around for her watch, which had fallen off when she was shoved onto the ground. Ah! There it is! She picked up the watch that was now cold and wet, and stuck it into her coat pocket. Jenna looked up and began to move forward, but tall horse legs blocked her path. “Hello Miss, you look like you need a ride,” an amused voice chuckled. What now?! Jenna looked up, and to her surprise, a boy sat high on top of a white horse waved to her. She recognized that voice, and the crest on the horse’s saddle gave it away. Jenna was standing in front of the heir of Mridaria, the king’s son, and Mariel’s older brother. * * * Before she could figure out what she was doing, Jenna found herself inside the warm palace, sitting on an oversized chair that smelled like her grandmother. What am I doing here?! How did I get exactly where I needed to be? She racked her brain and thought back to the last thirty minutes with the heir. Being with the heir added many risks to Jenna’s situation, but