Michaela Frey, 12Herndon, VA The Writer, Artist of Words Michaela Frey, 12 A fog has fallen over the people, a devastating, colorless, mist of despair hanging over the humans. Those consumed in the fog are mourned; yet the numbers of those taken rise every day, a staircase leading up, and all the same, leading downwards in a spiral. Anyone watching from the outside is relieved and happy, though anything that would ever rely on humans is missing that part. Animals in city parks, usually fed by tourists, look around with confusion, wondering where their food is. You write this paragraph with disdain. A school project? Hardly anyone cared at your school; with the grades not counting, the assignments optional. But writing, writing is the only thing that keeps you working. You are a writer. An artist of words, shaping, molding, hands working with a fragile clay called language. Flipping away the page in your notebook, you turn to a blank page and stare down at it. After writing for the past few hours, you need a break. But a break from what? A break during quarantine is staring out your small apartment’s window, the one housing your mother, father, and siblings–each a handful of their own, but together, they are loud, tired, and angry. Outside, the city is deserted except for the occasional car passing by, a person with or without a mask walking down the street. The normally bright restaurants, the ones you have been able to walk to your entire life, are either closed for quarantine or closing permanently due to lack of business. You sigh and go back to your writing. A magical young reindeer, with sparkling cream-colored horns, emerald eyes, streaks down the city streets, bringing color to each part of the dull, deserted, infectious roads– With a groan, you shove the page to the side. Too corny. Hope would not be corny. If your writing was hope, you wouldn’t be cringing at it. Even your report that was for a school project was not hope, just a blatant, unemotional report about the facts everyone knew. If it was published in a paper, people would look at it, skim through briefly with a heaving sigh, and go to the next report. You know people want hope. You, a writer, an artist of words, a sculptor of stories, know this, from the top of your head to the tip of your shoes. But how do you give it to them?
creative writing
Weekly Writing Workshop #12, Friday June 19, 2020: Sense of Character
An update from our twelfth Weekly Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop, plus some of the output published below The Stone Soup Weekly Writing Workshop is open to all Stone Soup contributors and subscribers. Every Friday, we meet for an hour-and-a-half via Zoom to respond to a new writing challenge, write together in our virtual room, and then share what we have written with one another. Our session on Friday June 19, attended by young writers in France, the UK and from across the United States, started with a discussion about shaping characters, and a question: How can we can create a sense of a character for our readers, without simply writing a list-like description of their looks, personality, hobbies and so on? Some of the workshop members who had attended the week’s summer camp with Stone Soup & Young Inklings–all about working on characters–talked about their experiences, and after a short discussion on the ways we might develop the feeling of a character, like a sketch or outline, the group spent time working on their pieces and then read aloud. Read on below to get a feeling for some of the powerful personalities we were given a glimpse of in this session! The Writing Challenge: Write a short sketch that gives us a sense of the fictional character you are developing. The Participants: Lorelei, Shreya, Lena, Anya, Katie, Maddie, Gegoire, Peri, Kanav, Georgia, Hera, Enni, Ever, Eugenie, Christina, Chloe, Enya, Tilly, Madeline, Kara, Charlotte, Sophia, Aditi, Liam H, Emily, Benjamin, Louise, Ace, James, Heather, Vishnu, Clotilde, Melanie, Thomas, Seraj and more… Lena Aloise, 11Harvard, MA The One with the Empty Eyes Lena Aloise, 11 She was a small woman, shoulders hunched forward in their eternal brace, face expressionless, eyes empty pools of sunken darkness. Her lips were pursed tightly, corners of her mouth pointing downwards, as if she feared that something might slip out, that spoken words might make her more vulnerable. As if she was constantly fighting back tears, tears that brought back to much pain to let fall. The cornflower dress she wore was stunning, with a lace trimmed bodice and a skirt that fell to her ankles. But she, herself, was broken, shattered, despite once beautiful looks. A face that had once been the envy of every girl now was one that all shied away from. The soul was dead, although the heart still beat, and that drained the life from everything. Her sepia locks fell in waves down her back and every few minutes, a hand would reach up, grab a curl and finger it nervously. But those eyes stared straight ahead, not stopping for anything. Eyes that had seen horrors that no person should have to view. Eyes that were afraid of life itself, of seeing more, scared of the past. They called her Mit Leeren Augun. The one with the empty eyes. Peri Gordon, 10Sherman Oaks, CA The Duchess Peri Gordon, 10 In a mansion high atop a hill, there lived a refined duchess, with smooth and slightly tanned skin and crowned golden hair. Her name was Annabelle, and she wore only the finest clothing, made of satin with gold embellishments. She strutted around like a queen and was most always treated like one. She rarely left her soaring towers, but when she did ride her magnificent silver carriage into town, no one dared approach her, unless they were a dashing prince or strapping knight come to see her. If any commoner came within three feet of her, she would stare them down with her piercing blue eyes, and they would scurry off. Lady Annabelle was a fine young duchess, and no one dared mess with her. Enni Harlan, 13Los Angeles, CA A Child Enni Harlan, 13 A young girl crept down the carpeted stairs nimbly, as quiet as a mouse. Her face was stony and lacking any sign of childhood’s innocence, despite her youth. She was small, but possessed the sharpness of someone far beyond her age. Her clothing was ragged and filthy, but her short brown hair framed her face in a seemingly orderly manner. The girl stopped at the foot of the staircase, her dark eyes darting about the room. Not a soul was awake, and the house was deathly silent. With a trembling hand, the girl struck a match and lit a candle. The room was instantly illuminated by its flickering glow. The timber bookshelves lined with dusty books appeared ancient in the forlorn room. She tiptoed towards the bookshelf, and found herself removing the same book as always. It was the book of poetry she had treasured for years; the very one her mother had read to her as a child. The little girl opened her satchel and dropped the book in, grimacing as it clattered loudly against the silver candlesticks she had taken from the bedroom upstairs. A door creaked open loudly upstairs, followed by a sequence of footsteps. The girl froze instantly, then darted out the door without a further thought. All that was left was an empty space in the bookshelf. The child’s lean figure disappeared into the darkness of the night… And the house was silent once more. Anya Geist, 13Worcester, MA James Anya Geist, 14 James lifted his heavy backpack to sling it over his shoulder. It was navy blue, but covered in dirt and small stains, marks of a long time of use, and was ripped at the top from an unfortunate excursion into the uptight Mrs. Robin’s rose garden. “You’re wearing shorts again! Go change!” his mother called the doorway to their small kitchen. “It’s only 50 degrees.” James looked down at his thin legs and knobbly knees, at his skin which might have been as pale and fine as snow, but was instead engrained with endless amounts of mud and dirt. He shrugged. “I’m fine.” His mother took in her son’s naturally thin face and sighed. With that, the boy pulled open the front door, causing his thin muscles to tauten momentarily, and headed off to school. His walk every morning was about 15 minutes long to get to the city, with an extra 5 he spent dodging
Daily Creativity #66 | Flash Contest: Write a Story Told Through Correspondence
Some of the earliest novels were written in the form of letters between characters. Try writing a story as a series of text messages, group chats, emails, letters or postcards exchanged between at least two characters.
