An update from our fiftieth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday, November 19, plus some of the output published below This week, Conner focused on the art of flash fiction. To begin, he talked about how influential Ernest Hemingway was during the 20th century, which led to a discussion of Hemingway’s “Iceberg Theory”: the deeper meaning of the story should not be evident on the surface. If a writer knows what they’re doing, they should omit certain details and the reader will understand it just as well if they were there. This invites a reader to be involved in the creative act of interpretation. Conner then defined flash fiction as a fictional work of extreme brevity that (usually) mimics the conventions of short stories. With this definition in hand, we read the following works of flash fiction: “A Little Fable” by Franz Kafka. “Dog and Me” by Lydia Davis. “Unhappy People” by Lydia Davis. “The Old Woman” by Daniil Kharms “The Dinosaur” by Augusto Monterroso The Hemingway baby shoes story The Challenge: Write 10 one-sentence stories or write a one-paragraph story. The Participants: Emma, Anushka, Penelope, Anna, Allie, Savi, Zar, Alice, Samantha, Madeline, Tate, Josh, Ella, Arjun, Russell Five Works of Flash Emma Hoff, 10 Lamp An eye, glaring at the wall with tears welling up in its eyes and spilling over, extinguishing what could have been and creeping inside every corner, until a hand reaches out and undoes all the hard work. At the Table On top of the tablecloth sits the untouched chicken, as, out of politeness, the people have been waiting for their guest — he is hidden in the closet. For Sale The grass holds the sign in place, the dirt protects it, so, no matter how hard they try, their words and their colors and their smiles will always be for sale. Diagram He stood up and got dressed and looked at the poster on the wall and mumbled some nonsensical things to himself before looking in the mirror to give his hair a name and label his fingers. Cactus So many eyes and toes – all kinds of spikes and all flavors of needles — like an ad for toothpaste.
flash fiction
A Secret Beauty (Mona Lisa): A Series in Ekphrasis by Ella Yamamura, 14
I was tired of convincing Lisa to smile. Every time we sat down with her, she simply crossed her arms and stared at me through a set of deep, solemn eyes, her mouth refusing to curl into a smile. It was a shame, really. She had a plump figure and a lively blush on her cheeks that suggested she was really someone enjoyable to be with, however, her permanent frown told otherwise. I tapped my foot impatiently on the intricately designed carpet, frustration slithering around in my head like a serpent. Lisa was yet again assuming her position with her crossed arms and her defiant gaze. I refused to give up. I wanted nothing more than to paint her wearing a smile. I was confident that I could create a masterpiece out of her—A Secret Beauty—only she didn’t realize it yet. “Miss.” I fidgeted with my paintbrush as I looked into her serious brown eyes. “If you would just smile a little–” “I’m quite alright, thank you,” Lisa said, and her fingers twitched in irritation. I shut my mouth immediately and gave a single nod. “That’s fine,” I replied in disappointment. I started mixing my colors, glancing back at her hopefully as if suddenly she would change her mind and turn towards me with a bright smile on her face. It didn’t happen. “Exactly how long will this take?” Lisa asked impatiently. I stayed silent, not wanting to answer her question. In truth, it would take several years to paint a masterpiece. I would have to request a sitting with her multiple times just to accurately paint her features on canvas. “Not long,” I lied. She clearly saw past my lie as, several years later, she grew tired of listening to me pestering her for another sitting. “I-It takes a while, Miss!” I repeated hastily, “I’m almost done.” And it was true. I was indeed almost done. In fact, everything from her mane of dark oak-colored hair to her crossed hands was painted to perfection. Everything…except her mouth, that is. Where her mouth was supposed to be was a stretch of blank canvas. I refused to paint her in a frown. It just seemed wrong, but convincing Lisa to smile was not an option. “Look this way please,” I asked Lisa who had turned her attention to a stray strand of hair. Lisa nodded curtly and I began planning out my approach. It turned out beautifully. I found myself staring at the portrait several times. Her eyes seemed to follow me everywhere I went. Even Lisa had been taken aback when I had showed her the portrait—the portrait of Lisa. Lisa with her crossed hands and serious eyes and smile. The smile that seemed to hide something. Like she knew all the secrets in the world. A Secret Beauty.
Flash Contest #34, August 2021: Use J.M.W. Turner’s painting The Banks of the Loire as a starting point for a stream of consciousness piece—our winners and their work
Our August Flash Contest was based on Creativity Prompt #164 (provided by Anya Geist, Stone Soup ’20–21 Intern), which, combining art and writing, challenged participants to write a stream of consciousness piece based off of J.M.W. Turner’s painting The Banks of the Loire. The result was, unsurprisingly, breathtaking! In their own unique ways, each piece evoked Turner’s painting with stunning vividity. Reading the participants’ work, it was easy to envision the kneeling lady in red, the arching trees, and the backdrop of the seacliff, the tops of sails just visible through the mist. Participants also interpreted the qualification of stream of consciousness in a variety of ways, with their submissions ranging from meandering prose without punctuation to highly structured poetry to paragraph blocks written from the perspective of a tree! As always, thank you to all who submitted, and please submit again next month! In particular, we congratulate our Winners and our Honorable Mentions, whose work you can appreciate below. Winners “A River Flows in Me” by Inca Acrobat, 11 (San Francisco, CA) “The Melancholy Landscape” by Sophie Liu, 9 (Surrey, BC, Canada) “The Watcher” by Lui Lung, 12 (Danville, CA) “Scattering Beams” by Emily Tang, 12 (Winterville, NC) “The Banks of the Loire” by Alexis Zou, 13 (Lake Oswego, OR) Honorable Mentions “A Dream or the End?” by Phoenix Crucillo, 13 (Los Angeles, CA) “Thoughts Harbored” by Rex Huang, 11 (Lake Oswego, OR) “Perspectives Not Human” by Ivy Liu, 9 (San Jose, CA) “So Still” by Sophie Yu, 13 (Houston, TX) “The Magical River” by Natalie Yue, 9 (San Carlos, CA) Inca Acrobat, 11 (San Francisco, CA) A River Flows in Me Inca Acrobat, 11 You fail to speak to me Even when the moon has risen Above the glittering Loire When my mind is awake But my body still Especially then You turn your back away My dreams fade away Sophie Liu, 9 (Surrey, BC, Canada) The Melancholy Landscape Sophie Liu, 9 A Dreary, Undisturbed, Abandoned, Landscape. As gloomy as a muddy, Dark, Overworked, Horse, In the rain. The trees wilting in the sky, No longer proud and sturdy, But miserable. The sky covered in menacing, Evil clouds, Hiding the jumpy, Comforting, Blue, Sky. Peaceful, And calm. Not even a single shout, A single bird chirping, Or the wind howling. The place is as tranquil as a person sitting beside a campfire, With the stars glittering above them, Without a sound being uttered. Only one, Lonely, Human being in the whole, Vast greenery world. The place is a boring Blobfish, Without any beings, Except blobs of nature to make up the empty, Lonely, Land. The unwelcoming, Still, Desolate, Landscape. Lui Lung, 12 (Danville, CA) The Watcher Lui Lung, 12 There was a stillness that hovered in the air. It wasn’t the peaceful kind, more of the silence before a storm struck and razed everything in its path. I dutifully remained unmoving, listening faithfully for the endless thrum of life already etched into my memory. It was constant and ever-changing all at once, the irresolute rhythm to an unfinished song. This had become my existence: eagerly awaiting nothing by the riverbanks, observing a world I could not make a difference in until I grew too old to stand. The crunch of a fallen leaf snatched my attention, a discordant note in the delicately balanced symphony. A woman knelt, the sleeve of her dress slipping from her shoulder. This sight was not new to me. There had been hundreds before her who had visited, and thousands before them. Those who came and went were far too many to be remembered, both old and young, some carrying joy, but most bearing misery. Whether it was happiness or grief that led them to my home, I knew they all sought something for themselves, and I could tell from their faces what it was that they looked for. The desperate found comfort in meaningless details that went unnoticed by another, so that even the babbling of water could be heard as a familiar voice, or a breeze could be the huff of a lost lover’s breath. Then the woman shifted, my gaze leaping to her again, and her face was turned from me. The gleam of her dark hair gilded by noon sun was all I could see. Her perch was motionless beside the river, enough so that she could have been a painted figure listening for what only she could hear. She was indecipherable this way, a statue carved to be admired but never touched, beautiful but unreachable. Who was this mystery? What brought her here, to sit by these banks as I did? Did she hear the music in the rush of the Loire? I wanted to… I simply wanted, I realized. I wanted, and I could not have. Frustration burst like a wave. The sky inevitably splotched to orange and red, and the woman left me. She rose, the hem of her skirt against the ground a whispered addition to my song. I remained rooted in my position. People wandered here to find their purpose, but what was my own? I was the Watcher, I supposed, and I always would be. My purpose was to see and not feel, to ask my questions and to know they would not be answered. It was a bitter truth. I watched until the crimson of her dress became a faint speck, until the spell she had cast was lifted. How much longer would I continue to watch? Was I to stand here for a lifetime? I’d crumble eventually, slower than those I saw passing by, but I was dying all the same. Perhaps everyone did have a place in this grand composition I could not yet make sense of, and this was my cruel fate, a punishment for a crime I did not know of. A cool gust of wind rustled my branches. I stood still once more. The river murmured on. Emily Tang, 12 (Winterville, NC) Scattering Beams Emily
