An update from our thirteenth 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 conversation on Friday June 26 was attended by young writers from the US, the UK, and France. We started with a discussion of how to write about characters who are reading, and analyzed several different paintings to see how the artist portrayed the subject reading. We shared out our different ideas; is the character focused on the book? Does the character look annoyed at being interrupted? What type of person does the character look like? In addition to viewing these paintings, we read poems and excerpts of essays that reflected the painting’s message or another writer’s thoughts on reading and the role of the reader in the writing process. We then set to writing about a character who is reading, often inspired by the paintings we talked about. Read on below to get a feeling for some of the powerful writing we were given a glimpse of in this session! The Writing Challenge: Write about a character who is reading, inspired by a painting. The Participants: Ever, Tilly, Peri, Julia, Maddie, Georgia, Lorelei, Kanav, Rhian, Grégoire, Neve, Lena, Enni, Benjamin, James, Liam, and many more… Lena Aloise, 11Harvard, MA Familiar Words Lena Aloise, 11 Blowing specks of dust from a cover, bound in cherry leather that was engraved with letters of sparkling gold, brilliance fading along with the passing years of her life. Tentatively, she held the thing, awkward in her small hands, to her face, flipping through the pages, of which there were many, almost an overwhelming amount. Placing it on her lap and settling into a pile of cushions, she began. And the waters leaped, frothing, colliding with a nipping cool saltwater breeze, as the massive thing pushed them aside. They protest against their displacement, as do the wriggling fishes that dart away in a flash of silver, terrified. Oh how their anchor moaned in protest as it was lowered down, below ripping currents, metal links scraping against the rocks, lying on the sand dunes. Its inhabitants jumped from the deck and landed with a thudding that shook the strip of narrow dock upon which their boot-clad feet now rested. Their bodies were agile, possessing great strength from long days of lifting heavy things and navigating tempestuous seas. Seas that tested both physical and mental capabilities. She paused there, took a breath, uselessly straightened her wrinkled blouse and continued reading. Oh, and their captain made all the men look like mere children, with his snarling lips and looming presence. If his crew’s muscular capabilities had been great, his own were simply unhuman, and he was as tough as the ship he had built with his own weathered hands. When he crossed the cobblestone roads, women and men alike quickly looked away, fearful that this ravenous beast might be hungry. The girl remembered a time, late at night, when she had written those words in ink, thought they were beautiful, kissed the pages, then reconsidered and hurled them into the garbage can. A week later, she had changed her mind yet again and the crumpled papers had been retrieved. Now, relooking at it, her cheeks flushed a cherry pink and she regretted not letting them turn to ash in the incinerator. As an author, she supposed that they made her seem weak, fearful of this person who might not be as looming as she made him out to be. Did ship captains read this and think of the silly little girl who found them so frightening? Oh, how she regretted her foolish words now. But she continued, and soon reached the ending, a back page that listed words of praise for this book, the book that was hers and not hers at the same time. ‘Captivating’ one fellow writer had said. ‘American literature at its finest, destined to become a classic’ a magazine had complimented. ‘Earl has fully mastered the art of storytelling and this book should go down in classroom textbooks’ another had cheerily told reporters. All she could think, as she read these aimless thoughts, was ‘People actually read this?’ She shuddered as she imagined all those fellow humans, enjoying her book, feasting on a piece of her soul. Anya Geist, 14Worcester, MA At the Dinner Table Anya Geist, 14 The girl’s leg bounced up and down, jittery and uncalm. Right now, she was sitting straight up, rigid in her chair, but she figured in a few minutes she would be fidgeting around, squirming in her seat. She loved reading, honestly, she did. And she loved this book. But there was so much going on around her. Everyone was loud at the dinner table, laughing heartily as they traded stories, or clicking their tongues as they bemoaned whichever stock was going down. At any moment, they could call on her. They could say, “How was your day?” They could take her book away, and not give it back until much, much later. That risk was too great, and so she was on edge, half-listening to the conversation, half-absorbed in the story. It was like a game of tug of war in her head. The book was pulling on her, trying to sweep her away. And she wanted it to sweep her away. Yet she was forced to listen as Father addressed one of his brothers, just in case he directed his next question at her. The bouncing in her leg was uncontrollable now. She needed to calm it, to make it go away. It was distracting, so distracting. She flipped a page in her book. This was it. She was close to the end. And here she read, her
inspiration
Weekly Writing Workshop #1, Friday April 3, 2020: Inspiration From Random Words
Our first Weekly Writing Workshop! The Stone Soup Weekly Writing Workshop is open to all Stone Soup contributors and subscribers during the COVID-19-related school closures and shelter-in-place arrangements. Every Friday, we meet for one hour 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. At our first session on Friday April 3, we introduced ourselves, broke the ice by naming our favourite animal (if we had one!), and then got to work on a word challenge. Everyone in the room came up with a random favourite word, which we captured on our whiteboard, and then we got down to half an hour of serious writing. The Writing Challenge: Write a story, poem, or other prose, using at least 5 of the words on the list! The Words: orange, trustworthy, glass, scrapbook, future, luscious, garden, biography, grandfather, run, gallop, sniff, canter The Participants: Lena (10), Anya (13), Liam (12), Eli (7), Jay (9), Abhi (11), Vivian (11), Anna (15), Lucy (12), Ma’ayan (11), Ever (10), Mico (13), Silas (10), Catherine (13), Stella (13) We were so impressed by the writing the participants produced. From haunting poems and reflective prose to outer space adventure, free verse, and a tale of a fruit’s imaginary life, it was just amazing what the workshop inspired, and incredible to see what polished work could emerge in such a short time. Read on for the great pleasure of reading some of our writers’ work. The Storyteller by Lena Aloise, 10 I descend the narrow staircase of my thoughts, Slice the lock from the pirate’s chest of my mind, But the treasure that lies amongst the settling dust, Is not buttery golden coins, Nor rough slices of glistening jade. But the firm feeling against my palms, The satisfaction pouring into my soul is but the same. I pull a story from its cage, Wrestle it under a thin coating of dreams. Sprinkle gently with a handful of wishes, Then part the mist surrounding and reveal a truth. As I jump from the shores of the world I have crafted, I dive into those perilous waters, And return to the banks with something all new. The Garden through the Mirror by Lena Aloise, 10 I stare back at an unfamiliar soul, Through the portal of crystal glass. Eyes two inky pools of brown, Staring back into mine, Swirling clouds of emotion, My past, my future, My fate. Cover the room in a thick fog, And from the misty tendrils, I emerge, Pushing through the uncertainty. I wander through those narrow corridors, Until I enter a world, One of color, Vibrant reds and oranges, One of light, Lucious rays that fill me with warmth. A garden. Spilling off their narrow stems, Are the fruits of memory. And the green shoots that sprout, From the soil of knowledge, Are those of triumph, Those of success. I run through the waving grasses of sorrow, Nipping at my ankles, The crimson droplets forming on my skin, Are those of tearful memories. And the soft breeze, Gently tugging at my shoulder, Whisking away the sharp pain. Is that of stories. This garden of my mind, A scrapbook of my past, My biography, Not yet written. A chamber of possibility, Containing the keys to the doors, Of who I can become. Untitled, by Anya G., 13 It was a dark and cold night, a night when all wild things are best left to their sulking devices. It was the type of night where it might as well rain; it might as well pour, just to fill the vacancy of life and soul in the world. However, the night had no effect on the young girl. At half-past ten, by the toll of the old grandfather clock in the parlor, which stood gathering dust in an untouched corner, she rose from bed, pushing her silk curtains open to admit the silver, luscious moonlight into her room, spilling across the floor; light; the opposite of a shadow. And so she tiptoed down the great hall, past the looming oak doors that guarded her family from the menacing shadows of night. She slipped downstairs, just a flicker of light across the black shapes of furniture silhouetted in the night. She could only contain her excitement for so long though, and upon reaching the great glass doors that led to the terrace, flung them open and flew into the night like a bird getting its first taste of fresh air. It didn’t matter that the air was heavy with malice or that chilling whispers of the wind caused the hair on the end of her neck to stand up. It didn’t matter that the stone on the terrace was cold on her bare feet, cracked and invaded by damp moss. She ran, her blue nightgown trailing behind her. If she were a horse, her mane waving in her wake, the expanse of the front yard was her pasture, the promise of fresh green grass stretching on forever. She reached the end of the yard, and paused, her breath coming in long gasps. Her cheeks were flushed from the run, her fingers tingling from the clawing cold of the night, but she had not accomplished her mission yet. She jumped over the hedge that bordered the lawn, and winded her way through thorny bushes that snagged her gown, and ensnared her blond hair that flowed like a waterfall. And then she reached it, a small clearing in the bramble. She sat on the cold, firm soil, inhaling the sweet aroma of fresh earth. She bent over into the bushes, moonlight splashing her face with an all-knowing light, and retrieved a lantern. Reaching over again, she produced a box of matches, and struck one. Once she had lit the lantern, it filled the space with a warm, orange light. It was a light that was like a piece of sweet candy melting on your
