An update from our second 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 session on Friday April 10, we introduced ourselves and discovered that besides Stone Soup team members calling in from Canada, the UK and the USA, we had workshop members from Canada and across the United States–Massachussetts, New York, Pennsylvania, Oklahoma and California were all represented! This week, William Rubel, Stone Soup’s founder, set the challenge for the group, suggesting that we write about COMFORT for 30 minutes before coming back together to read and discuss what we’d written. The Writing Challenge: Write a story, poem, or other prose, on Comfort. Use the idea of comfort, not just the word: you can consider notions like comforting, comfortable. The Participants: Anya (13), Analise (9), Liam (12), Abhi (12), Vivian (11), Lucy (12), Mico (13), Silas (10), Georgia (11) Our participants were inspired in different ways by this idea. The examples below touch on some recognisable themes of cosy fires, soothing cups of tea, and cool water on a beautiful day. Other contributions included a gripping story about a disappearing brother, challenging the idea that comfort is necessarily a good thing; and a thought experiment about the mysterious Miss Rose and her disappearing comfortable chair. Below you can read just a few examples of the great work that came out of the workshop. The Little Cottage, by Anya G., 13 Rain lashed at the windows Spraying them Stinging them With icy droplets of water That streaked down the glass The wind howled Whipping around the little island Chasing itself, over and over Like a vacuum Sucking soul from the world And on the little island Trees were bent, contorted Threatening With every creak, every groan To fall through the frozen air But inside the little cottage With its thatched roof And smoke twirling merrily into the abyss of sky Orange light glowed through windows Commanding the dark to retreat The air was warm in the cottage Flushed with the aroma of baking bread A scent that wrapped itself around you Soothing, like a favorite blanket On the coldest of nights And a fire crackled cheerfully Each pop and whiz writing a song While the flames danced along An uplifting tune A reminder of the happiest of days With mugs of steaming tea With volumes of cherished books Well-cared for in their old age The little cottage sheltered And cozily outwaited the storm Untitled, by Anya G., 13 The water is cool, collected It rolls over me Submerging me in its underwater bliss So faint now are the shouts of joy As kids swim over my head There is nothing here And yet it is a rich nothing An emptiness that resonates Clear as a bell I should be thankful To be a part of this holy space With its ripples of light A crystal clear emptiness Stretching on forever Sunrise by Lucy Rados, 12 I sat on the bench, Dew covering the ground, Fog obstructing my view. A mug of hot tea in my hand, The steam rising as if tendrils of comfort are wrapping around me. A blanket Draped over my shoulders; A shield to the chilly autumn air. I look to the east As a sliver of light Pierces the mist. The light rises Spreading comfort through me. Pink and orange Flood the sky Like a wave crashing over my head. The whispers of wind Throw my hair around. I know I am safe By the comfort around me, By the sunrise to the east
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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
