An update from our fortieth Writing Workshop A summary of the workshop held on Saturday May 8, plus some of the output published below This week, William completed the journey to the spirit world that we started last week. Inspired by the Victorian-era spirit drawings of Georgian Houghton, the group considered ways of using the idea of the inspiration of spirits in writing, as a way of communicating between the living and the dead. We thought about various means people use to stay in touch with their ancestors, from home shrines to seances, and the different ways spirit manifest themselves in stories. We watched a video of a Hawaiian storyteller telling a story about a haunted condominium, ending with the classic words “and the story is true”, and discussed Augustine the Samburu blacksmith’s story of a baby that turns out to be a ghost. We read a section from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, as Scrooge sees the strange, form-shifting spirit appear before him; and considered the role of the haunted house in many traditional ghost stories. We watched a beautifully animated (with shadow puppets) performance of Schubert’s setting of Goethe’s ErlKonig by the Oxford Leider, and looked at one of the earliest recorded zombie stories (Ishtar). Finally, with a woodcut from Hokusai, William reminded the group that spirits can take many forms… The Challenge: Write a scene, story or poem with a connection to ghosts, spirits or the spirit world. What does the spirit world bring to your story? OR, try some spirit writing. The Participants: Peri, Lena DN, Maddie, Gia, Leo, Madeline K, Pranjoli, Reese, Margaret, Wesley, Julia, Rachael, Chelsea, Jaya, Lena A, Mia, Delight, Lina, Helen, Hanbei, Peter, Sage, Sierra, Mahika, Anna K, Audrey, Angela, Tilly, Jonathan, Grace, Charlotte, Iago, Nova. Peri Gordon, 11Sherman Oaks, CA My Shame By Peri Gordon, 11 Whistle, whistle. They inhabit me like I am some sort of haunted medieval fortress. Whoosh. One of them darts through one of my walls and into the well-furnished but dust-covered room where the young girl once spent her time making beautiful sketches before her death of sickness in that same room. Another ghost haunts the stairs, where the girl’s father met his own end in a fatal accident. And yet another lurks in the former office of the girl’s mother, where she privately ended her own life. Whiz. Each spirit was once alive. One of them was the girl. One was the father, one the mother. They all died too soon, and that thought keeps them here, passionate grief scorching their minds and hearts. They are each so caught up in their own misery that they do not notice each other’s ghosts, only their own. I was once a place of happiness, the cheerful, stylish, modern home for a family of three. Now I am a place of despair, a ghost habitat. People come outside, snapping photos and gossiping about what went on inside me. Even those who do not believe there are ghosts are prevented by others from coming inside me. Most of them know that the ghosts are, indeed, here. There is a mansion across the street, looking more old-fashioned than I ever have. That would make a good haunted house. But no; I am the haunted one. The home across the street is filled with happy people, happy rooms, happy memories. But I am desperate. Whistle, whistle. I summon all the energy that being haunted provides me. Whoosh. Power and adrenaline build up inside me like fuel for a car. Whiz. I send the spirits soaring out of me and into the home on the other side of the road. I am free from being haunted. Let the suffering be transferred to somewhere else. I have held the burden of being shunned and isolated for long enough. It is another home’s turn. It only takes a few days for the family to move out. Hope rises inside of me. But they do not come here. People don’t know I am no longer haunted. In fact, they believe I have spread the ghost disease, and that now both the other house and I are haunted. Most people leave the neighborhood, never to return again. And the ghosts, missing their old spaces, return to me. Well, that backfired. Perhaps I really am haunted, not just because of the spirits I contain but because I have a wicked soul. Maybe seeing the deaths truly changed me, for I have become immeasurably evil, so evil that I would try to inflict my suffering onto another to free myself. I am despicable. And now that the neighborhood’s inhabitants have left, I am even more lonely than I was before. Lina Kim, 11Weston, FL Stars By Lina Kim, 11 That was the last thing I saw before I faded into the darkness, the dust of those who have fallen. But then, how am I still in the world of those alive? My country has changed much since the war. My people are no longer enslaved. But at times, we are mistreated. There was an incident with a man named George Floyd nearly a year ago. I’d lived with these people for over a century, watching as our society changed. Everything is so advanced now. I had scoped out the woods for a perfect resting place. There, I would not be disturbed. Until the day I was. As I hovered, formless, above a fallen log, I saw a flash of light and heard a short click. Without thinking, I rushed towards it. “Wow, this is a perfect place for—” started a voice. It was a girl, holding what I had learned was called a smartphone. “What are you doing here?” I asked in my deepest, most threatening voice. She jumped in fright and whipped her head around. “W-what?! Who’s there?” she stuttered. “Leave,” I growled. She took off running in the other direction. I sighed. Finally, peace again. I decided to explore the woods. After several hours of aimless floating,
William Rubel
Writing Workshop #39: Ghosts (part 1)
An update from our thirty-ninth Writing Workshop A summary of the workshop held on Saturday May 1, plus some of the output published below In his second class in the spring 2021 series, William took us on a journey to the spirit world, looking at mysterious manifestations in fiction and popular culture, from Caspar the Ghost to the ghost of Hamlet’s father. We considered the different language used to describe ghosts and spirits, and the tricks used by writers and movie-makers to show us ghosts and spirits of people who aren’t really there. We saw excerpts of two versions of Hamlet, one in which his ghost father appears through a (somewhat traditional) mist, and anther more contemporary version where the ghost appears through the glass on an apartment balcony. We discussed some of the reasons fictional ghosts might appear, in particular (like Hamlet’s father), restless spirits who have unfinished business. The Challenge: Write a story where a spirit manifests itself in non-corporeal form (a mist, a vision through glass, a wind, a scent) and/or has unfinished business. The Participants: Julia, Leo, Sierra, Mia, Lina, Lena A, Lena DN, Margaret, Maddie, Jaya, Peri, Sage, Delight, Hanbei, Helen, Gia, Pranjoli, Reese, Rachael, Mahika, Jonathan, Angela, Anna, Audrey, Charlotte, Grace, Tilly, Peter. Peri Gordon, 11Sherman Oaks, CA Andrew’s Will Peri Gordon, 11 Samuel had made a pact with his wealthy brother, Andrew. When Andrew died, he would leave half his fortune to Samuel in his will. But when Andrew passed, no will of his could be found. It left Samuel tremendously angry. At the same time, he mourned the loss of his brother. With his mind toggling between the two emotions, Samuel felt as if he were in a cage of steel, the robust metal reinforced by layers of grief and fury. He skipped work, skipped sleeping, skipped eating. He just sat in silence. But it only took two days for him to receive the shock of his life. He was sitting rigidly, the only movement on his body coming from the tears that would race each other down the man’s face, made even faster by the incoming wind. The moment this last concept was absorbed into his brain, Samuel sat up straighter, his eyebrows raised. All doors and windows were closed; the air should not have been swirling as quickly as it was. The air was heavy, too; it billowed, bounced, and seemed to breathe. And then. . . it spoke. “I’m sure this will come as a shock to you, but I see no way to soften it. I have not been peacefully at rest for the past two days.” The voice was silky-smooth and deep. In fact, it sounded like a less self-assured Andrew. Samuel shuddered, wondering whether he had gone mad. He looked up, where the unexpected wind had formed and where the voice was coming from, and felt a warm, comforting sensation, as if he could sense Andrew’s body heat returning. Samuel knew this was ridiculous, as the hand of Andrew’s body had been cold. But after pinching himself, Samuel knew that this could not be a dream. “Andrew. What are you doing here? How can you be alive–” the moment he finished the word “alive,” Andrew spoke up again. “Of course I am not,” said his disembodied voice. “I am obviously dead.” Samuel protested, “But how can you be here?” The voice answered, “I am a voice and a mist. You might call me a ghost, or a spirit. And I have good reason to be here. An unfulfilled promise, specifically.” Samuel started to ask what that was, but then he remembered. “The pact. Andrew, why didn’t you create a will?” Andrew explained, “I died suddenly in the night. I hadn’t expected it or prepared for it. My brother, you know I’ve never been prepared. But now, I will provide you with what I always said I would. Half my fortune will go to you, and then I will be gone.” Delight Kim, 11Glendale, CA The Spirit of the Muffin Girl Delight Kim, 11 Muma always said, “No ghosts, Zeline. If you ever meet one, turn away and run.” before I went to sleep. And even though I knew the stories of ghosts were rubbish, it kept me awake. The soft rustling of the velvet curtains, the whispers outside my window and the small creaks in the old wooden stairs were always there. I always got a tense feeling that someone was in our house. The sounds frightening me, chilling my bones, holding my eyes awake. So I decided I would find the culprit. If there was one, anyway. Getting up at 1:37, known as the ghost’s minute, I crept down the hall to our praise room, the room where my family honored the dead. Amazingly, the candles were still lit and the bread and goodies that were from last week were mostly fresh. Then I noticed suspicious activity. There was no wind, but the smoke from the candles was curling and bending in an odd way, like hands molding tack putty. The bread was rolling around the table and I had to steady them a countless amount of times to keep them from falling. A munching and a “Mmmm,” came from behind me. I whirled around, grabbing a cross that Muma told me that would fend off unwanted spirits and I thrust it in front of me. There, a spirit, a girl no older or younger than me, was licking the dulce de leche frosting off a triple chocolate muffin. My eyes widened. She screamed and fell off the chair she was sitting on into a large bucket, but I didn’t. I was too frightened, anyway. The muffin flew in the air but was miraculously caught by some invisible force and led to an empty plate. “Who are you?” The spirit licked her lips. “What are you doing in my house?” She tried to get up but the bucket held still. “Y-your house?” I asked.
Writing Workshop #38: Sense of Place–Beyond Geography
An update from our thirty-eighth Writing Workshop A summary of the workshop held on Saturday April 17, plus some of the output published below In his first class in the spring 2021 series, William visited the idea of of Sense of Space, taking us beyond geography to think about the impact of place on characters in our stories, and consider the sense of place through the emotions of our characters. Quoting Colin Thubron, William urged the class to take their characters with them in their heads and think about the impact of place on characters as individuals: for one, the jungle might be beautiful and liberating; for another, humid and claustrophobic; for another terrifying and synonymous with death. It’s all about perception. We looked at images through different lenses: how might the twisting branches of the trees in the forest look different to Hansel and Gretel when they think they are safe with their breadcrumb trail to lead them out again, and when they realise that night is coming and it is gone? What is the impact of memory on the sense one has of a place? What you see or don’t see, feel or don’t feel, might depend on what has happened there before. The Challenge: Write a short piece that conveys a strong sense of place as it is perceived through the senses and emotions of your character. The Participants: Chelsea, Hanbei, Gia, Maddie, Lena A, Lena, Delight, Julia, Leo, Mahika, Margaret, Peri, Nova, Lina, Pranjoli, Rachael, Wesley, Reese, Helen, Sage, Sierra, Angela, Anna, Madeline, Grace, Iago, Jonathan, Charlotte, Peter, Tilly. Sierra E., 11Mountain View, CA The Dance of the Sea Sierra E., 11 Rays of orange evening sunlight flew down the coastline, taking a calm breeze and charming birdcalls along. A strip of street, shimmering into the sunset glow, separated the sea from general humanity; vehicles in a rainbow of colors rushed down it, in a hurry to return home to their families. A thick, tall layer of green grass ran down the roadside, hiding the ocean from drivers’ view. The sky above was painted a rich, vivid and soothing violet, dotted with heaps of fluffy pastel clouds, as the sea danced. The water rose into frothy white crests, then fell, crashing to the shore, though it scared not a soul, dancing like it did each night, dancing as if it would never stop. The scent of salty sea air became intertwined with the sugary smell of ice cream in a thousand flavors, drifting from a renowned café back on regular land. The tide disappeared again, creating a pathway for the last few humans left on the beach to dissipate. And dissipate they did, laughing, and sprinting up the golden sand dunes that glimmered in the twilight, until the seaside paradise was empty except for its natural inhabitants. The ocean came in again, drenching forgotten shells that had been collected by small children, and breadcrumbs that hadn’t been swept up; the water threw them into the sea, giving the lost items a fresh start among the crabs with their mighty pincers and the twisting, winding stalks of forest-green seaweed. The sky was darkening at a rapid pace; within an hour it would be pitch black, and the sparkling, silver stars would begin to appear. But before then, in the last moments of dusk, the world was tranquil and silent, except for the dance and crash of the waves. Peri Gordon, 11Sherman Oaks, CA Last Night Peri Gordon, 11 The seat of my wool couch scratched my legs fiercely. The whir of the breeze through the window echoed in my mind, calling for vengeance. I wrinkled my nose at the odor of fish coming from the disorderly place I called my kitchen and scowled at the far-too-large heap of clothing still to wash. I tried not to recall the violence of last night; I tried to instead remember the gentle feeling of the chair I had been in right before and the melodious song that I had been humming thoughtfully. But the incessant buzzing of the pests outside–and most likely inside–and the pleading mews of the kitten I was supposed to take care of drowned out any positivity left, and I kept thinking about the violence of last night. It took me five minutes to summon the energy to get up off of my uncomfortable furniture. I trudged into my bedroom, looking at the stained carpet. My friend, Rita, was there; I hadn’t told her what had happened. She was whistling; I was sure my dry lips would protest if I tried to do the same thing. Rita said, “You like my hair?” My guess was it was styled in a fancy way or something, but I could only focus on how the colors of her clothes–orange and green–clashed so horribly. I mumbled, “Sure,” while still gazing at the floor, still thinking about the violence of last night. I couldn’t bear to be in a room with someone so vigorously optimistic, so I returned to the awful, itchy, expensive, not-worth-the-money-I-payed-for-it couch. And thought about the violence of last night. Lina Kim, 11Weston, FL The Dark Hospital Lina Kim, 11 I glanced around the hospital cautiously and shuddered. The walls were pure white, but I felt as if they were stained with the blood of those who never survived. The doors were clean, the windows shining. It was all a trick. A trap. I clutched my father’s hand. I rarely did, but the hospital gave me flashbacks of my dead mother. I needed comfort. The stench of a thousand disinfectants hit me. I gagged. Dad put his arms around me. We turned a corner and continued walking down the hall. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of people had died in this hospital over the years. It scared me that my grandmother might be next. We found the section of the hospital where grandmother was. The man at the desk searched through the names. “Jiwoo Lee, Jiwoo Lee,” the man
