An update from our twenty-fifth Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop held on Saturday October 17, plus some of the output published below This week’s class focused on writing about nature, thinking about landscape, plants, animals, weather, and all the elements of lyrical writing that go into bringing the natural world alive on the page and in the minds of our readers. The Writing Challenge: Write a piece of nature writing, delving deep into an animal, a landscape or other piece of nature. The Participants: Anya, Peri, Maddie, Ava, Nami, Nova, Tegan, Ma’ayan, Lena, Georgia, Gia, Rithesh, Lena, Emma, Lucy, Madeline, Lucy, James, Olivia, Hera, Liam, Charlotte, Lina, Margaret, Janani, Enni, Samantha, Tilly, Simran, Angela, Madeline, Jonathan, Charlotte, Sophia, Elbert. Lena Aloise, 11Harvard, MA The Plum Tree Lena Aloise, 11 He was happiest early in the daytime, when the sky was painted over crimson and violet, when the crisp breeze flushed his cheeks a rosy red, when the birds sang their soft melody, whimsically conversing. Nowadays, there was nothing that brought him more pleasure than such a beautiful silence and he was content to be alone, for the most part. Human company depressed him. There was a plum tree up on the hill, surveying her lower domain with a watchful, protective eye. She sat on her throne of grasses, boughs reaching towards an infinite expanse of sky, bearing leaves of olive green and sagging under the weight of her indigo fruits. She bore the look of not a queen, but a mother, like the ones he had only read about in story books. He could not help feeling a twinge of jealousy, looking upon the spherical children that she loved so dearly. Why could not someone hold him with such tenderness? It brought him such anger that one day, he walked up to the tree with his hatchet, planning to end it’s happiness. The tree sat there, calmly, waiting for the worst. He threw his blade to the ground and sunk to the ground, leaning up against her trunk, tears spilling from his eyes. Her branches touched his hair and the wind murmured words of consolation. From that day forth, the tree acted like the mother he had lost. He told it everything and she listened, in a way that only a mother could. She did not speak words, but was alive and growing. She cared about him and was a constant presence throughout the rest of his childhood. And when her fruits were picked at the turn of the season and when the boy was a young man, she lovingly bid them farewell. Because that was what mothers did. Ava Angeles, 12Chicago, IL The Brook Ava Angeles, 12 Flourishing bushes enveloped a small brook that babbled to itself as it ran along. It weaved between the protruding clumps of leaves, which sometimes broke free and ran along with it, tumbling over small pebbles and stones that had been lying there for decades. The bushes gave an occasional rustle now and then, and this was a sign that a small animal or insect was making its way through the thick branches entwined beneath the cover of leaves. It looked peaceful from the outside, but underneath the leaves of the bushes was another hurried, bustling world: earthworms burrowed through the earth, poking their light pink bodies up here and there; a small colony of ants were crawling up and down their anthill, scurrying, vanishing into the small hole at the top; and a beetle, sporting a glossy black shell, scampered along on its six legs in a quest to find food. Full Moon Lena D., 12 The wind blew wildly A full moon arose Across the path I run across the breeze Rain pours down Giant oceans of puddles. Crossing over the river. I growl. The sound of my friend calls me. I howl. She doesn’t stop. I ran towards her. The breeze blows wildly. A sudden tornado goes into the distance. Tree leaves drop. Thunder rumbles. I head to my friend. “I was so worried about you,” she says. “I’m sorry,” I told her. She nodded. “It’s fine, but don’t go running off again.” I crawl under the corner of the cave. I close my eyes. “Wake up,” says my friend. I open my eyes. “What’s wrong?” I ask her. “Nothing. The storm went away,” she says. I look up. It was true. It was gone. I ran outside. “We must find a home,” I told her. She nodded. “Yes.” Soon we would find a home. Someday we would find peace. Someday. Anya Geist, 14Worcester, MA Underneath the Tree Anya Geist, 14 The child glided through long waving grasses, grasses that flickered and danced like fire in the setting sun. A small breeze was pushing its way through the air, just a puff of breath that caused the small girl’s cheeks to grow the slightest bit rosy, and her soft blond curls to sway gently about her little face. On she walked, her sandaled feet making hardly any noise, her eyes casting their gaze out all around her at the large field which spread for miles, until it was abutted by a small house -her house- to the east, and the great, looming mountains to the west. There was no buzzing of bees, no chirping of birds, as she passed, for they had all fled this silent field, afraid of the power that the quiet bestowed upon the land. After a few minutes, the girl’s footsteps slowed, and then stopped. Stopped in the middle of the plain. She breathed in and out and looked at her surroundings. She had some upon a small oasis in the field -although perhaps oasis is not the right word, for the field was already a beautiful paradise. Here the grasses were clipped short; they were small and green and neat, like a carpet beneath the girl’s feet. In the middle of the oasis was a tree. It wasn’t terribly tall; and its branches
William Rubel
Writing Workshop #24: Personification
An update from our twenty-fourth Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop held on Saturday October 10, plus some of the output published below This week our founder William Rubel led a workshop on personification: writing that brings objects, places and things alive by ascribing human characteristics and emotions to them. We read some vivid examples and discussed some techniques writers use to apply personification to their work, from passages that depend fully on personification, to others where it is used sparingly to really highlight a particular point. The Writing Challenge: Write a paragraph, short story or poem rich in personification. The Participants: Nova, Rithesh, Charlotte, Georgia, Peri, Lucy, Simran, Liam, Maddie, Jonathan, Olivia, Tilly, Samantha, Janani, Madeline, Chloe, Ma’ayan, Ying, Juniper, Lina, Ava, Sophie, Enni, Elbert, Dhesh, Sophia, James, Lucy, Emma, Gia, Sophia, Georgia, Angela, Lena, Olivia, Anya, Abby, Hera, Becca. Araliya, 11Sandy Hook, CT The Sunset Araliya, 11 As the sun set on the old dilapidated house, the trees bowed up and down with the wind. The birds danced in the sky as the clouds angrily flew through the air. The crickets sang their song in the tall grass as it waited for the rain. Then it started to pour. The sky roared and lightning shot through the air like shooting stars. Soon a dark scary silhouette appeared in the sky and it approached me. “Are you the door master?” he asked with a deep rough voice. “Yes, are you the code keeper?” I asked. “Yes,” he replied. “Did the boss send you?” I asked. “Don’t you mean the King?” he said . . . The White Pillow Just like a pillow or cushion, it was soft and stuffed, but inside it was a stopwatch. That stopwatch had a button and when pressed the stopwatch would turn into a sword. A sword so sharp that it could cut through the world’s strongest metal. A sword so sharp that if you drop a single hair on the blade, it could slice it in half. That sword was once yielded by the most powerful elf soldier in Xroga, Lily Shasatra. Mother only said to use it in case of an emergency and right now was a big emergency. Anya Geist, 14Worcester, MA A Delicate Day Anya Geist, 14 The air was very delicate that day; it seemed to hover in the sky, perfectly still, as if afraid that the slightest movement, the slightest sound would shatter it, sending it down to the ground in shards of glass. And the air was cold and still, frosty and frozen, holding its breath until some unknown future day came. The trees all around were bare and frail. Their branches stuck into the air like the decrepit fingers of a lady about to die–they were thin and small against the blank, white sky overhead. And on the ground there was snow, just a few precious inches of snow, that blanketed the impoverished, cracked dirt beneath, that covered scattered cobblestone streets, and clung silently to the roofs of houses. It seemed as though there should be more snow to fall, more flakes to twirl peacefully and gracefully to the ground, but there was nothing. The air was still. There was a house a little ways from a small village–just a few dilapidated buildings covered in that drab layer of snow which seemed to be bleakly grey although it was in fact white–that was atop a small knoll. The house did not perch nor did it stand on this hill; it was not in a condition to do either, as its walls were crooked, the windows smashed, and the door slightly ajar. A man walked up to the house, his footsteps making near to no sound on the snow, and he stared at it, exhaling a wintry puff of breath. He was of medium stature, wearing a black hat and wrapped up a black wool coat, a coat that writhed with the mysteries that the man himself did not know the answer to. He pulled his hands out from deep pockets–they were gloved–and stepped cautiously toward that open front door. As he approached the front stoop–which had caved in–he pulled his fingers out of the gloves and flexed them slowly. They were long and pale, but very much alive; although in some undefinable ways they were resemblant of those fragile branches nearby. Taking a deep breath, he crept over the wreckage of the stoop and stood before the front door. Then he held out his hand–it shook terribly–and pushed on the rotten wood. It swung rustily open, as though movement was a concept which was foreign to it. And he walked inside. This was a fast action; he wanted to get it over with, and soon it was. He was now in the front hall, if it could even be called that. If there had ever been any furniture there it was long gone now, replaced by–nothing. There was no mold, for it was too cold for that, and the house was just intact enough that it didn’t let too much of the weather in. Instead, an aching emptiness filled the space. Old faded wallpaper was peeling, exposing even older crooked walls. The man took off his hat as he looked around. He held out the hat; ghosts of a hatstand, of loving hands which would lift the hat away, flickered before his eyes. But they were only that: ghosts. A flash of pain contorted his face and eyes momentarily, and then he nestled the hat in the crook of his arm, shook his head, and kept moving. He moved through a warped doorway and there was a kitchen. In the windows there were no panes, only jagged bits of glass that glinted like tears which had thrown themselves to the sill. The room felt exposed, alien, like this, and now there were real tears blossoming in the man’s strong blue eyes. He brushed the tears away with his cold hands, and looked around. A table
Writing Workshop #23: Objects and Stories
An update from our twenty-third Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop held on Saturday October 3, plus some of the output published below This week, Stone Soup team member Jane Levi led a discussion about objects and their important role in building stories. We talked about useful, functional objects that might carry the action forward (referring to Chekhov’s famous comment that if you put a gun on the wall in the first scene, someone needs to fire it in the second) and symbolic objects that add additional layers of meaning for the reader which goes beyond their basic function as props. Starting with John Keats’ Ode on a Grecian Urn, where his detailed description of an ancient Greek vase becomes an opportunity for the poet to muse on time, beauty and truth, we discussed tokens from the Foundling Hospital as examples of simple things weighted with emotional significance that have inspired storytellers from Jacqueline Wilson to Charles Dickens. We moved on to think about writers like Philip Pullman and J.K. Rowling who have invented new objects or transformed the characteristics of existing ones (e.g. the alethiometer and the Mirror of Erised) to add interest and additional layers of meaning to their work, emphasising how helpful research can be. Sometimes, even a close look at the definition of words in a major source like the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) can uncover new possibilities in objects we think we already know. Finally, after a quick look at a real object (a police box) transformed into a fantastical one which almost becomes a character in its own right (Dr Who’s TARDIS), we moved into our half an hour of writing. This week, James, Madeline, Gia, Liam, Georgia, Ma’ayan and Nova read their work to the group for feedback from William and Jane. With stories involving no fewer than three different creepy dolls (!), we enjoyed some dramatic readings and a few moments of real horror, as well as some strong, evocative writing that really made us see, smell, feel and hear a range of meaningful objects from pencils to phone booths, and blankets to bracelets. Thank you everyone for another great class, and read on below to sample some of the great work produced during our workshop. The Writing Challenge: Write about an object in great detail. Make your readers able to see, hear, touch, smell it! You may choose to describe a real object, transform an existing object into a different version of itself, or invent a completely new one. The Participants: Nova, Rithesh, Katie, Charlotte, Georgia, Peri, Lucy, Simran, Scarlet, Liam, Maddie, Jonathan, Olivia, Tilly, Samantha, Janani, Helen, Madeline, Ella, Chloe, Ma’ayan, Keyang, Dana, Charlotte, Cassandra, Ava, Jayden, Maggie, Sophie, Enni, Juniper, Sierra, Elbert, Hera, Nami, Dhesh, Sophia, James, Ever, Emma, Gia, Sophia, Eden, Georgia. Lena Aloise, 11Harvard, MA The Pearl Earring Lena Aloise, 11 The house was empty, beds stripped of their linens, closet shelves bare. But in the midst of this desolate place, there was a pair of pearl earrings sitting on the windowsill. Mere pinpricks against a large expanse of rotting wood. It was very easy to miss them, if you were not looking carefully. But there they were, a fine layer of dust coating the perfect white orbs. Smooth to the touch, solid in one’s palm. A glistening surface mirrored its surroundings. He imagined a woman, dressed in her most elegant gown, putting the pearls through her ears, holding a hand mirror up to her face with the utmost satisfaction. Taking the arm of her husband and dancing, twirling, skirts billowing around her narrow frame. What had happened to the girl who had once worn something so beautiful? He shoved them deep into his jacket pocket and headed for home, boots making deep marks amongst the thick layer of white snow. The Bell Lena D., 12 It rings for a long time It dings The sound of it Makes me feel happy The essence made out of metal Touches my heart with joy Even if I am lonely It will bring cheer to the air I loved that sound Ever since I can remember I can feel its power Within the joy I sigh in happiness Forever I say that it is Not like any bell I know It’s ding Is like a great joy alarm Fire in my heart Like a burst of ember Scarly missing me Darkness collides But no I say This is not the great joy That I see everyday No It is not The great joy that I see Everyday I think deep Thoughts of the world And the darkness Is now gone From here Forever Peri Gordon, 11Sherman Oaks, CA The Chandelier Peri Gordon, 11 Nothing has been the same since I found a mysterious chandelier hanging above the spot where my regular lamp should be. It was swinging as if placed there recently, with stars, stripes, and spirals engraved into the sterling silver. Stranger still, all of the small golden flames in the little silver candle holder were all connected to a center flame, blazing blue, with sparks flying everywhere. Then I remembered my colleague was scheduled to come over. I attempted to extinguish the candles with water, which seemed to be the source of the trouble, but new flames would appear, seeming to burst out of the engravings. My dining room was a mess, with water on the floor and the chandelier more dangerous than ever. It occurred to me that the fire was not spreading or burning me or acting like fire at all. Maybe, I thought, it’s not that dangerous? Well, it was dangerous. My colleague arrived. When I didn’t let her in, she started pounding on the door, demanding I tell her what was going on. That’s when the chandelier started moving through the dining room, through the hall, and—this couldn’t be real—moving right through the door. I felt the responsibility to follow, so, even though I was scared to death, I did.
