An update from our nineteenth Weekly Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop, plus some of the output published below Our conversation on August 7 was joined by young writers from across the US, as well as in Canada, the UK, and France. This week, our topic was using archival photographs to inspire our writing. After looking at a few archival photographs, we then began to discuss the ways in which we could use an archival photograph. Do we create a fictional story around the photograph? If we know the true story around the photo, do we recount that tale? Do we use the photograph as a connection between real life and a story? For an example of how we can utilize photos, we read an excerpt from Ransom Riggs’ book Hollow City, which is the second novel in his series Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children. Riggs incorporates archival photographs into his books, using them as footage of the peculiar things that occur. We also read an excerpt from a short story published in Stone Soup in the May/June issue in 2002: “Kisses from Cecile” by Marie Agnello. Agnello uses letters that were sent to her great-grandmother by a French penpal to tell a story. After this, we set to writing our own stories inspired by archival photos. Via Screen Share on Zoom, we were provided with several photos to use, though many participants used archival photos of their own family, instead. Keep reading to experience some of the powerful writing we were given a glimpse of in this session. The Writing Challenge: Use an archival photograph to inspire a story. The Participants: Lucy, Maddie, Shreya, Peri, Ever, Suman, Liam, Tilly, Madeline, Kanav, Simran, Abi, Charlotte, Aditi, Vishnu, Nami, Janani, and more… The Two Men Araliya, 11 Araliya, 11Sandy Hook, CT Two young men were walking on the road They both were carrying large bags In one was clothing for both of them But in the other bag was something unexpected The bag had a foul odor and odd shape No one knew what was in it. People supposed it was an old guitar But little did they know that it was a dead body Haunted Help Peri Gordon, 10 I stand outside the house the way I do every day when I take a walk. I think it’s just cruel that people like me have to live in tents, homeless, while a house stands uninhabited. They say it’s haunted, that no one in their right mind would go in there. Peri Gordon, 10Sherman Oaks, CA Suddenly, I’m compelled to go in. I know better, but I ignore that. I guess I’m not in my right mind, I think. I walk to the door. It’s locked. I climb in through the window. And oh my goodness, I’m inside a house! A house! I’ve only been in a house once, for the town festival the mayor holds every decade. And no one even talked to me. I limp around, taking in the big windows, the comfortable parlor, the kitchen. Then I come to the stairs. I have never seen stairs before. Not indoors, anyway. The festival was restricted to one room; I would’ve found the stairs then if I could. But the mayor wouldn’t want poor people on his staircase, would he? It’s a marvel he invites us at all. I sigh and slowly make my way up the stairs, holding on tight to the banister. At the top, I relax my fingers and let go, then drift around upstairs. Everyone was wrong; there are no ghosts here. None at all, though if anyone found me they’d be convinced I was one. I must be pretty creepy, roaming around here, touching the sturdy wood of the walls, playing with the lights, even taking a bath. But now I know: The rumors are false. This is a perfectly normal home. It must have been abandoned long ago and never bought, never sold . . . and I doubt anyone with money plans to inhabit this “haunted” house anytime soon . . . it’s far too big for just two people, but, gazing at the town, I wonder if maybe, just maybe, it would be just big enough to be a home for the homeless . . . I run back to my tent and tell Mother we’re moving in. Madeline Kline, 12Potomac, MD (Somewhat) Empty Alley Madeline Kline, 12 The alley was deserted when the man came with a camera to snap a picture. The flash startled everything there scaring the rodents back into their holes, and causing the birds to flutter up into the air. All the unseen life truly deserted the alley until the scent of food drew them back. Dark as shadow and unseen by the man and the flash, the creatures inhabit the alley once again. Lucy Rados, 13Buffalo, NY Untitled Lucy Rados, 13 He clutched his child close. The imposing background provided a drastic change in landscape from what the father and son were used to. Elliot had been raised here at Manchester by the Sea in his family’s mansion, but as soon as he could, he had left for the country, where his heart and mind could roam free. Soon, however, his father had called him back to the mansion, for his mother had been taken ill. Elliot had gone ahead, leaving his young son with his wife in the country. Tragedy struck not too soon after Elliot’s arrival: his mother passed away. Then, a few weeks after the funeral, his father died as well from pneumonia. Now, he, as the oldest child, was the heir to his mansion. His family was sent for, and they moved from their simplistic life to one of glamour. He hadn’t wanted to subject his family to this closed life where one seemed to be trapped with no escape, but it was his duty to his parents’ memories, and so he prepared for everything to change. “Welcome,” he
William Rubel
Weekly Writing Workshop #18, Friday July 31: Writing About Food
An update from our eighteenth 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 July 31 was joined by writers from across the US, and in Canada, as well. Our topic was “writing about food,” and using food to display character traits in our writing. We started our session with an excerpt from Winnie the Pooh, and an excerpt from Alice in Wonderland. In both of those, we discussed how the food mentioned in the excerpt gave us a better sense of what the character in the scene was like. Next, we moved on to an excerpt from Voyage of the Dawn Treader (the fifth book in the Narnia series), where magical elements were combined with the presence of a dinner in order to give us, the readers, a better sense of the setting and the uncanny mix of strange (the place and the creatures) and ordinary (the food and the mealtime). Our fourth excerpt was from Heidi, which is about a girl who lives in the Alps with her grandparents, and is taken away to the city to live with a wealthy family where she is very unhappy. In Heidi, we examined the chapter in which Heidi is sent back to the mountains to be reunited with her grandparents, and the way that food is woven through it to contrast rich and poor, city and country–Heidis brings her grandmother soft white rolls in contrast to her usual hard dark bread–and the joy of tasting and smelling home (for Heidi, goat milk). Finally, we looked at an excerpt from the diary of Samuel Pepys, in which Pepys describes the Great Fire of London, and how he and his friend decided to save some cheeses and wine; and also at an excerpt from writing by Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher, where she uses food to tell a family story, and reflect on her childhood. After this, we set to writing our own piece using food as a core component of the narrative. Read on to experience some of the powerful writing we were given a glimpse of in our workshop! The Writing Challenge: Write a story where food plays a key role. The Participants: Shreya, Simran, Janani, Ever, Liam, Heather, Peri, Madeline, Vishnu, Suman, Aditi, James, Charlotte, Maddie, Shel, Ma’ayan, Sasha, Lena, Kanav, Hera, and more… Peri Gordon, 10Sherman Oaks, CA The Unfair Meal Peri Gordon, 10 When Chester reported to dinner, he found Ana already eating with their host, Mrs. Ray, and not thinking twice about it. When Mrs. Ray spotted him, she seemed to give him a slight scowl. She served him noticeably smaller portions than Ana was getting, and his soup was cold. Chester knew that his sister was always the favored guest over him, being more charismatic than he was and creating no sort of trouble for the host, but Mrs. Ray was taking this too far. He couldn’t wait to get back to his parents, who loved both their children and gave them equal and equally good portions of food. Liam Hancock, 12Danville, CA The Highlander and the Hunt Liam Hancock, 12 “I’m sorry.” His whisper comes from immediately behind me yet from a thousand miles away. As far as I’m concerned, all there is in the world are these caves, these spirits, and my leather boots that hike up to my knees. Worn, leather boots. The kind that I’ve casually slipped into since I could first walk and lift them from the ground and into the air and shoot an arrow and bring home a fattened ox so that we could finally have dinner after a long dust bowl in the summer. I feel his hand on my shoulder. I’ve never before noticed how strong, how heavy his hands are when they’re holding something other than a spear or a hide. Because when they’re holding my two shoulders, it’s easy to forget where he came from. It’s much too easy. To forget he’s a Highlander, and that Highlanders hurt and they slaughter and they throw rocks into our sticks until they feel satisfied with the kill count for the day. Hesitantly, I look up to him. He’s turned away from the cliffside, from the caves. Behind his own build, there’s the Seamstress, gilded with ancient chiseled boulders and carved by time. Never mind what I’ve thought before. Now, the world is back with me. I can’t hold it in my fingers or watch it slip away with the cruel whisper of mountain air. I’m alive. He’s alive. We’re both alive. It’s all I’ve ever needed. The two of us, best friends forever, up on the cliffside hunting for the oxen and hawk that our starving families need. “It’s okay,” I whisper back, afraid that a raised voice will shatter this valley after all it’s years of work. “Let’s move on.” I press on forward, keeping my eyes drawn to the loose trail we’ve treaded since the fall brought us hunger. Gripping hunger. Even as a midlander, I was left grasping for something, anything that could fit into my throat. And even as a highlander, he knew that the cities couldn’t provide for him anymore. For us. “The oxen will probably be up on the Splat,” he warns, pointing in the general direction of the cliff’s edge. “I’ve heard the grass is growing rather fruitfully up there this season.” I nod silently and slice cleanly through a thicket of oasis brush. I’ve never much liked the Splat, especially for hunting, but it’s a necessary evil if we have a hankering for oxen. They can’t get enough of the place. As we wade through Forgery Pond, a frigid little pocket of
Weekly Writing Workshop #17, Friday July 24: Writing About Music
An update from our seventeenth 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 session on July 24 included young writers from across the US, from France, and the UK, and was the third one that was led by one of our participants–this time, former contributor and current Stone Soup intern Anya Geist. It was a thought provoking and inspirational presentation: thank you, Anya, for a really great job! Anya guided us through a number of different musical styles, asking us to think about how the music made us feel, what mood it expressed, and what colors it conjured up for us. We moved from Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, via Dave Brubeck’s Take Five, Sousa’s classic marching band tune Washington Post, and a Puccini aria (O Mio Babbino Caro), through to Helpless from Miranda’s musical Hamilton, gathering people’s responses to each one as we went. We talked about the different colors (blue for classical, brown for jazz) and moods (from joy to yearning) each one evoked. We then moved on to consider the impact of different arrangements–from symphony to soloist–and the varied feelings evoked by different instruments, whether brass, strings or wind. Finally, we were asked to consider the sensations conjured up by the setting the performance takes place in. Anya closed with a piece of writing from Matt Killeen’s Orphan Monster Spy, that demonstrates the powerful evocative language that music can bring to a passage: “. . . random drops of high notes, like falling spring rain across the minor bass chords. Raindrops that streak across the windowpane, barely making their presence felt, but ruining the day.” The Writing Challenge: Use any musical element–different instruments, arrangements, styles, and settings–to write about music. It could be about how music makes someone feel, or the story of someone involved in music, or anything else you think up. The Participants: Simran, Abi, Liam, Nami, Maddie, Hera, Shreya, Heather, Sofie, Aditi, Tilly, Vishnu, Gracie, Janani, Michele, Charlotte, Enni, Lisa, Suman, Ever, Scarlet, Madeline, Shreya, Kanav, Anya, and more… Read on to experience some of the powerful, evocative writing created in the workshop! Aditi Dinesh, 11Ottowa, Canada The Storm Aditi Dinesh, 11 Lynn took a deep breath. She sat up straight and started to play. Her fingers flowed over the keys like a stream on a bed of rocks. Her foot pressed down on the pedal. The sharp notes dulled like they had been covered in cream. The richness was broken by the thunder. Dull at first then moving closer from the left. An incoming storm. The cries of children came out of the wood. Seeking shelter. Afraid of the lightning. Then it came. Crackling and booming, paired with the thunder. A gale was ripping through the keys. Then it was calm. The eye of the storm. As suddenly as it came, the calm was gone. The music turned violent. Louder. Louder. Louder. Lynn leaned back, her heart pounding. She looked out the window and saw a bright and sunny day. Liam Hancock, 12Danville, CA My Brother was the Bayou Liam Hancock, 12 “I want to listen to the man tonight,” I said nonchalantly, leaning back in my rocking chair. I glanced over to Mama, who seemed a world away. With needles, and thread, and table cloths strewn about tables. She sighed, her fingers artfully dancing around one another in a timeless ballet. Needle, thread, tablecloth. Tablecloth, needle, thread. “If Pops is in the mood,” she replied, her voice distant as the indigo sky spanned out about the swaying trees and warming bayou air. A small, wooden raft trundled by. “And it’s up to the man, Jackson, if he wants to play.” I shrugged, grabbing hold of our shambled roof and yanking myself to a stand, nodding in satisfaction as the rocking chair rolled back and slammed headlong into our small swamp cabin, sending the precarious boards shuddering in protest. I leapt down to the muddy banks, swatting away an assault of mosquitoes. “He plays when I want him to,” I pressed, the brown-greenish sheen of river water and soppy dirt seeping into my hunting boots. “And when I want to sleep, he stops.” I hesitated. “I think he likes me.” Mama took a pretty second to cast me a quizzical look. “That’s the most fine dandy and rediculous idea I’ve ever heard with these two ears.” She returned back to her knitting. “Pops should be nearby, maybe on Elkdead Island. Why don’t you take the skiff over?” I grinned. “I knew you’d come around!” I cried, leaping into our humble two-seater skiff and unknotting the rope in a supersonic leap. Pops’ favorite hunting stop was Elkdead Island, and on a good day, he’d return back to the cabin with a hunk of deer meat and some camouflage paint smudged over his nose that Mama would fuss over for the entirety of dinner meal until he washed up. It wouldn’t take much too long to find him in the shallow sawgrass. The island didn’t offer much in the way of tree cover, naturally making the job of gator hunting much cleaner than on the other side of the river. I was out onto the river with a good shove of the arms and started on my way. Oars in, oars out. Oars in, oars out. And hope none of the gators are about. Elkdead Island was a fifteen minute skiff ride across the winding river. Weaving like Mama’s fingers through the bayou, easing along with everywhere to go but nowhere to be. Sometimes I’d hear the man marching through the forestry beside me, and I’d ask him to play, and he’d stop and he’d duck back into the trees before I could get a
