writing activity

An update from our thirty-seventh Writing Workshop A summary of the workshop held on Saturday March 20, plus some of the output published below This week Stone Soup Contributor Madeline Kline, 13, led a workshop on antiheroes in which she taught us that antiheroes are captivating because of the relatability of their flaws. To begin the workshop, we discussed the qualities that distinguish an antihero from a hero, such as honesty vs. dishonesty, bravery vs. cowardice, and integrity vs. selfishness. We learned that the difference between an antihero and an antagonist is that an antihero is a flawed protagonist with good intentions, whereas an antagonist is a character who stands in the way of the protagonist, often using the worst qualities of the antihero against them. We also learned about various categorizations and examples of antiheroes, such as antiheroes who become heroes (Phil Conners from the movie Groundhog Day), antiheroes who become villains (Coriolanus Snow from the prequel novel The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes), tragic heroes (Othello), and comic heroes (Greg from Diary of a Wimpy Kid). When Madeline finished her lecture, the students set to work on creating some of the inspired writing you can find below. The Challenge: Create a character who is one of the types (comic, tragic, becomes a hero, becomes a villain) of antiheroes we discussed. The character can also be an antagonist. The Participants: Ismini, Hera, Rachael, Leo, Olivia Z, Reese, Sophia, Lindsay, Pranjoli, Anya, Eve, Sadie, Peri, Helen, Julia, Lucy R, Sierra, Liam, Anna, Sage, Simran, Lina, Elbert, Madeline S, Margaret, Alice, EMi, Yasmine, Olivia S, Emma B, Jonathan, Charlotte K, Ava, Samantha, Nami, Kaidyn, Angela, Michele, Charlotte, Enni, Noa, Dora, Nova, and Grace Z. Peri Gordon, 11Sherman Oaks, CA Wicked Moods Peri Gordon, 11 “You already got your prize, Miss Aler.” “Did not, I put it back because…the bag was stained,” I lie. “Come on, I need another one.” The lady handing out the betting prizes gives me a suspicious glance but hands me the sack of gold anyway. “I didn’t see you put it back, Samantha,” she says warily. I roll my eyes at her, snatch the bag, and say, “Thanks for doing your job.” When I was born into the kingdom of Darlaway, I didn’t take long to start talking, and my first word was, “fight.” I fight to get what I want every day, and if I have to fib a bit in the process, so much the better. If everyone else is weak because they don’t know how to fight back, I hope, for their sake, that they get that straightened out. I hide my second load of gold with the first one in my little stash, which is hidden in a bush outside my house. The bush, a rich green color that matches Darlaway’s flag, is thick enough to hide the hoard so it won’t be found by a nosy parent. Soon, though, I hope to need a bigger bush. Inside, my sister is bawling, as usual. I want to cover my ears, tell her what a bother she is, and go to my room, but then Mom will know I’m in one of my “wicked moods,” as she calls them. I tried to explain to her once that sometimes I feel like fighting and will take it out on just about anyone. She told me to control my hostility. Mom and I are very different. Well, I get punished when I’m in a “wicked mood.” That’s why I bend down and stroke my sister’s soft hair. There’s a part of me that loves my sister and wants to keep her safe, and there’s another part of me that wants to teach my sister to be like me (which won’t exactly keep her safe), and there’s one last part of me that hates the little crybaby. I can feel all three at the same time, but for all Mom knows, I can only feel one at a time, so I make her think it was the first. I think it worked—Mom gives me a proud grin, and even my sister’s tears stop for a second. Enni Harlan, 14Los Angeles, CA The Finish Line Enni Harlan, 14 Dad always parked his car way on the other side of the street, past the black asphalt and closer to the row of violet flowers that dotted a neighbor’s fence—an unlucky neighbor, probably, to have only been able to snag a home right next to the busiest street in the neighborhood. The one that loops past that old bus stop stained with graffiti and under the bridge with the train Mom never lets me take. It’s unsafe, she always says. Too many people. Too many bad people. Did you know, there was a kid who went missing on Friday? Did you know that on Thursday there was a shooting across the street, right at Target? That Target? Yes, that Target. The one I bought glue from last Tuesday? Yes. Last Tuesday. That Target. It’s not safe enough, Aila. It’s not safe enough. Everything’s unsafe to my parents. I think it’s stupid. I wish they’d stop lecturing me about safety—what do they think I’m going to do, start talking to strangers? I take the bus now, anyway. It’s not like I have another choice. But there was a time where we didn’t take the bus. There was a time—okay, I’ll stop talking like I’ve been around since the ‘30s. This was six years ago. I was seven—or maybe six. I don’t remember at this point. My brother Max and I always raced to the car to see who’d get there first. He’d take one path, I’d take the other, and we’d meet up, panting, by the pot of purple flowers. Then, sometimes in the winter, the car window would be all fogged up; back then, I used to think fairies brought the dew overnight. And usually it’d clear up by noon. When I got to the car first, I’d squeak my