An update from our twenty-sixth Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop held on Saturday October 24, plus some of the output published below This week our founder William Rubel and Stone Soup contributor and Writing Workshop member Liam Hancock, 13, led a workshop designed to get everyone ready for Halloween–on horror writing. We talked about the differences between the merely scary and the truly horrifying, and discovered that our members are uncannily good at writing fiction that can keep us all up at night! Read on below for some chilling examples (and you would be well advised to read them on a sunny morning, not immediately before bed…). The Writing Challenge: Write a terrifying piece of horror fiction! The Participants: Nami, Charlotte, Madeline, Margaret, Anya, Emily, Lina, Samantha, Janani, Lucy, Tilly, Gia, Olivia, Jonathan, Enni, Juniper, Charlotte, Rithesh, Ma’ayan, Nova, Liam, Lena, Maddie, Tegan, Ava, Hera, Lena, Nico, Peri, Elbert Ava Angeles, 12Chicago, IL The Dream Ava Angeles, 12 It started out as a regular day. The sun was shining and a cool breeze was blowing. It was a perfect day for a spring festival. But this would not last. I remember—for some reason—that there were tables, round tables, with tablecloths that draped over their sides, standing there in the green grass. For another unknown reason, there were also white plates, napkins, and glasses set upon the snow-white tablecloth. It was like a restaurant, but outdoors. As we set up the last of the chairs, people began to arrive. They found their seats. It was a picture-perfect setting. I remember going into the building. It had a canopy in front, with a single step leading up to the door. Inside this particular building, there were mats—long, colorful tumbling mats—lining the walls and the floor. I played with the rest of the children on these mats, hopping and jumping, knowing that the mats were there to cushion our fall. But we didn’t get to play on them for very long. Suddenly, clouds rolled in, and it began to rain lightly. I watched the adults take the tables and chairs into the building, while sitting on the single step below the door. Some people began to leave, seeing that the festival was cancelled. I remained on the step, watching the rain gather into puddles around the canopy. Then, I suddenly heard crying. It wasn’t a baby crying, but a child, desperately crying, as if crying was its last hope. I turned my head to the right, where the sound was coming from, and felt shivers come over me. There—in front of another building with many gigantic steps—was a younger version of myself. Its face was blurred and distorted, and I could not tell whether it was where the crying sound was coming from. I saw its clothes clearly—it was wearing a gold coat that my mother had bought for me, as well as a light blue pair of pants. Its hair was in ponytails—my usual childhood hairstyle, with blue bows at the roots. It looked normal—like me—but something was wrong. As I stared at it, frozen, terror struck me. The uncanny feeling of staring at your own, younger self, but knowing that it wasn’t your own, younger self washed over me like a wave. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it, and my mouth opened to form three words—“Who—are you?” My horrified whisper must have been heard, because the creature shook its head slowly. As I realized that I wasn’t going to get an answer, feeling came into my legs, and I ran, ran away from the mysterious, uncanny creature that I thought I once was. The mats inside the building were gone, replaced by a wide marble stairway that I dashed down, not feeling the tips of my toes touching the marble, just running, running, running— I woke up, staring at the plaster ceiling. It was just a dream, I reassured myself, just a dream… As I lifted myself up from the bed, I came face-to-face with that same creature from my dream, standing just a few inches away from the side. As I froze with petrified horror, the creature’s mouth broke into a maniacal grin, and it said, in a high-pitched, chilling voice, “Who are you?” The House Lena D., 12 I was going on a hike in the forest by myself. The skies darkened. Rain clouds appeared. Wild rain poured down. I had to turn back, but it was too dark. I wasn’t afraid. How could I be afraid? The dark deep forest. Nothing scary. Just dirt and trees. Then I saw it. There it was. A house. I walked towards it. I knocked on the door. But nobody answered. I waited and waited. Nothing. I had to find shelter. Fast. I shivered. It was so cold. I opened the door. CRRRREAAKKKK! I entered, my hands shaking wildly. The floorboards moved. “Huh?” I gasped. Rats skittered across the floor. “Whew, those were just rats, of course, this is not haunted,” I said, nervously. I stepped on the stairs. CREAK! CREAK! CREAK! I opened a door. It was a bedroom. It looked like it belonged to a girl from long ago. There was a broken bed. It had stuffed animals on it and a pillow that was ripped. One of the stuffed animals looked right at me. I looked away. How odd, I thought. It’s probably not looking at me. Stuffed animals don’t move anyway. I heard some walking. I turned around. The stuffed animal fell off the bed. That’s weird, I thought. It was in the middle of the bed, not hanging off. How could it fall off? I looked away again. The stuffed animal moved towards me on the floor. It smiled at me. Not a happy smile, a scary one. I shrieked. I grabbed my flashlight to defend myself from it. “Back off!” I shouted at it. The stuffed animal’s thread came off. Stuffing was spilling all over. Yet, it was still walking. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” I
writing workshop
Writing Workshop #25: Nature Writing
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
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
