Richmond Young Writers

Summer Sessions 2012!

2012-02-13T11:30:00.000-08:00

Welcome to another exciting summer with Richmond Young Writers!

Session 1: June 18-22

10 am- 1pm, FICTION with Bird Cox, ages 11-13

2 - 5 pm, CREATIVE WRITING SAMPLER with Valley Haggard, ages 8-10 FULL!

Session 2: June 25-29

10 am- 1 pm, ZOMBIES & ALIENS vs. WEREWOLVES & VAMPIRES with Julie Geen,
ages 11-13

2-5 pm, CREATIVE NONFICTION with Valley Haggard, ages 14-17

Session 3: July 9-13

10 am- 1 pm, SCREENWRITING with Bird Cox, ages 14-17

2-5 pm, POETRY & PROSE with Valley Haggard, ages 11-13

Session 4: July 16-20

10 am- 1 pm, FICTION with Bird Cox, ages 14-17

2-5 pm, CREATIVE WRITING SAMPLER with Valley Haggard, ages 11-13

Session 5: July 23-27

10 am-1 pm, CREATIVE WRITING SAMPLER with Bird Cox, ages 11-13

2-5 pm, MAGICAL CREATURES with Julie Geen, ages 8-10 FULL!

*Scroll down for additional information about each workshop and guest writer!*

THE WRITING WEEK: Each week, young writers will explore the craft and fun of creative writing through a variety of imagination-stimulating prompts, journaling, brainstorming, people-watching and more. On Wednesdays, a professional writer will guest teach a special 2.5-hour workshop.

PUBLICATION & READING! Each session will culminate in both a blog with samples of each student's writing and a reading of works-in-progress at the Byrd Theatre on Friday afternoons from 4:30-5pm. All students who have participated in that week's workshop are invited and encouraged to participate. Friends and family are encouraged to attend!

PLEASE BRING: Please bring a water bottle and a journal. Pens, pencils, spare journals and paper and a light snack will be provided during each session of camp. If your child gets extra hungry, please pack an extra snack!

LOCATION: Camp will be held in the upstairs art gallery of Chop Suey Books, located at 2913 West Cary Street in Carytown, directly across the street from the Byrd Theatre. Get directions to Chop Suey!

REGISTRATION PART ONE: Please fill out the online student registration form on the top right of the screen.

REGISTRATION PART TWO--PAYMENT: Each session of camp is $150. Payments may be made online through Paypal or by sending a check to Richmond Young Writers/ 1202 Hillside Avenue/ Richmond, VA 23229. All checks should be made out to Richmond Young Writers. Cancellation requests must be submitted two weeks prior to the class start date in order to receive a full refund. Cancellation requests received less than two weeks before the class start date will receive a credit towards a future class.

SCHOLARSHIPS: Full and partial scholarships are available on a first-come/first-served basis! Students who wish to be considered for scholarships should send a paragraph in their own words about why they like to write to richmondyoungwriters@gmail.com.

QUESTIONS? COMMENTS? Please email richmondyoungwriters@gmail.com, Valley Haggard at valleyhaggard@gmail.com or call Valley Haggard at 804-822-1680.

Session 1: June 18-22

2012-02-13T11:00:00.000-08:00

Session 1-A
10 am- 1 pm
Fiction with Bird Cox
Ages 11-13

Mind power. Visions. Creatures. Humanity. Fiction is not just writing down a string of words that convey a basic message; it's exploring the corners of your brain, having imaginary conversations, creating a world and every last detail in it. This session’s challenge will be plumbing the depths of our imaginations to create a long-form, chapter-based writing project-but don’t worry, we’ll stop to refuel with lots of fun short-form exercises along the way.

Guest Writer: Jaime Turko

Once Jaime Turko realized that her creative voice resonated most intensely through the vehicle of the written word, she traveled back through time to revisit past experiences and estranged characters to find the hidden magic that was locked away in ordinary nostalgia. Utilizing memories as the anchor for her fiction, she tells tales of bizarre coincidences and fateful circumstances by weaving together sharp-witted humor and undeniable sadness. She recently completed her first novel and is currently working on a collection of short stories. A VCU alumna, Jaime could joyously reflect for hours on her numerous careers and personal reinventions.

TO REGISTER, PLEASE FILL OUT THE STUDENT INFORMATION FORM

ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE SCREEN BEFORE VISITING PAYPAL!

Session 1-B-- FULL!
2 pm- 5 pm
Creative Writing Sampler with Valley Haggard
Ages 8-10

Writing is a project that requires deep creativity, and that's what we'll be accessing in this class through mindbending prose/poetry exercises, discussions, games and fiery short-form storytelling. We'll write together and alone, silently and out loud, at desks and in secret nooks and crannies. Want to channel the wild, brilliant writer within? The creative writing sampler is for you!

Guest Writer: Gigi Amateau

Gigi Amateau is the author of two young adult novels and the middle grade novel, Chancey of the Maury River. Her new book, Come August, Come Freedom, will be released from Candlewick Press in September 2012. www.gigiamateau.com

TO REGISTER, PLEASE FILL OUT THE STUDENT INFORMATION FORM

ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE SCREEN BEFORE VISITING PAYPAL!

Session 2: June 25-29

2012-02-13T10:30:00.000-08:00

Session 2-A
10 am- 1 pm
Zombies and Aliens vs. Werewolves and Vampires with Julie Geen
Ages 11-13

Or maybe you want to write about aliens, Dark Lords or the creatures from your nightmares! Whatever your choice, you will create your own tales from the dark side and write your way to safety. Lift off the lid of your subconscious and see what comes out of the corners of your mind.

Guest Writer: Phil Ford

Phil Ford is the co-editor and a contributing writer of Richmond Macabre : Nightmares from the River City. A writer, columnist, and musician, his work has appeared in ThroTTle Magazine, Richmond Magazine, and Carbon 14 Magazine. He also DJs the Friday Breakfast Blend 6-8am on WRIR 97.3, Richmond Independent Radio.

TO REGISTER, PLEASE FILL OUT THE STUDENT INFORMATION FORM

ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE SCREEN BEFORE VISITING PAYPAL!

Session 2-B
2 pm- 5 pm
Creative Nonfiction with Valley Haggard
Ages 14-17

Memoirs, rants, essays, and diary entries tend to revolve around life in the first person. Join me for a series of creative nonfiction prompts and exercises designed to get you - or keep you - on the write path. We'll discuss the idea that "truth is stranger than fiction" as well as the craft and art of the first person narrative. We'll explore how to access the right side of the brain, blast through writer's block and get all of our words, thoughts and ideas on the page. Possible side effects may include: inspiration, mixed metaphors and the urge to write with stronger and more intense frequency.

Guest Writer: Anne Soffee

Anne Thomas Soffee earned her MFA from Virginia Commonwealth University in 1995. She has published two books of memoir, Snake Hips: Belly Dancing and How I Found True Love (Chicago Review Press: 2002) and Nerd Girl Rocks Paradise City (Chicago Review Press: 2005). She currently writes a column and blog for Richmond Magazine and has a short story in Akashic Books’ forthcoming Richmond Noir anthology. The New York Times calls her “funny, trashy and smart,” which pretty much says all there is to say. http://www.annesoffee.com/

TO REGISTER, PLEASE FILL OUT THE STUDENT INFORMATION FORM

ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE SCREEN BEFORE VISITING PAYPAL!

Session 3: July 9-13

2012-02-13T09:30:00.000-08:00

Session 3-A
10 am- 1 pm
Screenwriting with Bird Cox
Ages 14-17

Got a good story that you can imagine coming to life on the screen? Learn the basics of screenwriting--format, act structure, dialogue and more--and get started on a screenplay that you can submit to competitions, act out with friends or film yourself! Participants will familiarize themselves with the most malleable of professional writing genres while developing a screenplay or teleplay concept.

Guest Writer: Joey Tran

Multi-award winning independent filmmaker, Joey Tran, champions story structure simplicity above all else. Self-taught, and, subsequently, self-disciplined over a decade of learning by failure–including live, on-stage improv comedy–he is a self-declared authority on what not to do.

TO REGISTER, PLEASE FILL OUT THE STUDENT INFORMATION FORM

ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE SCREEN BEFORE VISITING PAYPAL!

Session 3-B
2 pm- 5 pm
Poetry & Prose with Valley Haggard
Ages 11-13

In this cross-genre workshop we’ll experience the joy of writing both poetic prose and narrative poems. We’ll try our hand at everything from flash fiction to haiku; creative journal entries to ballads; freestyle poems to six word memoirs. We’ll explore what makes writing fun and unique to each of us, whether our final products are long, short or somewhere betwixt and between.

Guest Writer: Darren Morris

Darren Morris is a writer who thinks that poetry is one of the most important non-things one can do in life. He also currently babysits a non-desk at Style Weekly as the books editor. His poems have appeared in Best New Poets 2006 and 2008, the American Poetry Review, Tongue: A Journal of Writing and Art, The Southern Review and Blackbird

TO REGISTER, PLEASE FILL OUT THE STUDENT INFORMATION FORM
ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE SCREEN BEFORE VISITING PAYPAL!

Session 4: July 16-20

2012-02-13T09:00:00.000-08:00

Session 4-A

10 am- 1 pm
Fiction with Bird Cox
Ages 14-17

Mind power. Visions. Creatures. Humanity. Fiction is not just writing down a string of words that convey a basic message; it's exploring the corners of your brain, having imaginary conversations, creating a world and every last detail in it. This session’s challenge will be plumbing the depths of our imaginations to create a long-form, chapter-based writing project-but don’t worry, we’ll stop to refuel with lots of fun short-form exercises along the way.

Guest Writer: Kristen-Paige Madonia

Kristen-Paige Madonia is the author of Fingerprints of You, a young adult novel that will be published in August by Simon & Schuster. Her short fiction has appeared in various publications including Upstreet, New Orleans Review, American Fiction: Best Previously Unpublished Short Stories by Emerging Writers, and Sycamore Review, and she has received awards or fellowships from the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, the Vermont Studio Center, the Juniper Summer Writing Institute, Virginia Center for Creative Arts, Hedgebrook Writers’ Retreat, Millay Colony for the Arts, the Key West Literary Seminar, and the Studios of Key West. She was a finalist for the 2011 Virginia Commission for the Arts Fellowship in Fiction, and in 2010 she was awarded the Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival Prize. She currently lives in Charlottesville, Virginia where she teaches creative writing and is at work on her second novel. For more information, visit http://kristenpaigemadonia.com/ .

TO REGISTER, PLEASE FILL OUT THE STUDENT INFORMATION FORM

ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE SCREEN BEFORE VISITING PAYPAL!

Session 4-B
2 pm- 5 pm
Creative Writing Sampler with Valley Haggard
Ages 11-13

Writing is a project that requires deep creativity, and that's what we'll be accessing in this class through mindbending prose/poetry exercises, discussions, games and fiery short-form storytelling. We'll write together and alone, silently and out loud, at desks and in secret nooks and crannies. Want to channel the wild, brilliant writer within? The creative writing sampler is for you!

Guest Writer: Kristen-Paige Madonia

TO REGISTER, PLEASE FILL OUT THE STUDENT INFORMATION FORM

ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE SCREEN BEFORE VISITING PAYPAL!

Session 5: July 23-27

2012-02-13T08:30:00.000-08:00

Session 5-A
10 am- 1 pm
Creative Writing Sampler with Bird Cox
Ages 11-13

Writing is a project that requires deep creativity, and that's what we'll be accessing in this class through mindbending prose/poetry exercises, discussions, games and fiery short-form storytelling. We'll write together and alone, silently and out loud, at desks and in secret nooks and crannies. Want to channel the wild, brilliant writer within? The creative writing sampler is for you!

Guest Writer: Noah Scalin

Noah Scalin is an artist/designer who decided to make a skull every day for a year. He succeeded – and his project won a Webby Award, got him invited to be on the Martha Stewart Show, and become the subject of his first book, oddly enough named Skulls. He’s since written two other books inspired by his experiences: 365: A Daily Creativity Journal and Unstuck: 52 Ways to Get (and Keep) Your Creativity Flowing at Home, at Work & in Your Studio. And he still loves skulls! http://noahscalin.com/

TO REGISTER, PLEASE FILL OUT THE STUDENT INFORMATION FORM

ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE SCREEN BEFORE VISITING PAYPAL!

Session 5-B FULL!
2 pm- 5 pm
Magical Creatures with Julie Geen
Ages 8-10

Dragons, Unicorns, Faeries, Wizards and Wonder! Create your own world with your own fantastical creatures. We will go a little wild making our own worlds out of words and populating them with creatures from our imaginations.

Guest Writer: Meg Medina

Meg Medina is a Milk-Dud addicted Latina who writes libros for kids of all ages. She's the author of Milagros: Girl from Away (Henry Holt Books 2008); Tía Isa Wants a Car (Candlewick Press 2011) and The Girl Who Could Silence the Wind (Candlewick, 2012). http://megmedina.com/

TO REGISTER, PLEASE FILL OUT THE STUDENT INFORMATION FORM

ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE SCREEN BEFORE VISITING PAYPAL!

2011-11-29T10:31:00.000-08:00

26.2 thanks YOU!

2011-09-15T06:25:00.000-07:00

The freaks come out at night, but so do the writers! For every minute of the 26.2 Hour All-Night, All-Write writing marathon in which we took over Chop Suey Books, someone was up and carrying the torch- or, um- the pen.

Like Alter-Edward and Gerund. Like Captain Obvious and Smurf Lord. Like Slim Ace Bo Peep and Donut Danny. In fact, there are a whole host of people scattered around Richmond I now only know by their alter-ego name.

We wrote together, young and old, in the same room, and when we read our works out loud, we seemed to read from the same page. We enjoyed surprise appearances by old friends, new friends and even celebrities!

We played madlibs and made buttons and constructed zines and wrote stories and sang songs. We found hope in rejection and hilarity in love gone wrong. We laughed at comedians and party buses. We holed up in the Fortress of Solitude and ate our weight in veggie dogs and hamburgers at the 24-Hour Cookout With Your Book Out sidewalk grill. We poured our hearts into "The Fire & Desire Notebook of Bad Poetry" and crafted witty one-liners for the "I Party With the Boogie Man Collection of 6 Word Memoirs." We tried to meditate for the sunrise tribute to 9/11 but "slept" for an hour and a half, halfway under a table instead.

We sold T-shirts, raffle tickets and cupcakes. And we raised, with help from a generous contribution from Chop Suey, over $500 in scholarship money for aspiring poets and writers, playwrights and surrealists. Of course, if you weren't able to donate in person, it's never too late to contribute to our scholarship fund!

And now, an exclusive interview with marathon winner, Georgina Coffey, a sophomore at Maggie Walker Governor's School!

So, Georgina, what would you say you got out of 26.2?
First off, I was able to write over 30 pages of material for various things I've been working on. That never happens! But I guess that there's something about being in a single place where everyone around you is at least trying to do the same. 26.2 was a great place to brush up on some skills as well as discover others I didn't know were there.

What surprised you about the experience?
Probably the 30 pages. I thought that I'd maybe write ten, fifteen at the most. But no! I wrote for nearly all of 26.2 and the time I didn't spend writing I was in seminars that had me to do other activities.

What did you most enjoy?
I really enjoyed the feel of the community at 26.2. Sure, we had some people who just drifted in or out, but there were a few people who were there for ten or more hours. That was really motivating.

What did you least enjoy?
This probably won't sound honest, but truly there was not a single thing I did not enjoy. That was a perfect "day" in my mind.

Would you do it again next year?
Yes, I will! And every year after that!

Richmond Young Writers was asked if we'd do it again: every year, every month, every weekend. We said we'd decide when it was all over and when it was all over we decided we would. After all, writing might not exactly be aerobic exercise, but it is definitely addictive.

Without whom none of this could have been possible, a big huge enormous thanks to:

The overly competent and extremely good looking staff at Chop Suey Books, including Ward Tefft, Andrew, Mark & Tommy
Lamplighter Roasting Company for delicious coffee!
Jason Lefton of GYLo for photography, graphics & technical support
Katie McBride for T-Shirt & poster design
Our fabulously talented workshop presenters:
Studio Two Three
Betsy Kelly of ART 180
Michele Young-Stone
Susann Cokal
Shane Sayers-Couzyn
Richmond Comedy Coalition
PH Balance: Herschel Stratego & Paul Ivey
Eliezer Sobel
Liz Canfield of Richmond Zine Fest

Cookout Organizer & Head Chef: Stephanie Failla, and the outstanding restaurants who donated food to the cookout: Mamma Zu, Sticky Rice, Cafe Ole, Bon Venu, New York Deli, Joe's Inn, Mojos, 821, The Nile, Christopher's Runaway Gourmet, Captain Slappy's & Cous Cous.

Julia Janeczek for the outstanding raspberry & mint chocolate cupcakes!
Betsy Harrell Thomas of Betsy's for the delicious pastries.
Our tireless volunteers: Michael Guedri, Emilie Tweeddale, Andy Brockmann, Robin Silberman, Chris Anders, Katie Harville, Jackson Meyer, Rivanna Youngpool and Jenna Clarke

And last but never least, everyone who came out to write!

See y'all next year!

Thank You! Summer 2011

2011-07-29T04:35:00.000-07:00

Richmond Young Writers 2011 wishes to thank Chop Suey Booksfor providing such a fabulous space to write as well as gift certificates for our students, the Byrd Theatre for hosting our weekly readings, Gylo for graphic design, Jennifer Unlimited for buttons, Cafe Ole for feeding our teachers and Capital Coffee & Desserts for providing such an excellent people watching location! Thank you Carytown for helping us foster a passion for creative writing within our community!

Although Richmond Young Writers is officially full for Summer 2011 be sure to check back soon for our fall schedule of after-school classes!

Now in its third summer, Richmond Young Writers has expanded to include more than young writers from Richmond!

We are delighted to announce that we will be writing with students from Richmond proper, Henrico, Glen Allen, Chesterfield, Midlothian, Montpelier, Powhatan, Moseley, Mechanicsville, Afton, Rockville and Gloucester!

And, for the first time ever, thanks to the donations of many generous individuals as well as Chop Suey Books, we were able to award 6 full scholarships and 7 partial scholarships to deserving students.

Please accept our heartfelt gratitude for your generous contributions:

Doug Blue
Ellen Firsching Brown
Stephenie Brown
Peter Cartwright
Ginger Clarke
Sandra Cox
Erin Cundiff
Elaine Heinzman
Reema Hijazi
Ann Hudson
Alexandra Nelson Iwashyna
Jane Jones
Brian Lefton
Jason Lefton
Wickliffe Lyne
Jynne Martin
Sarah McCollum
Jamin Mendelsohn
Michael Otley
Virginia Pye
John Ravenal
Carra Rose
Jason Ruiz
Loraine Schroeder
Eliezer Sobel
Tesni Stephen
Joan Wash
Megan Wilson

and

Chop Suey Books
LaFerrera Prints

Happy Writing and Happy Summer to All!

Works by Session Four in the Afternoon

2011-07-22T16:31:00.001-07:00

Fairy Land Caverns
Once upon a time there was a little girl named Ellen. She was a very odd little girl. She was still very young but every day she read the advertisements in the newspaper. On this particular day she saw a very interesting one. It read “Fairy Land Caverns is a child’s dream world.” She decided to try and find it.
Emma Barrett

The narwhal sat
In a swivel chair
Tasting sweet raspberries
Saying they tasted fantastic
Alex Broening

I Don’t Remember Being Anybody Besides Myself
I remember the smell of cookie’s baking.
I remember stargazing on a dark night.
I remember my mom smiling at me.
I remember hearing my name Kate with a capital Letter K.
I remember sipping steaming hot chocolate on a snowy day.
I remember sitting by a hot, flickering fire.
I don’t remember what I wore exactly one year ago.
I doen’t remember seeing light for the first time.
I don’t remember not liking soccer.
I don’t remember when water was made.
I don’t remember when land was built.
I don’t remember being anybody besides myself, Kate.
Kate Driebe

Everyone knows that bad spirits hide themselves inside of trees. What surprised Ada is that this spirit was hidden in her soup. Was that scary or what? Ada never believed in ghosts or spirits until that time. That time when she had just turned six the week before. She was outside playing. When the darkest could anyone could remember swept over the land on which she lived. This so called “Bad-luck-cloud” stayed for months providing magical winds that made monsters and ghosts and other horrors appear. Ada told her parents about it, but when they looked out the window they saw nothing. They said, “Ada, do not lie.” “But I’m not lying,” Ada said in an innocent voice. But the look on her parent’s face told her to stop talking. So she did, but the creatures she saw never went away.
Odessa Hott

One day in a bush as green as a lime, a spider not so big as your little fingernail was resting in the shade of a leaf when he smelled something he had never smelled in his life. It was a mixture of peach and blackberry. He got up slowly thinking it wasn’t worth it. What could it be, he thought? He scrambled up the branch he had been resting on. The smell grew stronger every few steps he took. When he got to the perimeter of the bush he looked over the expanse of yard in front of him and set his gaze to a stump just about five feet away. On top of the stump sat a pie! That was one of the things spiders love the best.
Cole Myers

The House
If I were a magical creature I would be a fairy because I have always wanted to be able to fly. Once upon a time I was flying along and I spotted a new house up ahead. “Wow,” I exclaimed, “It’s new!” I went up to have closer look. It was even bigger than I thought it was! But the strangest thing about that it was BRIGHT yellow. I walked nervously up to the front door. I knocked. It was the scariest moment in my life as the door creaked op;en. Even though it was a hot day I felt myself shiver. Standing in the doorway was a couple that looked like they were in their 60’s or 70’s. “Hello,” said the woman nicely. “What’s your name?”
Ellie Myers

I was walking in the woods one day on a path that I’ve walked on many times. I saw a log cabin. I went over and knocked on the door. There was an old man in the cabin and he gave me a rock, a purple rock. He said it will bring you wealth for the rest of your life. Each day it will bring you some kind of wealth, every day. So I said Thank You and left. Later that night I decided to keep it to myself. The next day a man came up to me and said, “I will give you $75 for a pen.” I gave it to him and left. I went up to my room and thought about my rock.
Ted Owen

Chop!!!
My dad and a few other people chopped down a mushroom for dinner. We were traveling from the stream where we lived now to a mountain stream with large pools every couple hundred feet and tons of minnows and plants. It was so perfect till a giant species called humans found a nice swimming spot.
Hannah Parker

Backwards Story
Dead was she so. Fingers 2,500 and buttons belly 4 and feet left 3 had she. Weird, well, was she and walking hated she. Town of side other the on lived she and Dorsey like not did Annie because weird so was it. Her following was Annie. Night one work from home coming was Dorsey Street the down and up jumping and yelling all were outside hooligans the all, night dreadful a was it.
Samantha Strange

Carytown Observation Story
So everyday, I sit in Carytown, watching. Breathing the thick smoky air, sitting in the hot humidity. Everyday I still sit and watch the people of Carytown. One playing a banjo. One eating ice cream and laughing. One selling Italian Ice. And even today I sit waiting for another chance at life.
Katy Werwath

The day Louis was born, all the rose bushes burned away.
The day Louis took his first steps , people’s shoes started to fray.
The day Louis said his first words, the air was thick and gray.
The day Louis turned two, his friends couldn’t play.
The day Louis went to middle school, the lower school took a sigh.
The day Louis went to college the director almost cried.
Evan Wolff

Works by Session Four in the Morning

2011-07-22T16:30:00.000-07:00

Untitled
The waves washed up the shore, bringing with them an unknown girl to the island. Her sun-bleached hair draped onto the ground like so many pieces of dripping seaweed and her flawless skin was radiant in the bright sunlight. She was more beautiful than anyone that the villagers had ever seen, and so they clamored around her, waiting for her to wake up. When at last her eyes were open, she seemed to pierce their souls with her icy blue irises. All stepped back as she shed her cloak of helplessness and donned a regal air. She pulled herself to a sitting position.
“Where am I?” she asked with a soft, lyrical yet demanding voice. But the villagers were struck speechless by her sea-green fishtail which they viewed as a horrible deformity. The mermaid saw their shock and called down the power of the heavens to burn out the eyes of all that viewed her there.
“And that’s why your eyes are cloudy,” the small child said. “Right, Grandpa?”
“Yes, yes it is…” mumbled the elderly man as he drifted off to sleep. “It sure is.”
“Mom!” the boy cried. “Grandpa’s asleep!” Quickly, the mother hushed him and ushered him from the old man’s deathbed.
Isabel Ammendolia

Untitled
When she lost it, she knew things were over. It had been a gift from him for when she graduated. She’d worn it for two weeks straight, taking it off only to shower and sleep. But afterwards, after that summer, it stayed hidden in her bedside table, the small silver chain wound around the white ceramic. And there it had stayed, through Christmases and weddings, her little brother’s own graduation (he had gotten a watch), until he fell. She hadn’t been the one that found him, that had been Daniel, she remembered, but sometimes she felt that she should have been. After all, she had been in the hammock at the time, should have heard him yell when his foot slipped, should have heard the thud when he landed in the agapanthus they’d planted together when she was thirteen. No one said it to her, but she knew that’s what they were all thinking. They all came to see him when the doctors opened his room to visitors the next day. She wore it that day, around her neck, just the way she used to. But it didn’t make a difference. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, or they would have, had they not been closed.
Georgina Coffey

Untitled
The stay and talk to the soul
in the bed
it’s not me,
but I would gladly take the place
not to have to watch
someone you love fall deeper
and deeper away
from healing
from saving himself
from the addiction
that takes away pieces
of the humanity he once
had so much of
part of his family
wishes they could be anywhere
but here
but they stay for fear of never
seeing him alive again,
then again begging for pain meds
so desperate for them,
isn’t very alive in itself
just the same face,
on a different person
so many unspoken words
that are clearly understood
I leave with goodbyes
knowing that with him
each one could be the last
nothing will change
unless everyone changes
and that is
impossible
Sammy DeShazo

excerpt from The City of Gold
…They both listened, hearing a kind of beeping noise.
“Alarm!” Barrio said, as they moved toward the window.
Too late.
Security burst in through both doors, repeaters and revolvers all pointed at Taren and Barrio.
“Smoke bombs.” Barrio whispered. Taren nodded; he shook his shoulders and small pellets went everywhere. The popped and fizzed, creating smoke that filled the entire room. By the time it had cleared, there was a gaping hole in the window and Taren and Barrio were gone.
Ben Humphries

Untitled
I remember sand mountains.
I remember the pain of a soccer ball
launched at my five-year-old head.
I remember hating vegetables.
I remember my hair in one big braid.
I remember sharing a chocolate with my big brother.
I remember the stiff feeling of uniforms.
I remember my father before he died.
I remember cats, lots and lots of cats.
I remember liking the color pink, my childhood obsession.
I remember always being different.
Keyko Regalado

The Flood
No way was I taking a bath, or a shower, for that matter. That’s why I’m glad I escaped when I did. Mum had dressed me in my pants and a colored, button-down shirt; it was blue and plaid and Christie like it. Then again, Christie was my best friend, not my girlfriend like people thought but my best friend. So she liked lots about me. But still, I liked my outfit and I wasn’t about to take it off.
Slipping away from my mm was hard though. I had to get away. So once she let go of he death-grip hold on my hand, I bolted. I don’t know how I did it, but I made it downtown. Now I am water-free.
Slowly, I looked around me. I needed to take into account that people take kids like me: alone. That’s when I started to notice something quite peculiar as I straightened my back an tried to look like a 10-year old, big kid: downtown was leaking; water dripped and ran everywhere.
I’d heard of something called car-muah. I thought it was kissing cars, but apparently, as I’d been told yesterday it’s when things happen because you do something. So the world wants me to have a shower? Do I smell that bad? Well apparently so.
I felt my stomach drop as I watched the water drip from exposed pipes like a man with a bladder problem, like grandpa and not me yet. I quickly darted down the next street I saw. Whilst walking down this street, I heard the tingy drip of water again. This time it comes from one old, cheap air conditioning unit. the water dripped out the bottom, down the side of the brick building.
Now running, I raced down the next street and the lawn exploded with water. It flew into the air and stopped me in my tracks. I didn’t want a flood I’d heard of the blue torrents streaming in. And I relented.
I ran through the exploding lawn; salty water was already streaming down my face. And I was wet.
Cyan Sada

Daddy's Surprise
Alice felt right at home in the dimly lit room with eerie paintings on the walls. Her face lit up with the anticipation of seeing something so amazing and so breath taking, it was eating away at her soul. A virgin to adventure, her face remained calm. Maybe if you excavated enough you might find the smallest trace of a smile peeking out of the corner of her mouth. She looked around at the several paintings on the wall. Some of sorrow, some of pain, none of happiness, all just depressing and they brought no life to the small room in which Alice inhabited. She never left this room, not once in her entire life. Alice’s father came daily to bring her food and a new book. reading was her passion it was something that she always desired. she had read of so many things that she had never even heard of, but yet she lived for the knowledge of these things. She took a glance at the clock. It was now twelve o’clock and her father should be arriving any minute, not just with food and a book but with something he would not tell her about. “It’s a surprise!” he said. Her father knew her so well she could only imagine the amount of joy this “Surprise” would bring her. He fidgeted in her seat. It was now 12:15 and she was becoming impatient. She began to pace, wondering if her father had forgotten his only daughter. She sat down on her bed and began to think. Thinking of music, something she had never heard before, she thought of animals all of which she had never seen before. “Why am I so scared to leave this place?” she asked her self. She quickly got up and flung her bedroom door open. Without hesitation she ran from her room, to the front door and stepped outside. She felt the warm sun on her face and her hair bellowing in the breeze. She looked down to find a note. Alice quickly unfolded the note that read
“Dear Alice
Surprise! My gift to you is the outdoors. Now that you’ve discovered the beauty of such a thing, I doubt you will ever leave. I hope you have enjoyed your time away from your room. Now go do something, an adventure awaits you.

- Dad”
Madalyn Saunders

Free Soup, Anyone?
Everyone knows that bad spirits hide themselves inside of trees. What surprised Ada is that this spirit was hidden in her soup. Had it leapt from one of her wooden spoons? Or perhaps from the cedar cutting board? For almost a month now the soup persisted in turning out rotten. No matter how much she tended the pot, its contents always curdled or grew putrid. Ada even tried all new cookware and had a gas stove put in. One late afternoon, Ada was having tea with her grandmother in the swamp. “Look at this beautiful place around you,” cawed Nana,“This gorgeous world, abundant with life. What is there to be sad about?” Ada fiddled with a button that was hopping off of her skirt. “My Soup!” Ada exclaimed, “What can I do for it?” She had spent a good part of their time together ranting about the awful ghost invading her meals. “Ha! laughed Nana, giggling at the crocodile biting on an oar not three feet from where she sat. What I wouldn’t give for a few spirits to inhabit my kitchen. This is the most excitement I’ve had all week. Bring it to me. Bring me the soup…”
Megan Strickland

Emilio Changed into a Dog
He’d lived so long with just his dogs, that at last Emilio became on of them. He didn’t know how it happened. Emilio just woke up one morning and went to the bathroom, only to find that the mirror was way up high. He walked to his tall mirror hanging on the wall instead. When he glanced in the mirror and saw what happened, he screamed. At least the thought he screamed. Instead all that came out was a woof. His mother called up the stairs, “Emilio quiet your dogs and come downstairs for breakfast.” “Uh-oh”, Emilio thought. “I can’t go downstairs like this or my mother will freak out. Or she wouldn’t even know that it was me. She would just assume it was another one of my dogs. But she’ll soon realize that I am not in the house, but I actually am. In dog form. I’m going to stay in my bed, until she comes upstairs to find me.” So he did. A couple of minutes later, Emilio heard his mother’s footsteps coming up the stairs and saw his mother peak into his bedroom. She took one look at him and screamed. Then she sat, trembling, next to him on the bed. His mom said, “Oh, Emilio. I know that is you in dog form. Don’t ask how I know. I don’t want to tell you the story. He had an idea. Even though he couldn’t write using his hands, he decided to try by using his mouth. He got pen and paper, sat down, and took the pen in his mouth. He used his paw to move the paper in front of him, and held the piece of paper while he wrote. He wrote, “You can tell me mom. I want to know how I woke up one morning, looked into the mirror, and found myself staring at a dog that appears to be me!”
Nola Zhang

Works by Session Three in the Afternoon

2011-07-17T18:35:00.000-07:00

I remember how it felt. That moment when I knew exactly where I was going. Who I was. And I was going to get there, no matter what.

I pull my bow across the strings of my cello for the final note, looking up from my trembling fingers as the room goes silent before bursting into applause. I satre into the blinding stage lights, waiting for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I instantly spot him sitting in the back of the theater, his eyes wide, gazing right into mine. Looking closer, I notice the tears silently flowing down his cheeks and I know.
Devon Bortz

Love: A Wider View
The word “love” has always been overused in today’s world. It’s almost always “I love those new shoes” or “I love pizza.”

Love, to me, has been more than that. It’s that sense of affection and protectiveness you have for your family and friends. It will be tested in those times that glass shatters but you superglue every shard back together to make it whole again, no matter how much your hands will bleed.

That’s what it is in its true essence. It’s a feeling and bond. It’s what holds humanity together in the toughest of times. It’s what I call love.
Gowri Buddiga

The Poem That Really Didn’t Need a Name
Did you ever get the feeling about the fish?
If you/didn’t it might be
Imperative
That you don’t run from
The men in the blue suits
Pippin Covington

You never leave me
You stay not as a comfort
But as a constant threat to
My sanity
You carry my heart along
With the others you stole
So many girls with raped
Spirits,
So many broken hearts
That will never truly be
Right again
I wonder if you’re the
Monster because you can
Find no love for yourself
You take the love we willingly
And unknowingly give,
Bit it enrages you
And strengthens your instinct
To destroy
I want to scream and
Make you go away
You always come back to taunt me
You never leave me
Samantha DeShazo

Excerpt from "Nothing to Hold On To"
I was sitting on the ground with my back against a tree that seemed to be weeping. Across from me was a black cat with intense yellow eyes that was glaring ominously at a small tye-dye feathered bird, perched on a decrepit branch right above me, it looked as though it would crumble and fall into a pit of nothingness. I looked up at something that wasn’t the sky, it was an unsightly muddy red, and in the middle of it was a monstrous green hole that lsowly sunk a horrifying chill down my body. It gave off a deep dreadful feeling that it was going to devour everything till nothing is left. A sharp gust of wind came through, I felt my skin burning off, the wind blinded me and everything went black.
Julian Edwards

Life is like a video game
You have a certain amount of lives
When you’re out
It’s game over
Devin Fox

EXT. STREET
SPANISH JOHNNY sits on the sidewalk out front of an old bar in Spanish Harlem. He reaches into the pocket of an old read lather jacket for a pack of cigarettes. Empty. He drops the pack on the street, carelessly and lets his head roll back to the wall.

The door clicks open and a girl, JANE, steps out. She holds her bag close beside her and looks to the right and over at him.

JANE: You gonna go wit’ me or you gonna sit there all night?
Rain Johnson

George, the Dog
Once upon a time there was a dog named George who loved kids and loved to play. He ate all the time and rolled around in mud when he didn’t get food, ruining the golden brown fur. George was a golden retriever and he was four years old when it happened. When the man came. The next door neighbor’s had called the police because of George’s owner’s eldest son. He had committed a crime, and was arrested. The police, noticing the innocent dog, took it away from the poor family. They had nothing left.
Vibha Shekhar

Excerpt from “If My Life Was a Lie”
I was sitting on my couch when my parents came in with a worried look on their face. My mother’s face had the look of defeat as a tiny tear drop rolled down her pale cheek. My father stood with a stern look on his face, his jaw line enhanced, his eyes were red and threatening tears. I was bewildered at both of my parent’s appearance. I wanted to run, but I felt trapped, trapped in my own body! My parents approached me slowly, with a look of hurt. My mother mouthed, “forgive me.” That was when I ran. But my father pinned me down.
Sydney Tinker

Sunny: He still felt a surge of hate whenever he thought of his mother, even now, 68 years after he’d killed her.

The snake twined around the legs of the deck chair, and hie picked up his snake-killing brick, trying to heave it at the rattler. As his feeble arms lifted the brick, his heart gave out and the slumped against the grill. Two hours later, when his wife Susan found him, she smiled and closed his eyes.
Cassie Womack

Works by Session Three in the Morning

2011-07-17T18:31:00.000-07:00

The Tree Necklace
One day, a magical tree was born. People from over the world tried to cut a branch from the tree and use the magic for themselves. Then one day, a man found the tree. The tree thought, ‘if one of my branches is gone, I will fade away.’ The tree had an idea. An old woman was having a picnic with her cat and she was wearing a necklace. After all, the tree was a magic tree, so in a blink it was in the necklace. The man couldn’t see the tree any more, so he went home. The old woman was blind so she didn’t see the tree. The necklace was special because of the Chinese writing on the back; it had been passed down from child to child and so on. Thousands of years later, the necklace had gotten lost. The tree wanted to be back on someone’s neck, and it had found this poor young woman. The young woman took the necklace home and when she did that, the tree had been watching her very closely. When she got home, the tree decided to tell the woman about his magic, but how? He almost forgot that he was a magical tree. In a second, pink and purple light was bursting out of the necklace. “Yyyaaaakkk!” screamed the young woman. “It’s okay, calm down,” spelled the tree in the mist. “Please keep me safe.” “Okay!” The tree never knew that the poor girl was actually a descendent of the original owner’s family.
Ria Bakshi

Queen of Wands
Sitting high on her throne
her face a mask
hiding all emotions-
a wand in one hand,
a perfectly picked flower in the next.
Her cat sits at her feet
wearing a mask like her own.
She waits on her throne,
waiting for her king to come home.
Nina Gates

Free Write
Oedipus knew
he had the world in his hands.
He also knew that he had
to keep holding it,
or everything would be crushed
and when God blew his horn
and everybody busted out of their coffin,
they would look up
and praise him.
Eli Menyhart

Under the Sea
Under the sea, there was a beautiful mermaid. She would always sing. She would sing whenever she was bored. But she could not write on paper, so she would use her finger for a pen and sand for paper. La, la, la, la she would always sing when she would draw. She drew so well! One time, she drew a button with a picture of something. She wondered, what should it be? I know, I know – the magical sand button! And right at that moment, when she said those words, a magical button appeared – it looked like the same one that she drew. And right when she saw it, she snatched it. And she believed she was a great artist, and finally believed in magic. She loved the button so much that she took it wherever she went. When she went to see her awesome mermaid friends, she screamed ‘Mermaid friends, where are you?’ They were hiding beneath a cool stone. She looked under the seaweed and the sand fish. Finally, she would find them. Lauri, one of the mermaids, said ‘Hey, oh, mermaid, there’s a beautiful black button on your cute mermaid tail.’ ‘Oh, yes, I drew this and it came alive!’ ‘How nice!’ Lauri said. ‘Do you want to go to the secret place?’ ‘Shhh, don’t tell anyone!’ she whispered, and under the sea, they flowed along.

At the end she has a fun journey. Don’t tell anyone about the secret place.
Keya Pokhriyal

Serial Killer
The slow pitter-patter of rain methodically drummed on the hood of the pickup truck. Occasionally a slight putt-putt of then engine broke the symphony of silence. A light flicked off inside a giant wooden house. After a good ten minutes, the truck’s door swung open without so much as a squeak. A large, muddy shoe splashed down in a foaming puddle. Slowly making her way towards the house, the person reached inside her coat and pulled out an odd-looking object. Walking up the wooden steps, they creaked under her weight. She looked long and hard at the dark, ominous house. Grabbing the door handle, the intruder pushed open the door and stood in the doorway. The wind howled ferociously behind her. Taking two steps at a time, she reached the landing quickly. Looking around, her eyes were drawn to a mahogany door. Strange designs were carved into it. Silently opening the door, she crept over to an occupied bed. The slight hum of snoring was all that could be heard other than the howl of wind and the pattering of rain. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out an Aztec charm. Placing it on her face, the intruder then pulled out a large screwdriver. The sleeping man’s eyes suddenly shot open. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound escaped his trembling lips.
Tom Stack

Xavier Darkmoor
Xavier Darkmoor is a pirate who is feared by unjust rulers everywhere, and praised by peasants. He is the Robin Hood of the sea, and whenever he isn’t adventuring, he is stealing money and giving. He carries two swords, one that he gives to an unarmed enemy before fighting. His crew consists of:

Georgeric: a drunken swashbuckler
Viktoria: a deranged crewman and cook
Simone Gambi: Xavier’s Italian right-hand woman
Rosy: a bab roc (a mythical giant bird)
Momo: a Spanish talking monkey
Anna: a ruthless Russian Cossack
Navigator: a seal who swims alongside the boat
Henry Williams

Works by Session Two in the Afternoon

2011-07-05T11:30:00.001-07:00

Two Window Washers
Joined
While washing
A
Skyscraper
Maxie Broening

A dark lake sitting quietly and waiting for a disturbance in the water. The moon above in the even darker sky shines down on the quiet scene. The sound of a solitary owl can be heard in the distance. The nocturnal group of animals that live in the surrounding area come alive. The stars above are entwined in a beautiful web of shapes and stories. In the lake, small fish flit around underneath the surface—unaware of the life outside the murky waters. Glimpses of silver and gold scales are the only evidence of the lake’s civilization. The two coexist in a balanced world.
Logan Douglas

The Hunt
Euline crept through the night, her silk dress flowing on top of the layers of petticoats. There was fresh blood on her fangs. That man didn’t have a chance. She sighed. Hunting was more fun 500 years ago when people would uselessly pray to their god before they choked on their own blood. Times had changed.
Georgia Geen

I Am What I Am
I am the star of the show. The show of life, happiness and family. I am the sun shining bright over the world. I am what I am. I am a tree growing taller and taller, happier and happier. With many friends who climb on her branches, pick her leaves, and swing on swings hanging down from her limbs. I am what I am. I am a girl of happiness and friends. A girl with a smile about a mile wide. A girl with a contagious laugh. I am what I am. I am me.
Rose Goodpasture

Wishes never come true
The way you want them to
Wealth is worthless
Eternity is pointless
For if wishes were horses
Then beggars be corpses
Madison Hoffman

Untitled
He paused to straighten his bowtie. The man hadn’t straightened his bowtie for years. The sorrow, the poetry, the light that was almost in his life. Poetry is life like dog is bark. Nobody understands this do they?
Two Window Washers
We should write about the world if it were a better place. Two window washers of different minds. Two normal people of different brains. Two working elevators side by side. Two of anything. Two days with the same pride.
Odessa Hott

I am what I am. I am an artist with dreams, hopes and thoughts. They flow from my brain, down my arm and through my hand to the tip of a paint brush. I am what I am. I am a masterpiece, different from everyone else. With my own colors, prints and love. I am what I am. I am a work of art that sparkles with life. I am what I am. I am myself, an artist.
Owen Inge

Me In Another Planet
I would be a wooly rhino with intelligence like a human and I would have a biker dude jacket with guitars on it. I would have a pair of big black boots with black laces. I would live on a planet where it’s all desert and everybody would migrate to sandstorm proof cities and bars. There would be a big sandstorm that goes around destroying things. I would have a motorcycle that runs off cactus juice.
Elias Menyhart

Look at the world as a writer.
Everything will be seen as beauty.
Fresh, pure, innocent.
The world is full of love.

Bright stars illuminate the night sky
—they come quick
Like thunder after lightning
Laying on the soft green grass
I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
Grace Peasley

Description
I squat down uncomfortably on the rough grass. I feel my red rubber boots digging into my thighs as I hide. The sun is baking down on the two of us. There are only about a thousand blades of grass that tickle my chin when I stand up. The only shade is my straw hat. It happens to be too big for me and slides over my eyes. I have to push it up to my forehead and warm sweat rubs into my hair.
Caroline Ryan

My New Computer
I have a new computer,
My old one’s just too small.
But the new one that I have now,
is extremely tall!
It’s only two inches wide,
But ten feet in its height!
When I have to reach the top
I feel I’m going to fall
And that’s the problem with having
A computer that’s ten feet tall.
Libbie Ryan

Works by Session Two in the Morning

2011-07-05T11:30:00.000-07:00

The Burning Sun
As clouds glided across the sky
the sun burned everything
everything the light touched
except me
the air was hot
fire was hotter
but I was not
I was cold
truth be told, I was freezing, actually
why wasn’t I burned?
The world will never know
but I know
I will always know
Fendi Bea

Ode to the Creepy Paintings on the Wall
(A Collection of Haikus)
Framed graph paper holds
Images twisted and odd –
Should I laugh or cry?

Some are of faces
With expressions morbid that
Look almost funny

Some are sinister
Disfigured features, or at
Least it seems that way.

What are you painting?
Neither funny nor frightening,
Gray, then color burst.

Today I first saw
The man with glasses and hair
Hanging on the war

A beard full and long
Eyes covered by your glasses
A nub on your head?
Marina Blough

Untitled
This tarot,
mysterious
card
you are,
you send
me
spinning
in circles,
trying
to find
out
your meaning.
You have
a
Roman
numeral,
etched in ink,
describing
5.
A prince
with three
swords,
and
blood-red
water.
Mary Hannah Grier (aka Alexandra MacGregor)

Free Write Excerpt
Baby girl used to be porcelain, a portrait of a virgin hung next to daddy’s Madonna, silently, but drunken nights and bone-dry rivers filled her, wild, to the brim. Wrought and bleeding, like no religious era their books have known, her bones broke and her lips went crimson, all she is now is a cautionary fable on a good day, always a desolate skull. No rhyme, no reason, and certainly no rhythm. But in between the media lines I read, that when the towers fall, those left are likely to evolve. And although this is nothing but a gilded age, a televised romance at its best, my skin remains perpetually expectant of something more than the ‘day-to-day,’ the solid wane, of something divine and deserved. And in this, at least one more suicide-blonde found reason, albeit mad and strange, to wait, to wait just a short spell in an indefinite brand of art.
Katie Harville

Judgmental
I brace myself for what’s behind the broken doors. I was always told they’d be pearly gates. Wrong. I grab the splintering handle and open then door, slightly. I step in. It’s dark. I feel like it’s happening again. Dying. Though I didn’t feel pain. A voice booms overhead.
“You were good.” I don’t answer.
“Good, but judgmental.”
What do you mean? I want to ask.
“You were not completely bad. So hell is not the place for you.”
I smiled.
“But I will give you red wings to show that you have made mistakes.”
There was light, and I was free.
Ryann Morelli

Untitled
The High Priestess
sitting on her throne
in blue robes of silk and stars
casting a godly glow against the dark sky
as silent as a cool trickle of water
but her presence is as loud as the gong
of a church bell
ringing throughout the countryside
Maeve Oliver

Untitled
Racing through the gravelly streets with Irish colors on Mexican eateries, flying past the taste of a quickly grabbed Powerade choked down – no time to stop clocks ticking lights turn red I do not pause

Flashing knives at numerous sushi places
like the pain in my feet
knees from cobblestones
sweat around me everyone running
heavy breathing – hard pounding
sharp pains
the high of running overpowers
a feeling
no feeling
empty feeling
full being
arches curl – cities flash
crowds erupt
horns honk
I dare not stop to breathe.
Claire Panak

Untitled
The garden, in all of its splendor, had sat undisturbed for hundreds of years. Lifetimes for the humans, merely weeks for the Magician. His house was just yards away from the garden, but her never dared to venture into it. Not since the accident.
It had been so long since it happened, even for him. Even so, every time he allowed himself to forget, even for a second, he felt an agonizing and terrible pain in his chest. The pain would turn into an unquenchable ache. He would sit down and stare out into the garden, but he could not cry. His last tears had dried up decades ago.
In the hundreds of years before the accident, the Magician had been the most well-known, the most powerful in his land, perhaps in the world. Now he was worn-down, beaten, his power dimmed. He still looked young and fresh, as though he hadn’t spent centuries of misery in this godforsaken land. He silently cursed the sorceress who had forced upon him immortality. In his younger days, he had craved fame, fortune, power. Immortality had not seemed like a punishment.
Kate Seltzer

Works by Session One in the Afternoon

2011-06-26T17:57:00.001-07:00

I love water. I can connect with it. My tail can blend with it, make it clean, soft and as valuable as oil. My scales run deep, as deep as the sea. Water moves me. The tides move me. I swim with the water. I swim with the sand. I swim with the tide. I am a symbol of mystery, for nobody believes I am out here. Swimming. Swimming with y tail whipping away from anything man or man-made. I am confidence, mystery, acceptance. I am here. And I always will be.
--Sarina Cooper

My heart is at war
With itself
While it’s broken in half,
One side loves you
It demands your presence
In my life even though it knows
You’re not good for me
It’s my betrayer
The selfish demon that thinks
For itself (desire)
The ture of my heart
The other side battles for
The salvation of it
It wants to be whole
Once more
It despises you and what
You’ve done to me.
Love and hate fighting inside me
And I don’t know what’s right and
What’s wrong.
--Samantha DeShazo

She turned around looking for the source of the voice, but didn’t find one. She set down the photos and sat down on the creaking bed. She took out a book and began to read in order to calm down her nerves.

“What are you reading?” She looked up and saw a misty image of a pale girl with dark hear wearing a blood-stained dress that looked old with moth-holes and rips.

“A horror story,” the woman answered, shocked by the appearance of the ghostly girl.
--Logan Douglas

Observations
The sights, oh the sights. As I walk down the street I see places of pain and joy. I smell the scent of tobacco. I hear the sound of kids screaming but they don’t know silence. Also hearing the sound of an axe murderer or is that just an old hammerer? Who knows? We cross the old unabandoned street seeing people sad or full of joy. The lady that carries around thousands comes by. Then we arrive right where we started, clearing our minds for newer, better observations.
--Lily Goodman

“I did my job, didn’t I? It’s not my fault that they never clean up this dump.” He put out his hand for a tip. The woman handed him a one-dollar bill and started unpacking. “Cheap,” the bellhop mumbled under his breath, but accepted the money and left with no further complaints.

After unpacking, the woman looked around the room. Why was the window open? It wasn’t open when she had arrived. And who could have opened it? She pushed the questions out of her mind and went to close the window. It wouldn’t close. She tried to close it, but failed bitterly. She stared out the window for a while. Nothing much: it looked like miles and miles of roads and barren land. But she would be out of here early tomorrow morning. Suddenly, the window that had once been stiffly held up had collapsed onto her fingers as if something had pushed it down.
--Corina Kowalski

Alien: a noun. Latin for “beyond earth.” While it’s mathematically probable that they exist, most people believe that they are too far away to make contact with humans. For centuries people have been claiming that an apocalypse will happen, some theoretically caused by aliens. One of the largest reported beliefs of alien invasions was on October 30, 1938 when War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells was read on the radio. Thousands, if not millions of people, panicked. That was nothing compared to what was about to happen on a cold winter day in the small town of Farmville for it was here the that the human population started to succumb to these enigmatic beings.
--Chico Payne

I saw the trash, ground into a small pile of brown dirt under a metal grate in the street. It looked like it had taken root and was growing there, and I was glancing at it through the iron bars like I was a visitor at an urban zoo. “Species: plastic bag. Status: flourishing,” the plaque off to the side would say. But we kept walking.
--Biz Raisch

I remember my trip to the quiet beaches of North Carolina. I remember the sand in between my feet as I jogged along the waterline. I remember the hot, humid air, scorching but somehow pleasant at the same time. I remember the waves knocking me down as I tried to surf. I remember the water, rhythmic and blue. I remember North Carolina, and it remembers me too.
--Grantland Steele

Today, I am one with writing. My pen commands me, telling me what to write. It says what the story will be. My keyboard sits in front, telling my fingers where to glide, telling me what I am to write. Today I am one with writing, my pen commanding me.
--Amelia Thomas

Sally fled from the huge antique store, one of several in Carytown, ignoring the owner yelling at the top of his lungs. Maple syrup from breakfast that morning still stained her shirt, and her sockless feet tried to slip out of her tennis shoes as she ran. She wished that her best friend Anna, the only person she knew that was messier than she was, was here. Sally finally came to a stop, and she grumbled to herself about her predicament. She was, after all, only 6, she thought, and it wasn’t her fault that she had accidentally broken half of the items in the antique shop. Sally hoped that her mother wouldn’t be too mad at her. What if her mother tried to force her to become neat (which was her biggest fear?) What if her mother didn’t allow her to pursue her dream to work at a dump? Sally shivered at the thought as her mother came rushing towards her. As her mother came closer, Sally cringed at the expression on her face. She looked almost as mad as she had when Sally had (unsuccessfully) tried to weed the lawn. (It had taken weeks to clean the dirt off of Sally’s shirt). Sally sighed, nervous.
--Savannah Wilson

Works by Session One in the Morning

2011-06-26T17:57:00.000-07:00

In this year 2012 a zeppelin carrying toxic materials crashes into a blind goose, thus releasing a purple toxin that gave people zombielike attributes and reactions. Over several years, they became skeletons and intelligent to the point of man, and eventually Carytown seceded from the US. They shared economy and did well, they worked hard. Because of the toxins, the sky was purple.
--Casey Allen

Gaining
It’s the prison of education
The place you learn to hate to learn,
But when you learn you gain knowledge, and with knowledge
You gain success.
--Dante Burrichter

The Puzzle
Exploration of the mind,
Finding places that are there to find.
With every word comes a piece
To a puzzle, and when the last
Word falls, the puzzle is complete
And a new vault is open.
--Dante Burrichter

Who Knows
Who knows
what will happen
to everything around us,
to everything that we know.

Who knows -
it may change in a second,
a week or a year.
Who knows what will happen
to this beautiful earth
--Clara Falls

The night was cold and starless. Nothing stirred. A full moon shone on a black lake, illuminating the waves that gently lapped at the shore. A dense forest surrounded the lake, and a thick fog seeped from within the ancient trunks. Somewhere in the distance, a lone bell rang out an eerie toll. It repeated the sound 12 times, indicating that it was midnight. Around the time of the first ring, a cloaked figure stepped out of the forest. A ghostly white hand was all that showed of the being inside of the cloak, upon which glittered a ring. It was a beautiful ring, a burnished gold with a large mottled purple gem fashioned into an oval. The figure moved along the edge of the lake rather aimlessly, for he didn’t actually know why he was there. As the bell tolled for the last time, something strange happened. The purple gem glowed orange, with yellow and red flecks sparkling like fire. The once-gentle waves became rough and struck the shore with ferocity. The fog became thicker, shrouding everything in a gray haze. It began to swirl like a great smoky funnel, going faster and faster. Suddenly, it stopped. The waves on the lake receded, and the fog died back down and retreated to the woods. The full moon once again shone, casting a milky light over the peaceful looking lake. Once again, nothing stirred. But there was something else to the scene that wasn’t there before. An empty cloak lay strewn across the sand, on top of which lay a mottled purple ring.
--Avery Fletcher

I try to fly, yet one of my wings is yours
You refuse to fly away, and
I lift off and I fall into my thoughts of times before
And I don’t need to fly

I try to run, yet you hold me back
Impossible to leave
You aren’t really there, are you?
Why am I running?

I don’t sit and wonder why I can’t fly or run
But sometimes I wonder.
If you can fly and run and leave,
Why don’t you?

It’s a matter of time before we fly away
Anyway
So why not now?
Am I so important to you that your wings are broken?

Let me fix them for you while
You think about staying
Instead of leaving me to
Fly
--Elise Grinkemeyer

Character Profile
Name: All
Age: 1,000,000
Lives in a water bottle
Appearance: has some hair and only one eye
Family: none
Hopes that he will get out of the bottle
Habit: likes to eat his lips
Background: saw the water bottle at the mall and wanted to eat it
--Amaya Harris

One day, Keylime woke up in his box with his friend Cookie. ‘Hey, Cookie!’ he said. Suddenly they heard a noise – someone opened the Chips Ahoy box and bit a piece of Keylime, then closed the box. But he did not know. ‘He left it open! I’m going to get out of here,’ he said. So he jumped up higher and higher on his trampoline, and he was out. He fell off the table and was crushed in half.
--Nyla Harris

The Tracks
The symphony of the vibrating tracks
keeps me up at night
and I contemplate the rusty old guide
that winds like a snake –
but these tracks ain’t smooth any more.
They’re just a
rough brown path
for those big ol’ machines.
Now the vibrating has died to a whisper,
but the roar still rings in my ears.
--Ellie Kim

New ‘old sayings’: BURY THE STONES – to get over something difficult
ONE HORSE IN A BARN – to be lonely
--Georgia Leipold-Vitiello

Some people have long and annoying names, but my name is quick and to the point – so it’s obviously the most awesome name. My name is Tom, which means Twin in Latin. I don’t have a twin, but I have lots of friends in my head who talk to me. Once I looked up my name and I discovered it stands for something. T is for Tylorgious, O is for Omnibus, and M is for Malafishant… I don’t get it either. Whenever I get angry, people call me Tomp. Whenever I space out, people call me Tompus. And whenever I mess up, I’m Thomas Elliot Pollard.
--Tom Pollard

The Amber Ring
Once there was a girl named Deborah. She was walking through town one day when she saw a new store with a sign that said ‘Lots and Lots of Bugs.’ Curious, she went inside. The walls and shelves were full of dead insects in glass cases. The man behind the bar was tall, had a beard, and was wearing dark sunglasses. “Welcome to Lots and Lots of Bugs,” he said. “We have an ever-growing supply.” Deborah noticed something in the corner of the room. It was a shelf full of bugs encased in amber rings. “What are these?” she asked. “Collector’s edition rings,” he said. “Would you like to try one one?” He picked one up and placed it on her finger. Suddenly, she collapsed. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a clicking noise. Everything seemed so much bigger. Then she realized she was a bug. The man picked her up. “A new one for the collection,” he said. “I told you we have an ever-growing supply.”
--Henry Williams

2011-06-12T16:57:00.000-07:00

Although Richmond Young Writers is officially full for Summer 2011 be sure to check back soon for our fall schedule of after-school classes!

Now in its third summer, Richmond Young Writers has expanded to include more than young writers from Richmond!

We are delighted to announce that we will be writing with students from Richmond proper, Henrico, Glen Allen, Chesterfield, Midlothian, Montpelier, Powhatan, Moseley, Mechanicsville, Afton, Rockville and Gloucester!

And, for the first time ever, thanks to the donations of many generous individuals as well as Chop Suey Books, we were able to award 6 full scholarships and 7 partial scholarships to deserving students.

Please accept our heartfelt gratitude for your generous contributions:

Doug Blue
Ellen Firsching Brown
Stephenie Brown
Peter Cartwright
Ginger Clarke
Sandra Cox
Erin Cundiff
Elaine Heinzman
Reema Hijazi
Ann Hudson
Alexandra Nelson Iwashyna
Jane Jones
Brian Lefton
Jason Lefton
Wickliffe Lyne
Jynne Martin
Sarah McCollum
Jamin Mendelsohn
Michael Otley
Virginia Pye
John Ravenal
Carra Rose
Jason Ruiz
Loraine Schroeder
Eliezer Sobel
Tesni Stephen
Joan Wash
Megan Wilson

and

Chop Suey Books
LaFerrera Prints

Happy Writing and Happy Summer to All!

Summer Sessions 2011!

2011-02-22T07:32:00.001-08:00

Welcome to another exciting summer with Richmond Young Writers!

This year, we are pleased to offer both afternoon and morning sessions Monday through Friday. Morning sessions, which will take place from 10 am - 1 pm, will be taught by creative writing teacher Bird Cox. Afternoon sessions from 2 pm - 5 pm will be taught be creative writing teacher, Valley Haggard.

Each week, young writers will explore the craft and fun of creative writing through a variety of imagination-stimulating prompts, journaling, brainstorming, people-watching and more. Each Tuesday and Thursday, a professional writer will guest teach a special 2-hour workshop. Scroll down to read the course descriptions and bios!

Camp will be held in the upstairs art gallery of Chop Suey Books, located at 2913 West Cary Street in Carytown.

Each session will culminate in a student reading of works-in-progress at the Byrd Theatre on Friday afternoons from 4:30 - 5 pm. All students who have participated in that week's workshop are invited to participate. Friends and family are encouraged to attend!

To register, please fill out the online registration form on the right of the screen. Payments may be made online through Paypal or by sending a check to Richmond Young Writers/ 1202 Hillside Avenue/ Richmond, VA 23229. All checks should be made out to Valley Haggard.

Questions? Comments?
Email Valley Haggard at valleyhaggard@gmail.com or
Bird Cox at giantsquidincorporated@gmail.com.

Session 1: June 20-24

2011-02-22T07:12:00.000-08:00

Morning Session with Bird Cox: 10 am - 1 pm, Ages 10-13 FULL!
Afternoon Session with Valley Haggard: 2 pm - 5 pm, Ages 10-13 FULL!

Tuesday Workshop
Vampires vs. Werewolves, Wizards, Zombies, and Aliens!
Do you like sci-fi, mystery or the supernatural? We will create our own spooky stories in this class, whether you’re on the side of good or evil. Explore the dark side, or your own magical fantasy world through games and fun exercises. You never know what lives in the corners of your mind! Instructor: Julie Geen

Thursday Workshop
Plot: The Skeleton of The Story
"Plot is both the engine and the skeleton of a successful short story--it pushes the story forward toward its inevitiable ending and logically connects each of its scenes and bridges. Using selected (and previously published) short-short stories as well as writing exercises, workshop members will explore and put into practice that element of storytelling which gives completeness and meaning to works of fiction."
Instructor: Tom De Haven

Session 2: June 27- July 1

2011-02-22T07:06:00.000-08:00

Morning Session with Bird Cox: 10 am - 1 pm, Ages 10-13 FULL!
Afternoon Session with Valley Haggard: 2 pm - 5 pm, Ages 10-13 FULL!

Tuesday Workshop
Memoir Starts with ME
If biography is the bones of a life, memoir is the heart. From Stephen King to Alice Walker, writers use memoir as a way to tell their most intimate stories, exploring who they are and who they want to be. In this one-day session, students will learn to mine their memories with tools such as music, photographs and freewriting. We'll practice dialogue, back-story, and painting pictures with words, and leave with a collection of techniques and suggested readings designed to inspire a completed project. Instructor: Nicole Anderson Ellis

Thursday Workshop
Character Mining
We will use our bodies and our breaths with directed writing practices to release from our imaginations those characters scratching for fresh air. We’ll observe how these characters change when threatened, troubled, or endangered. Then practicing together, we will bring our characters safely home and into the fullest expression of themselves. Instructor: Gigi Amateau

Session 3: July 11-15

2011-02-22T07:03:00.000-08:00

Morning Session with Bird Cox: 10 am- 1pm, Ages 10-13 FULL!
Afternoon Session with Valley Haggard: 2 pm - 5 pm, Ages 14-17 FULL!

Tuesday Workshop
Surrealism
"The man that cannot visualize a horse galloping on a tomato is an idiot” Andre Breton – surrealist poet and writer
Surrealism is an art movement born of the strange and unusual. The notion of surrealism conjures up worlds unlike anyone has envisioned before. To create with this style is to prize the random, the accidental, and the absurd. Surrealistic writing comes from letting go of the controlling of words and ideas. Through the use of surrealism miraculous surprises will emerge from the random combination of words, sentences and visual images. We will work with a variety of techniques to break down any ideas you have about how the world exists. Through uncontrollable writing and word games a new language will begin to develop. In a sense you will be reinventing the world through language. Instructor: Mike Dulin

Thursday Workshop
Screenwriting 101
First Step... Brainstorm! In this workshop we will brainstorm ideas, discuss key screenwriting concepts, and come up with loglines for our movies. Instructor: Megan Holley

Session 4: July 18-22

2011-02-22T06:59:00.000-08:00

Morning Session with Bird Cox: 10 am - 1pm, Ages 14-17 FULL!
Afternoon Session with Valley Haggard: 2 pm - 5 pm, Ages 10-13: FULL!

Tuesday Workshop
Courting Specificity with the Writer’s Notebook
One of the biggest obstacles for beginning writers is a tendency to write in a general way about things that are actually quite specific: people, places, events.
This workshop will explore craft through the writer’s notebook, a useful tool for courting specificity (and making the most of your time on buses or in waiting rooms). Focusing on setting and character, we’ll try a number of exercises, prompts, and observations that you’ll be able to use in your everyday writing practice. We’ll read selections from published stories and poems, and we’ll build the beginning of a notebook that will help you live, as a writer, in a more wide-awake way. By the end of the workshop, you will craft and revise a short, specific scene. Instructor: Belle Boggs

Thursday Workshop
The Magical Mystery Tour
How is it that a girl’s hair can grow for a hundred years? That your grandmother’s
ghost can come every afternoon for tea? That colored manta rays can guide a
seafarer’s dinghy to a new land? Enter the world of magical realism, a tradition of Latin American art and writing,where we don’t try to invent new worlds or creatures. Instead, we try to find what is magical in the utterly average world around us.
We’ll spend our class time becoming magicians with words – and finding the mystery in
our stories of everyday life. Instructor: Meg Medina

Character Mining with Gigi Amateau

2011-02-21T06:13:00.000-08:00

Gigi Amateau is the author of the young adult novel, A Certain Strain of Peculiar (Candlewick Press, 2009), a 2010 Bank Street College Children’s Book Committee 2010 Best Children’s Books of the Year and VOYA Review Editor’s Choice for 2009. She also wrote the middle-grade novel, Chancey of the Maury River (Candlewick Press, 2008), a William Allen White Masters List title. Her debut young adult novel, Claiming Georgia Tate (Candlewick Press, 2005), was selected as a Book Sense Children’s Pick, a New York Public Library Book for the Teen Age, and a VOYA Review Editor’s Choice. She contributed to the acclaimed anthology, Our White House: Looking In Looking Out (Candlewick Press, 2008). She serves as Treasurer of the Board of Directors for James River Writers. Gigi is a native of Mississippi, grew up in Mechanicsville, VA ,and graduated from Virginia Commonwealth University with a degree in Urban Studies and Planning. She lives in the city of Richmond, VA with her husband and daughter. Visit Gigi online at GigiAmateau.com!

Courting Specificity with the Writer’s Notebook with Belle Boggs

2011-02-21T06:12:00.000-08:00

Belle Boggs is the author of Mattaponi Queen, a collection of stories that take place along Virginia’s Mattaponi River. Mattaponi Queen won the 2009 Bakeless Prize, was short-listed for the 2010 Frank O’Connor Short Story Award, and was one of Kirkus Review’s top fiction debuts for 2010. Boggs was recently named “Best New Southern Author” by Southern Living magazine, and her work has appeared in The Paris Review, Glimmer Train, the Oxford American, and other publications. She teaches English at The Hawbridge School in Saxapahaw, North Carolina. Visit Belle online here!