Apple Core

by Rachel

"At one point in this journey you’re gonna wish you had gone down the left path. What were you thinking?" said the nagging little voice in my head.

 I had to admit, my voice of reason spoke the truth. It’s dark. It’s cold. I was lost, and I don’t know where my friends’ cottage is. There are seven of them and I was supposed to cook dinner for them, but I haven’t even seen daylight in two hours.

Getting home before supper was going to be virtually impossible. And in an enchanted forest, anything can happen. Fairies could kidnap me. Giants could beat me and take me to their cave.

There was a story in the Gazette a few days ago about a woman getting snatched by a couple of little dwarfs. Considering the fact that dwarfs are only three feet tall, the whole story just scared me.

I quickened my stride and ran blindly ahead, trying to catch a glimpse of something . . . anything . . . that looked familiar. Something that could guide me home.

*****

It all started when I was walking down the path and met that old lady. She was all hunched over like she had some sort of back pain. She only had one eye and her single tooth sparkled in the moonlight. She winked at me and beckoned me closer with one crooked finger. Not thinking, I took a few steps forward and stopped a few yards away.

"What are you doing?" My voice of reason screeched, "Are you insane?"

Ignoring the voice for a moment; I summoned all of my strength and called out,
“What do you want?”

“You seem lost.” The old lady stated, smiling.

“No, not really.” I shrieked, trying to keep cool without success. “I was just trying to get home for dinner. My accomplices can’t cook. They’re waiting for me to get home.”

"Stupid! Why would you tell a complete stranger all of that?!"

“You make dinner? For how many people?”

“Just seven. It seems like a lot, but I’ve gotten used to it.”

“Your name is Snow White, isn’t it?”

My heart stopped. How did she know my name? I’ve said too much. I began to back away towards the pathway that would lead me away from this crazed old lady.

“Don’t go off now: I was just going to offer you a present.” From underneath her cloak, she pulled out a basket. Something red and shiny gleamed in the faint moonlight. I craned my neck to see what it was.

“Aren’t you eager?” Her face broke into a toothy grin, “Don’t get too excited. They’re just apples. Plain and simple apples. Would you like to take these back to your friends? I have enough to share. I just picked them fresh off of the tree this morning.”

“All right . . . thanks.” I stepped forward and snatched the basket from her bony hands.

 She smiled again and said in a throaty voice, “Have a nice journey.”

My blood pounded in my veins and my heart was doing a mile per minute.

“And, since you want to get home by dinner . . .” she trailed off, pointed to the pathway that led towards the right: “I would suggest taking this pathway instead off the left. Gets you home quicker so you can make a pie out of those apples for dinner.”

I nodded feverishly, and swallowed. The old lady smirked. She turned around without another word and disappeared into the dark shrubbery. I blinked once, then turned around and took the right path towards home.

*****

It was now hours later, and the supposed “shortcut” was taking me nowhere. I wished I had gone down the left path. I wished that I hadn’t even listened to that stupid witch in the first place.

I panted and clutched my stomach. It was hours since I had eaten last. There was a gust of wind and I shivered. I sat down on the ground and curled up into a ball to try and conserve whatever body heat I had left.

Several minutes passed in silence. I listened to the birds twitter and the wind push through the branches above me. My voice had been quiet for the past while, but it suddenly piped up and yelled at me angrily: “This is getting ridiculous. Stand up! Don’t be a wimp! You’ve got to keep moving, or at least go back the way you came! Get up you lazy witch!”

I shivered, and tried to sit up. When I did, my stomach pained doubled and I hunched over again, squeezing my eyes shut and waiting for it to stop. I fell back down to the ground again and whimpered softly. The voice clucked in my head and whispered, “You’ll have to get up eventually, you know.”

“Shut up.” I moaned. My head pounded. If only I had something to eat . . .

The apples! I quickly grabbed the basket and picked out one apple. I held it up to the moonlight and squinted. It hovered like an orb in my hand, glistening temptingly.

The voice suddenly screamed through the silence: “Don’t eat it!!!”

My stomach moaned, beckoning me to eat the only food for miles. I held the apple to my lips; took a deep breath and sunk my teeth into it. My teeth broke the delicate skin and the sweet juice flowed over my tongue. But something was wrong. Something tasted funny. It burned. My tongue burned. It was on fire. I couldn’t concentrate, I couldn’t see. I was blind. The poison of the apple trickled down my throat and I opened my mouth to scream . . .

But nothing came out.

I flumped to the ground and struggled to keep my eyes open. A long shadow, a shadow of a human . . . loomed over me, blocking everything from view. Then everything went black.

The voice was right all along . . .

THE END

The Hat

By Rosalie, age 11

I had been staring at it for quite a while.

It was a hat. A faded, torn fishing hat, probably left by a careless hiker. Nothing more, nothing less. Just a hat.

It was obviously something not worth debating.

“Why are you staring at a hat,” said my brother. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. I hated when he did that.

“I dunno,” I said. “There's something special about it,”

“It’s a hat,”

“I know that,”

“What’s so special about it? I mean, other than it’s a hat.”

It was official: my very own brother was as sentimental as a cactus.

“It’s a special hat, that’s what.” I said.

He laughed at me.

“Alyssa, get over here already!” said the distant voice of my mother, already getting farther and farther away from my position at the trailhead.

“Coming!” I yelled back. I hesitated for a moment, then scooped up the hat and started running to catch up with her.

We kept hiking for a few minutes longer, watching the small trickle of passersby. I turned over the hat in my hands, and stopped when I found the writing on the inside. “If found please return to 208 Cranberry Road.”

Darn
~~~~

I remembered exactly what had happened at 208 Cranberry Road. I was seven years old at the time. It must have been during the holidays, because I had gotten out of bed early that morning to hand out Christmas cookies to people on our block “all by myself,” my mother in tow.

If I had known . . . I never would have gotten out of bed.

Everyone was enchanted with the little girl with bright green eyes and bouncing curls. You can laugh all you want about my ballooning ego, but hey, I was taking it all in.

 And then we got to the house on the corner. 208 Cranberry Road.I remember the door opening. A man opening it. Yelling. A door being slammed in my face.

There were rumors about him. One day, a kid on the block had been kicking around a soccer ball. He kicked it into the man’s lawn, and the next minute, there was the man, yelling at him.

The man at 208 was a kind of a legend. No one went near him, and he didn’t go anywhere near anyone else.

That man was standing in front of me right now. I braced myself for the door slam. I was less scared than I had been four years ago, but getting a door slammed in my face wasn’t my idea of a walk in the park, nor was it a pampering of the ego. I clutched the fishing hat in my hand, the words playing in the back of my head were something like, “idiot.” To think that I would go up to the man who lived on 208 Cranberry Road again was revolting. The fact that I had gone back to return a stupid fishing hat, of all things, was even more revolting.

I tried not to make eye contact with the man in the doorway so that he might not be able to see who I was. I was about to duck out from the doorway and leave without another word, when a little boy, probably about five, came up from behind the man and tugged at his arm.

“She has my favite hat, gwanpa!” he said. For a second, I was confused. The little boy came up, snatched the hat out of my hand and jammed it onto his head. He then reached up to grab the man’s hand.

“I see she does, Felix,”

I was startled with the man’s voice. It wasn’t anything like what I had remembered. It was warm and inviting.

“Thank you for returning this to my grandson,” he said.

I sat there, my mouth hanging wide open. When I finally regained enough sense to close it, the questions started piling up.

“What? Who? How?” I stuttered.

“His name is Felix,” he said. “My grandson. Long lost. Recently found.”

The man reached down and patted the boy’s head.

“Thank you. Good day.” The man closed the door behind him. Through the window, I could see him walking away from the door with his grandson.

THE END

Snow White vs. the Seven Dwarfs
by Kate M., age 10

"Queenie the Gypsy: Palms Read, Fortunes Told, NON-Homework-Related Questions Answered. $5 A Session," Cassie read the sign, and thought, "Well, I do have $5 . . . Okay, I'll do it!"

 She entered the shop. Lavish, glittering drapes of red and purple decked the room. Scented candles perfumed the air. Flickering lanterns created an eerie red glow. And seated at the center of the room, there was Queenie herself, with crystal ball in front of her.

"Sit down, SIT DOWN!" the old woman ordered the now-reluctant Cassie. "Money, please. Thank you. Okay, at one point on this journey you’re gonna wish you had taken the left path. Now scat."

Well, obviously Cassie felt as if she did not get her money's worth. To her, one random blurt was NOT worth five bucks. They argued over the fee until the gypsy gave in, promising a full refund, IF Cassie assisted her stepdaughter, who was a counselor. The gypsy woman instructed Cassie to help "Snow" with "seven little brats.”

Queenie led her to a back door that opened into a forest and pushed her out.

Cassie walked and walked until she reached a fork in the path. To the left were dark skeletal trees, human screams, and the stench of rotting flesh. To the right were beautiful flowers, joyous music, and the smell of freshly baked cookies.

"That hag is nuts if she thinks I'll ever want to go down THAT horrid path!" Cassie thought. So she moseyed down the right path.

As she trotted along, whistling a tune, her foot stumbled on something wet. The trodden-upon item was a fresh apple core. "This," she deduced, "must be a sign that someone is nearby." She called out into the woods. No answer. She noticed a rocky cave. Since it would be dark soon, Cassie decided to venture inside to see if she could find anyone, and ask for bed and board.

She stepped into the cave and called again. This time, she could see a light coming towards her. As it drew nearer, she could see a person holding a lantern.

That is, if it could be called a "person".

The grotesque figure stood 20 feet tall. He wore a pointy hat and had a beard stained yellow with food, though it must have been white. He wore old-timey clothes that had worn into rags.

But Cassie had no time to contemplate that mutant's appearance, for six more followed him. Two seconds later, she was tearing like heck out of there, with seven mutants in hot pursuit. Screaming all the way back to the fork in the road, Cassie silently apologized to the old gypsy woman for not believing her. Hanging a right, she ran into the dark forest. On and on she ran, until she was sure that she had lost them.

Suddenly, she spotted a miniscule cottage among the trees. Cassie bent over and knocked. An eye peeked through a tiny low window. The eye disappeared and someone said, "All clear!"

The door opened; Cassie stooped and tip-toed inside. The moment she entered, she had the curious feeling of walking into a dollhouse. Everything was miniature, wooden, and home-made; INCLUDING the kitchen sink!

"Ahem!" Cassie spun around to see two people, a man and a woman. The woman, more beautiful than an angel, had hair blacker than night, lips redder than blood, and skin whiter than snow. The man, just as beautiful, had wavy golden locks and abs that made body-builders look like weaklings. Cassie thought that they were glorious. That is, until the man opened his mouth.

"What, no gifts?" he complained, receiving a sharp slap from the woman. 

"Well," Cassie thought. "One out of two.” 

 She asked the people if they knew someone named Snow.

"I am Snow," the woman said, "Snow WHITE, that's me!"

 The man was Charming, Charm for short. They told Cassie how Snow's step-mom had given Snow a poison apple, but seven dwarfs ate it to protect Snow. The apple mutated them into monsters and they were destroying the forest. Charm proclaimed that killing them was "men's work" and ordered the women to stay and clean. Three minutes after he left, the women grabbed swords and followed.

They arrived just in time to see Charm getting eaten by the giant Snow recognized as Dopey.

"Good riddance," mumbled Snow, as the battle began.

Cassie had no idea what to do except to swing her sword around in all directions. Surprisingly, this tactic worked extremely well, because she was the weakest. In an hour, there were six dwarfs down.

 The last dwarf standing was Dopey, and he was NOT in a good mood. Snow lunged at him; he swatted her away like a pesky fly. She hit the ground hard, out cold. He sneered, and advanced on Cassie like a lion to lunch. Cassie fearfully stuck up her sword and braced herself. After two whole minutes of bracing, she opened her eyes. Miraculously, he had tripped and fallen, impaling his heart on a sharp boulder. Snow, who had just now come to, asked Cassie if they should bring Queenie a "hunting trophy".

Queenie looked up from her tarot practice as her step-daughter entered the shop.

 "Oh bother," she thought, turning red. "What could SHE be here for?"

Snow turned as Cassie lurched into the store, carrying a moist paper bag. Snow revealed its contents; 'twas Dopey's head.

 "Uh-oh, 'tis time to skedaddle," Queenie thought. She transformed into a crow and flew out the window, right into a hungry hawk's beak. Bidding Snow farewell, Cassie skipped home, wondering how on earth she could explain to her mother why she was TWENTY FOUR HOURS late!

And Snow lived happily (and Charm-lessly) ever after!

THE END

The Tram
by Mehr R., age 11

The rusting black tram kept on coming closer, closer, closer. I knew we would collide this time. I could see the crooked nosed, light haired driver with a determined look in his blue eyes. The tram was an inch from my nose . . .

My eyes flew open. I kept on having that same dream, and the train got closer every time. I grabbed my glasses off the windowsill.

I heard my mother’s voice coming from downstairs. “Amelia! Summer vacation doesn’t mean you can sleep forever! You said you would return my library books!” she called.

 I sighed and looked out the window. The sky was a beautiful light blue, and the grass was green as ever. It wasn’t raining, and I really had no reason not to go. I heaved myself off the bed and slipped into jeans and a t-shirt.

I skipped down the stairs, and chugged a banana milkshake my mom had made for me and set on the table. My mom gave me one of her “you’re so sweet” smiles. I just wanted to go for a walk and think about the dream.

 I looked down at one of the cookbooks I was returning for my mom-“Oh NO! Ravioli AGAIN!” I dropped them into my blue tote bag, and headed for the library.

It was convenient living near the library, as I rather liked books. I pushed up my glasses, and pulled my dark black hair back into a ponytail. I felt an odd breeze, too cold for summer. I reached into my bag, remembering my woolen scarf I left there in the winter.

 After walking the few blocks to reach the library, I pushed open one of its large wooden doors. I knew the librarian Victoria well, and I didn’t have time for a conversation. I rushed over to the returns bin and dumped the books in. On my way out, I saw a news article clipped out and put on the “Interesting Reads” pinboard by the entrance. It was about how sometimes recurring dreams are a sign of something soon to happen. I scoffed to myself.

Just as I was crossing a road, something didn’t seem to see me. A dark tram was coming at full speed towards me, driven by a crooked nosed, light haired driver with a determined look in his light blue eyes.

 THE END

The Mysterious Forest

by Brian S., age 11

“We really shouldn’t be out here, dude,” said Charles Fertago to his brother, Connor.

The day wasn’t that bad, Connor thought to himself. The clouds were balanced across the sky, the sun was only partially hidden by them, and the wind was muffled by the trees of the enormous forest that lay ahead of them.

“Oh come on, you wimp. I told Mom and Dad we might be out for a while. Besides, it was your idea - you wanted to make your documentary on the ‘mysterious forest,’”

Connor thought that calling him a wimp might get him to cooperate, and he was right.

“Fine, I’ll do it, because I’m not a wimp.”

So the two boys started down the path until there came a fork in the road.

 “Let’s go right,” Connor said

“Why should we go right?” argued Charles.

“Because I’m right handed and I’m the oldest,” answered Connor

“Only by a minute!” said Charles, frustrated.

“So! By how much older I am doesn’t matter, the point is I’m the oldest and we’re going right”

“Whatever,” Charles muttered

“Come on, I want to explore more before it gets dark!”

Connor took off running at top speed with Charles right on his heels, but they'd only gone twenty yards when Connor stopped very suddenly and Charles very nearly knocked him over.

“Hey doofus, why did you stop?” said Charles as he carefully examined his newly bleeding knee.

“Have you ever seen a glowing apple core before, Charles?” asked Connor.

“No, why?” Charles replied.

“Then I’ve got something for your documentary up ahead on the path,” said Connor, his mind working on how in the world an apple could glow.

“What are you talking about . . .Oh.”

 “Hello travelers.”

“I’m sorry, did that apple core just speak?” said Charles, in total disbelief.

“Yes, I’m pretty sure it did,” said Connor, who at the moment was rubbing his eyes. “Who are you,” he said to the apple core.

“I am the spirit Radia inside of an apple core, what does it look like?” Said the apple core.

“I’ve never heard of Radia,” said Charles. “Why are you here,” he asked.

“Well of course you've never heard of me. None of the Greeks or Romans ever cared enough about me to have a story about me in their precious myths, so nobody knows who I am. I am Radia, the Goddess of the future. As for why I’m here, I’ve come to warn you about the path that lies ahead.”

“What lies ahead?” asked Charles.

“Danger. Trust me, at one point on this journey your going to wish you had down the left path,”

“Ha! I told you we should have gone left, I told you!” Charles said triumphantly.

“Now I must be on my way, good luck, and goodbye.”

Then the apple core simply disappeared, and the boys took off down the path.
They ran forever, right up until their knees buckled underneath them and their stomachs had cramps, but strangely, Connor felt the need to keep going. So he got up, but then the weirdest thing happened. The world seemed to drop away. Connor could feel himself start to fall. He reached out for his younger brother, but Charles was nowhere to be found. Connor screamed out one more desperate call of “Charlie!!!” but everything was already black.

Connor woke up covered in a thick layer of sweat, thankfully in his own bed, in his own house. To his surprise, he found Charles sitting by his bed.

“What did you dream about Connor?” asked his little brother.

“I had a nightmare, you were there, we were in an-”

“Enchanted forest?” said Charles.

“Yes,” answered Connor, “How did you know?”

“I think we shared a dream. I had the same thing. It must be a twin thing.”

But then they both saw it at the same time, a faint light coming from an apple core. It was glowing blue.

Charles smiled at his brother and said, “Let’s go left this time”

Connor grinned back at Charles as he realized what had happened. That dream was somewhat real, up until the black hole, he hoped.

 “That,” he said, already moving toward the apple, “is the best idea I’ve heard all night.”

 THE END

We're delighted to have Patricia Zaballos, author of WORKSHOPS WORK as our guest creativity blogger this week. She offers practical and helpful tips on how to give (and receive) feedback in this fantastic blog post. We love her tips and ideas! Three lucky people will also win ebook/PDF copies of her new book! Be sure to leave a comment below for a chance to win this terrific and useful book. --Anne and Ellen

  5 TIPS FOR OFFERING FEEDBACK TO A WRITER

 If you are the sort of writer who writes for an audience—meaning you’re not simply writing in a journal, or writing stories about your cat for just you and your cat—you might appreciate getting feedback on your writing from others. Feedback can be useful and encouraging and validating. It’s often just the thing a writer needs to move from one level of writing to another. It can offer the difference between feeling like you’re reading your work into a deep canyon and hearing nothing but the echoes of your own voice in reply, and feeling like you’re reading your work at a campfire beside that canyon, with a circle of captivated listeners, who roast marshmallows and urge you on.

There are many ways to get feedback on your work. You might gather a group of fellow writers—or even one writing friend—and take turns sharing your writing and offering one another feedback. Such a format is sometimes referred to as a writer’s workshop, or a writing club, as it is here on Spilling Ink. There are ideas for starting your own club here on the Spilling Ink website. If gathering with other writers proves difficult, you can try sharing your work with one or more readers via email, and asking for written feedback. I received some incredibly useful written feedback on drafts of my new book from friends I’ve gotten to know online—people whom I’ve never met in person. Or you might share your work with others in writing and then “meet” to discuss it using a platform like Skype. When one of the women in my own writing group moved away, we began having her join our meetings via Skype, and it’s worked surprisingly well.

 Feedback can be a tricky thing. It’s like bacteria: the right type is good for you, like the microscopic organisms in yogurt, but the wrong type proliferates in your gut and has you running to the toilet! The right kind of feedback encourages a writer, and inspires you to keep writing. Too much misguided, critical feedback, on the other hand, can discourage a writer, and make you wish you’d never shared your work in the first place.

After years of participating in writing groups myself, and facilitating writer’s workshops for kids, I’ve gathered some tips for offering the useful, encouraging kind of feedback to a writer. If you’re in a position to respond to the work of other writers, you might keep these tips in mind. And if you share your work with others, you could offer a copy of this list to make sure you receive the sort of feedback you need.

5 Tips for Offering Feedback to a Writer:

1. Focus on the positive. When it comes to giving feedback, people often treat positive remarks like a quick introductory handshake. They’re the polite gesture that precedes the “real” feedback: the honest, constructive, critical stuff. Hold it right there! Positive feedback may be more powerful than you realize. It’s important for writers to hear what we’re doing well—because we don’t always realize what we’re doing well. It’s difficult to have perspective on our writing from where we sit behind the pen or the keyboard. Positive feedback gives us that perspective; it helps us see our strengths as writers. And when we understand what we’re doing well, we can keep doing it. That’s what it takes to improve as a writer.

When offering feedback, tell writers which parts of their work capture your attention. Point out words and lines that seem original and special. When you say that you like something in a piece of writing, try to explain why you like it.

Your positive feedback can help a writer see how much he or she already knows about writing. It can inspire a writer to keep writing.

Don’t underestimate positive feedback’s power.

2. Don't try to rewrite another writer's work. When given the chance to offer feedback, people often resort to telling how they would write someone else’s piece. It’s simply easier, I think, to recognize “flaws” in the work of others than it is to see what ought to be fixed in our own work. As Tip #1 states, it’s challenging to have perspective on our own writing. We can’t always recognize what isn’t working. Because it can be such a challenge to revise our own work, shaping someone else’s writing can seem easier! More satisfying!

Rewriting another writer’s work is not your job as a responder, however. In a feedback session we should not be telling other writers how to change their work. It would be more useful to point out what the writer is doing effectively—and to offer constructive feedback carefully and sparingly. Which leads to my next tip.

3. Keep constructive feedback concentrated on a few specifics. Too much constructive feedback can overwhelm a writer. When readers suggest how to write a piece differently, it can muddy a writer’s own vision of the work. Instead, consider responding to two simple questions: What confuses you in the piece? What would you like to know more about? Focusing on these two questions concentrates your feedback on the writer’s words, rather what you would do with those words. Responses to these questions are likely to be useful, without seeming like you are attacking the writer’s work.

4. Let the writer's questions guide the feedback session.  The best way to insure that writers receive the feedback they need is to let writers ask for what they need. Before sharing work with others, a writer might consider what he or she wants help with, and assemble a list of questions. Did I give enough evidence to convince you that Marvel is superior to DC? What did you think about the zombie at the gas station? Did you believe in the friendship between the exiled princess and the ferret pilot, or do I need to add another scene or two? Questions should be complex enough to require readers to think, and to force them to respond with more than a simple yes or no. And if a writer really wants to know how readers might rewrite the work, or part of the work, he or she can ask.

5. If you're giving feedback in a group, consider using the Cone of Silence. This tip applies whether your group is meeting in person or via video. I learned about the Cone of Silence in one of my adult writing courses. Basically, you begin a feedback session by having the writer read a favorite paragraph of the work aloud. (Or the writer may read the entire piece—if readers haven’t seen the writing already—as we do in my kids’ writer’s workshops.) Then an invisible cone drops over the writer, and he or she can’t speak until the end of the feedback session.

This method is helpful for a few reasons. First, feedback sessions are likely to linger on and get bogged down if writers continually explain and defend what they’ve attempted to do in a piece. Even more important: if listeners are confused by any part of the work, the writer’s silence forces them to work together to tease out what confused them. The writer can hear how different readers interpreted the writing, which can be very instructive.

Towards the end of the feedback session, the cone should be raised so the writer can ask those essential questions posed in Tip #4.

A few final words from Patricia

One of the most important things to remember about feedback is that you can learn as much by giving it as you do when you receive it. Offering feedback to another writer helps you pay attention to what works and what doesn’t work in writing. It helps refine your ideas about what kind of writer you want to be.

If you’re serious about writing, consider finding another writer—or two, or five—and sharing your work with one another. It’s likely to be more encouraging than reading your work to your cat, or into an empty canyon. And whether or not s’mores or campfires are involved, the feedback you give and receive is likely to fire up your writing in ways you hadn’t imagined. -- Patricia Zaballos

Patricia Zaballos is a writer, a longtime homeschooling parent, and a former elementary school teacher. She has facilitated kids' writer's workshops for over a dozen years. Little thrills her more than getting kids worked up about the written word! Patricia lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and is an avid knitter, beekeeper and chef of all things faceless. She writes about writing, homeschooling and passion-driven learning on her blog, Wonder Farm. You can also follow her on Twitter  and Facebook.

Be sure to post a comment by December 4, 2012 for a chance to win one of three ebooks of Patricia's wonderful new WORKSHOPS WORK!

For ages 8-12

For this contest we are doing something a little different! The challenge is to write a short story from one of the seven Story Starters below.  These wonderful prompts were submitted to us by Mariesa S., age 12, and we loved them so much we just had to use them.

Here’s what you do:

1. Choose one of the seven Story Starters below (just one, please)
2. Make sure you use all three elements (the place, the quote, and the object) in your story.
3. Your story can be written in any genre you like—fantasy, realistic fiction, science fiction, etc.
4. Send us your best short story of any length up to 1,000 words (you don’t have to aim for 1,000 words. Your story can be much shorter).

Who can enter:

Kids ages 8-12 in the US or Canada

Prizes:

1^st Prize $25 gift certificate to Barnes & Noble

2^nd Prize $15 gift certificate to Barnes & Noble

3^rd Prize $10 gift certificate to Barnes & Noble

All winning stories will be published on the Spilling Ink Creativity Blog

Deadline: January 21, 2013

How to Enter Paste your story into the Message section of the Contact page e-mail. Remember to include your name, age, and story title. Also, write "Story Contest" in the Subject line.

Here's the Contact page link: http://www.spillinginkthebook.com/contact/

STORY STARTERS

 #1

Place: Shoe store
Quote: behold the wonders of tape!
Object: Yellow pencil without eraser  

 #2

Place: Enchanted Forest
Quote: A one point on this journey you’re gonna wish you had gone down the left path.
Object: Apple core

 #3

Place: Library
Quote: Oh NO! Ravioli AGAIN!
Object: Woolen Scarf

 #4

Place: Trailhead
Quote: If I had known . . . I never would have gotten out of bed.
Object: Fishing hat

#5 

Place: Grandmothers bedroom
Quote: My foot hurts. I think I may have stepped on a porcupine, or sea urchin.
Object: Hamster ball. Or gerbil ball

 #6

Place: Science Lab
Quote: Don’t push the red button. That’s what you always hear. But did they say anything about purple buttons?
Object: Cereal box and bowl.

 #7

Place: Spaceship
Quote: Oh drat. Were in for it now! (Mumble, mumble, no thanks to you)
Object: Ski cap

Good luck, everyone!

And thank you, Mariesa, for these amazing story prompts!!

-- Anne and Ellen

What does nonfiction have to do with creativity, you may wonder. (We’ll get to the dough later.) A nonfiction writer doesn’t make up her story. She can’t even change the ending. Let’s say you were writing about the Boston Tea Party and in your version the men who were dressed as Native Americans sold the English tea to pirates instead of dumping the tea in Boston Harbor. Your version of the story, with its interesting plot twist, would no longer be considered a nonfiction account of the Boston Tea Party.

Even though you can’t change the arc of history when you’re writing nonfiction, there is still plenty of room for creativity. When I wrote The Great Molasses Flood, I had to decide how to tell my readers about this weird disaster. I knew that I would describe that moment on January 15, 1919, when a giant tank burst open, and more than 2 million gallons of molasses rushed out in a huge wave, flooding a small seaside neighborhood of Boston. And I knew I would talk about lives lost, property damaged, and the big, sticky cleanup. But how could I make my account of the disaster into a good read?

I needed some interesting characters—real people who had experienced the disaster. If I could tell the story of the flood from their points of view, the reader would get pulled in. So I spent weeks in downtown Boston reading the court transcript of the molasses flood hearings. The people who lost loved ones or property during the molasses flood sued the owner of the molasses tank. And they told their stories in court. Every word that anyone said in court was recorded. The transcript was 25,000 pages long!

I decided to focus on a handful of people from the time of the flood until the molasses hearings finally ended. I recounted nine-year-old Antonio DiStasio’s story from his terrifying ride on a sea of molasses to his day in court. I described seventy-eight-year-old Mrs. O’Brien’s experience getting knocked over senseless by the giant wave of molasses, which tore off half of her apartment.  

In addition to finding characters, and writing from their points of view, there was another important element of the book that I had to work out creatively. How was I going to built a strong narrative arc? The most exciting part of my nonfiction tale—the explosion of the molasses tank—occurred at the beginning. I had to introduce enough tension to keep the reader turning the page until he or she reached the end of the book. I decided I would keep returning to one central question that everyone was asking after the disaster. Whose fault was the explosion? Was it the fault of the company that owned the tank, or did someone plant a bomb in it?  (The bomb theory wasn’t as crazy as it sounds. There were people called anarchists who really did set off bombs in Boston at the time of the disaster.) I did not tell the reader the answer to this mystery until the end of the court hearings, when the acting judge decided who was at fault. The result, I hope, is a dramatic nonfiction narrative that makes readers feel as if they have been through the Great Molasses Flood themselves.

Writing nonfiction can be a creative and deeply satisfying process. After you’ve chosen  your subject and done the research, you need to find a quiet space in your home and in your life so the writing magic can happen. (That might mean leaving your phone in another room!) The writing isn’t always magical, of course. You may find yourself with pages of notes and a rough outline, wondering how you’re going to transform them into a book. I think of this as the bread dough stage. When you make bread from scratch, you usually start with flour, water, yeast, and salt. At first, when you stir them together in a bowl, the mixture looks like a hopelessly lumpy mess, which no intelligent person would want to eat. But it’s important to have faith in that mess-in-the-bowl, and keep stirring it, then knead the dough with your hands and knead it some more. Because eventually you will have a lovely round of bread dough that you just know will rise and bake into something delicious. And if you keep at your nonfiction work, rethinking the lumpy chapters and rewriting the sticky sentences, you will have a shapely manuscript that you can be proud of.

About Deborah: She has written more than twenty books for children and young adults, including a biography of Abraham Lincoln and Were Potato Chips Really Invented by an Angry Chef? She lives with her husband and son in Greater Boston and enjoys exploring old towns and neighborhoods on the Atlantic  coast, including the North End, where the Great Molasses Flood occurred. Look for her at her website and on Twitter (@deborahkops). 

Meet Arlo, Deborah's 9-week-old Portuguese Water Dog. He takes nice long naps, so she can write.

Wow! We had a lot of outstanding entries for this contest! In upcoming weeks, we'll try to honor some of the other particpants. But here are our choices for the winners. We were so impressed by their imagination, vision, passion, and just plain writing ability. We hope you'll enjoy them as much as we did! Please give them some love in the comments! Happy reading! Anne and Ellen

FIRST PRIZE:

Starry Night

By Sharon L., age 13

Too many people passed the old store without a glance. The run-down, rickety shingles were beginning to chip, the windows clouding over with the dust of the decades. Too many people had too much on their minds. Disillusioned by the mantra that life is too short for novelties, too few are staying behind to linger among the ashes of the ages. Yet one old woman spared the poor shack a glimpse. Soft, shimmering bells clinked as the door opened.

…

I found there to be something missing as I grasped the jade necklace. The jewels were carved from the millennium-old stone of the ancient world, the dragons’ fire from the depths of the heartland. My grandmother gave me a warm smile as I gently placed the string of pendants around my neck. “You are beautiful, my treasure.”

…

A little girl wanders around the crowded little apartment. Her parents are protective, watching her every movement to ensure that she is safe, though safety should hardly be a concern in the one-floor rented apartment. She toddles and falls, only to continue her ambling towards a shiny green box. It opens to reveal a string of beads, lustrous in the light of the dull floor lamp. A ribbon is intertwined within the package.

…

The conglomerate of food is hard to distinguish. One platter blends into another, one dish the same hue as those adjacent. The smells, though, overwhelm even the moist glimmer of the sauces mixed together. I try to take a single bite, but somehow another slice ends up on my plate. “Eat, eat!” Fingers pick up chopsticks, hand flitter to and fro, arms nudge other arms. I take a bite of everything.

…

An old woman lifts up a baby, less than a tenth of her age. She is positioned on a high chair, precariously set above the ground. The baby lifts up a bowl and a chopstick and waves around the odd pair until chicken and broccoli plop into her mouth. She drops all and happily chews. Food is presently on her mind.

…

We are running outside, the rainbow of paper, glue, and fabric growing ever higher as the breeze lifts. I feel a nostalgic twinge in my chest, but ignore the darkness as my cousins' squeals lift as high as the kites' path. I squeal for a moment myself, lost amidst the flurries of flight.

…

She sat down while the older woman carried her. Her eyes opened for a moment to allow the sight of beautiful box-shaped kites to cloud her vision. Fish gliding across the clear blue skies, dragons’ tails trailing with the strands of white, yellow squares brighter than the afternoon sun shining down. “Never forget.” She looked up at the woman carrying her and saw a tear trailing down her wrinkled skin.

…

We sit on the grass at night. The sun has finally set and there is nothing left for us inside. The grown-ups tell us to help out, so we take a stroll to the park and come back. Now lanterns are being hung from tall poles, tents being set out. A gazebo with high crimson arches dots the horizon, firefly lights brightening the darkness of the night. I feel the weight of a soft round pastry in my hand and a smile slips out. Mooncakes are my favorite.

…

The gazebo was decorated for this occasion. Not a single corner went unlighted. A tall brown table was set up for the occasion, a bowl of oranges resting in the center. The family looked above the rising hill. While their little girl munched on a fresh cake in the shape of the lunar sphere, they noticed the absence of neighboring lights.

…

My friend had texted me a while ago. “where r u? stop hangin out with those geeks!” Not a thought is wasted on ancient traditions and values, especially not in our bustling age of speed and movement, movement, movement.

…

There was no one familiar outside. The girl shrank up against her parents as she heard words she did not yet understand. “Go back, you Chino!”

…

I looked at my family, all settled at the dinner table, the lively chatter overriding all the darkness of the still air outside. Still, I feel that there is something left unsettled. Without another glance, I flipped my cell phone closed, stood up, and planted a gentle kiss on my grandmother’s tender cheek. “I will never forget.”

SECOND PRIZE:

Accidents

By Dani B., age 16

And I know how it would happen, too.

        She’d stand there, fumbling with the lipstick cap, and I’d wait for her to get it. I’m courteous. I’d wait until she twists the red up, like a bloody finger pointing at her, and that’s when I’d clear my throat.

        I know I’m awkward.  But sometimes that’s what’s needed.

She’d find me in the mirror, pretend to be concentrating on her eyelashes or whatever, but really she’d be sizing me up. And then, when she thinks she knows me, that’s when I’d speak.

        “You know, your sister’s messed up.”

       She’d turn around. God, I hope this would be important enough to her that she’d whirl around completely and then I’d see her full face. People always look different when you see their whole face.

        She’d look surprised, but she always looks surprised. Maybe that’s why she gets the leads in the school plays. I wanted to go to the last one, but I was tired of her acting.

        That was a week after Joyce switched therapists.

        “Excuse me,” she’d say. No, that’s too prissy. I’d like to think this would catch her off guard enough, take away all her bullshit until all she’d be able to say is, “What?” I think the whole world runs on that word.

        I’d look her straight on. That’s the one thing I know. I’d look at her, right there, so direct that she couldn’t look away. I think she’s one of those people who no one ever looks at, really; they just see what they think they know, and she lives up to it.

        “Joyce has a problem,” I’d say. I think if I worked really hard, I could keep my voice even. I’d swallow, but keep on facing her, trying not to move.

        I love how neat that sounds. A problem. Like it’s all wrapped up in a little package, tied up with string. Like she’s just a dog who did her business on the carpet or something—“Joycie had a little problem today…” or “Joyce had an accident.” That’s another great one: accident. Not the word, but the concept, that it couldn’t possibly be your fault. That you can just say to someone, “It was an accident,” and all will be forgiven. All must be. Because the next time, someone else will be the one who fucked up—not to blame them, of course, totally out of their control. What a joke.

        Joyce had told me it was an accident the first time I caught her. We’d been changing for gym, Joyce in the corner, having to borrow a tank top from the Lost and Found. I saw the red lines, little railroad tracks, and didn’t understand.

        “Joyce,” I said. “What happened?”

       Joyce had slithered into her sweatshirt.  Hadn’t looked up. “It was an accident,” she said finally. Then she walked away.

        I had been thinking of the little accidents—a series of paper cuts, a dropped kitchen knife, scissors gone wrong. The acceptable accidents you can shrug away. I thought that because I wanted to think that. It took me a while to realize how true those words really were.

        Because problems can be accidents too. Especially when you make them for yourself.

        That’s what I’d tell her anyway. And then her mouth would catch on the word—“Problem?” she’d repeat. Maybe she’d tell me I was wrong. Or maybe she’d ask who the heck I was, who I thought I was.

        Either way, she’d piss me off. There’s only one thing I’d want to hear, and that’s that she knows, that she’s doing something about it. Except part of me would be hoping that she wouldn’t say that, because then I couldn’t lash out at her.

        No hesitation. That’s the best and worst way, right? I think it’s worth the risk.

        “Your sister had a problem!” I’d say again, my voice rising. “Joyce is really messed up, and you act like nothing’s wrong! She’s going to die you know, she’s going to, LOOK AT ME, SHE’S GOING TO…” I’d swallow, act like I was trying to hold it in, but really I’d be gathering more. I wouldn’t want to leave anything unsaid. “You’re going to lose her!” I’d say. “Do you know that she cuts herself? Almost daily? Do you know how ashamed she feels of herself, how she had to hide it? Do you know she throws up? DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO SHE IS?  You can’t act like this is okay! LOOK AT ME, YOU CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE!”

       I wonder if she’d hit me. One slap, across the face. That’s what I’d do. The truth’s a bitch. But then she’d think about it, wouldn’t she have to? Wouldn’t she watch out the next time Joyce goes to the bathroom after dinner? Wouldn’t she check the desk for the razor I know she had?

        Wouldn’t she read over Joyce’s shoulder the next time she texts me, “I can’t handle it today”? Wouldn’t she be the one Joyce could talk to, she’d be the one…

       Just not me. Please.

        Not me.

        I know it would happen that way. I know it, and so when she walks in, I finish braiding my hair like it’s nothing. I watch her pull out her lipstick.

        And then she drops it. An accident. I kneel down to help her pick it up, and my body feels like it’s pulsing, and I hand it to her and look her straight in the face. Her whole face.

        And I have to stop because of how much she looks like Joyce. I look down and the sleeves of her dress are loose, and they fall back to expose her wrists when she reaches for it…

       And she knows I’ve seen her. All of her.  She takes it, reddens slightly, nods thanks. Then she teeters out on her high heels, leaving me with the nothing I was going to say, with the trail of accidents down her arms.

THIRD PRIZE:

To Think of Wednesdays

by Emma S., age 14

When I get up on Wednesdays, I’m either going to school, path A, or I’m staying in bed for a while longer, path B. If I take path A, I’ll be arriving in homeroom promptly one and one half minutes prior to the start bell at eight. If I take path B, I’ll be thinking about how weird the word “Wednesday” is when I cast a questioning glance directed at my calendar. I will think of how the n comes after the d, but we still pronounce the n before the d. Or so it seems. On path A, I will participate in playful banter amongst my friends, making the jokes of perverts and sailors. On path B, I will think about the English language, and how on its transition to America, it’s been somewhat slaughtered or recreated like a phoenix. On path A, I will not raise my hand to answer the question of whether or not this leaf is a dicot or a monocot. I truly have no understanding seeing as I didn’t do my homework because of a feline eating my pencil.

       On path B, I may get up eventually from the warm burrow in my blankets as my body is pressed against the mattress, but I can hear the rodents chattering, which means someone has entered my lair. On path A, I will wait until the bell rings after 35 minutes of drooling trolls. But on either path, I will see the demons, the shadows, and the sons of the light. School is filled with the trolls and the growls and claws of the educational establishment. Home is filled with the demons and the shadows and the haunts of past kinsfolk blotches and storms.

       I will take the torrents of my flaming anger out on the soft fluffy pillow as I turn into the roaring lion raging out of the hurt I feel from poachers hunting down my brethren. And after I calm down, the ice freezing over the flames, although it takes a while, and I will give my cumshaws to the rodents and felines of which I have frightened as I came up clawing and biting, spitting and hissing. And I sit, looking up at the window, calming down. But the burns and the singes of the flames still remain. I look at my feet, which slap across the cement floor of the dungeon as I cross to the window looking out at the moonlight, which may pass through the muddy glass, but I cannot feel through.

       And so, on either path, I cannot feel the cold embrace of the night’s mother. For I have my own mother, and no matter how much I wish it weren’t true sometimes, my mother and my father and my family, are my moonlight.

And so, I wake up Thursday, shooting a questioning glance to the calendar. I wake up from the dreams of my falling back asleep on path B or falling asleep during the lecture on path A. And I am no longer the lion who has iced over and the window is no longer reflecting the moon and humans are humans once again. The trolls have left, and so has Wednesday.

 Photo by Nancy Springer

A WRITER'S NOTEBOOKS

At a craft fair, I stopped to look at some eye-catching jewelry, each piece way cool, dramatic, one of a kind, and -- I suddenly realized -- not made out of precious metal or gemstones.  These pins and pendants and earrings were put together from bits and snippets of the strangest, most ordinary things: cola cans, Bic pens, golf tees,  push pins, plastic combs, rabies tags, salt shaker lids.  I picked up a pair of earrings made of paper clips and filing cabinet keys,  matchsticks and magic. To the woman behind the jewelery table I blurted, "I do this.  I'm a writer."

Then a rare and lovely thing happened: right away she understood. She said, "Of course.  You use notebooks."

Notice she didn't say "a notebook." She said, "notebooks," plural; intuitively she knew there had to be a lot of them, and even though I try to organize them, actually their contents are a jumble, probably worse than her craft room where she keeps her pot pie pans and diaper pins and Pringles lids and plastic spoons.  She probably tries to organize her collection  into piles the way I try to organize mine into lists.  Bumper stickers: "Proudly marching to the beat of a different kettle of fish." Friendly insults: "You classic yutzhead, you." Descriptions of mental incompetence: "His elevator doesn't go all the way to the top." Colors:  "Kudzu berry blue." Things I have overheard people say:  "So I dressed all in green and strapped a pink flamingo to my back and I went as a lawn."  Place names:  "Cold Bottom." And many more. My lists slop through various notebooks, all spilling together: graffiti, jokes, superstitions, tabloid headlines, nicknames, trivia, slang, fads, things that happen, words I haven't heard before. . . .

Anything that interests me. This is the raw material of my writing, not anything precious or expensive or exotic or imported, but ordinary stuff easy to overlook.  To me it is the gutter clutter of daily life that is wonderful and can be extraordinary if put together in just the right way.  

But first I have to notice it, collect it. So I keep a little notebook in the glove box of my car, and I have been known to pull over to the side of the road and write down something I have just seen (holding mailbox, unidentifiable concrete animal, perhaps a manatee in a tuxedo?). Other little notebooks go with me when I travel, and some larger ones stay at home, one just for quotes , another for poetry, another for newly discovered words if I find them to my liking, others a hodgepodge (there's a word) of things in lists and things I've seen and things that happen.

Now that I have met the ordinary-looking woman who makes extraordinary jewelry, I understand better what I do when I'm writing.  She has tools and glue; I have a computer keyboard with which I put together people and courage and  pizza toppings, dental hygiene and deviled eggs and loyalty and toy horses, lawn ornaments and true love and on and on, combining textures and passions, details and colors with heroes both male and female until somehow I create a unity that coheres into a story.  If I am skillful and lucky, what I have written will come together, like my new friend's jewelry, into a work that is more than just the sum of its parts.

What's frustrating yet wonderful is that I can never fit it all in, everything that's in my notebooks, my mind, my life.  I will always have to write another book, and another.  Another gleaming dream with which to pin my scarf, another resplendent  pendant to wear over my heart.  And of course, I will always need more notebooks.

-- Nancy Springer

Nancy Springer is a two-time Edgar Award–winning author. Her mysteries include the popular Enola Holmes series. Her thriller Blood Trail named an International Reading Association (IRA) Young Adults’ Choice Book, A VOYA Top Shelf Fiction Book, and an ALA Quick Pick for Reluctant Young Adult Readers. She lives in the Florida panhandle. Be sure to check out her brand new book: My Sister's Stalker!

Yes! It's here again! The Spilling Ink Teen Short Story Contest! Send us your best short story of any length up to 1,000 words. One entry per person, please. And by the way, you don’t have to write 1,000 words. Unless you want to, of course. Your story can be much shorter. Here's all the info:

Who can enter:

Teens ages 13-16 in the US or Canada

Prizes:

1^st Prize $25 gift certificate to Barnes & Noble

2^nd Prize $15 gift certificate to Barnes & Noble

3^rd Prize $10 gift certificate to Barnes & Noble

All winning stories will be published on the Spilling Ink Creativity Blog

Deadline: May 31, 2012

How to Enter Paste your story into the Message section of the Contact page e-mail. Remember to include your name, age, and story title. Also, write "Story Contest" in the Subject line.

Here's the Contact page link: http://www.spillinginkthebook.com/contact/

Good luck! Love, Ellen and Anne

Just when we thought that we couldn’t be more blown away by our talented young Spilling Ink writers, Hayley, D., age 13, sent us her photos. She has a great eye for unusual objects and thought-provoking scenes. In other words, her pictures make perfect Story Starters. So, welcome Hayley, as our first guest Story-Starter artist. We’re proud to have you on the blog.

This time, however, we’re not writing the captions. We dare YOU to come up with them. Leave them in the comments. When we get a bunch, we’ll post with the pictures.  And, oh yeah, don’t forget to write a story from these amazing pictures, too! We’ll be working on ours…

Love, Ellen and Anne 

StoryStarter 1:

photo by Hayley D

StoryStarter #2:

photo by Hayley D

StoryStarter #3

photo by Hayley D

StoryStarter #4

 StoryStarter #5

photo by Hayley D

StoryStarter #6