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The waring school's North Shore Young Writer's Conference was one of the most beneficial things I have ever done
The waring school's North Shore Young Writer's Conference was one of the most beneficial things I have ever done
In the words of the school itself;
In the words of the school itself;
The conference will feature a combination of writing workshops and readings led by published mentors. This year we are pleased to offer mentorship by authors Colleen Michaels, Kevin Carey, and Ralph Sneeden. The workshop will culminate in a group reading of student work created during the two days. Participants can experiment with different styles of creative writing, including poetry, fiction, and personal essay. Students will work both one-on-one and in small groups with their mentor.
Ralph Sneeden (far right) was my main mentor through the two days. The insight he offered, not only on my own writing pieces, but on my peers really changed the way I thought about writing. This conference showed me that there are other young people that want to be authors and that I'm not alone. Writing can be challenging, but the environment this conference spawned filled me with an inspiration that continues to help me write today.
Below, I will put a sample of a short story I wrote while at this conference. Though it had nothing to do with my book or this English project as a whole, I am super proud of this short story and read it aloud to all the people at this conference when we shared.
My trusty notebook from the conference where I did all my writing
Matter of the Heart
Matter of the Heart
For this assignment, we had blindly chosen a picture of a person from a sack. We then had to write a piece of “flash fiction,” or a story less than 500 words, that included this character. This is the horror story I came up with.
For this assignment, we had blindly chosen a picture of a person from a sack. We then had to write a piece of “flash fiction,” or a story less than 500 words, that included this character. This is the horror story I came up with.
When she got the call of a domestic abuse case, her heart leapt into her throat in a way that was becoming far too familiar. She got into her Prius, ignoring the dent in the driver’s side door, and prepared herself for whatever trauma this child had been through.
Police tape surrounded the small, brick apartment. Potted roses and lilacs lined the window sills, seemingly unknowing of the events that had occurred behind them.
"Monica," inspector Barton said, grasping her shoulder in the physical contact that she had learned to expect from him. She saw the worry in his eyes, the horror of what ever went down in the Wimbley household was surely worse than a casual spousal smack.
What Monica didn't expect to see was a boy, probably around six or seven, sitting on the carpet that was stained with large splotches of maroon.
why hadn't he been taken to the hospital? She wondered instantly. The boy had his back turned to her, legs crossed and seemingly content to sit in his filth.
"Hey, bud," she said, making her way into the room.
"Good evening," he replied. His voice sent ripples down her back, goose bumps popping as though his voice was a frigid breeze. Monica had learned that sometimes it was good to let the kids speak to her indirectly, especially in abuse cases, so she stayed behind him and fiddled with the bracelet on her wrist.
"Are you not curious why I'm still sitting here, Monica?” The boy said, and her voice got caught in her throat, "Did they tell you what happened?"
Monica swallowed, and grasped for some fleeting strands of control, "why don't you?"
He spun around then, pupils blown all to black. In his hands lay a gory, matted, coated-with-dog-hair human heart, muscles in the arteries still reflexively twitching as though still alive.
“Aren't you jealous?” A twisted smile spread across his blood splattered face.
"I don't know what you're talking about, son. Look , why don't we just-” her voice shook.
He put up a finger, commanding her silence, "See, I was able to end my Father's torment, my Mother's suffering,” he tossed and caught the heart like a baseball, "you were too weak."
Monica's head spun, and she didn't know how this boy knew her, or her life, and she wanted to leave and never come back.
“Or,” the boy stood, and his grin twisted into a snarl, fleshy upper lip shifting a drop of red under his nose, “Maybe that's what you wanted all along.”
Yes, She thought as he sprinted towards her.
Maybe It was.
My mediocre illustration
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