We’ve loved seeing you every day this summer, young writers! Keep up the good work and don’t stop sending us your best stories/poems/prose/scribble to publish here on the blog.

We’re already hard at work making sure that next summer will be even better than this one, but until then, don’t forget to sign up for fall youth classes and check out the free Teen Novelists’ Conference.

It’s a quirky and powerful idea, and you can say you were a piece of art history!

A Personal Peace

The boy sitting alone in the pews looked distinctly out of place. His blue Mohawk and many piercings contrasted sharply with the drab, stately attire of the priest frowning down upon him. He was here to be cleansed, that he knew. His wild, free lifestyle had led his straight-backed parents to imprison him here. It would do no good. The proud antiquity of the vast church awakened no inner feelings of awe. The church  was unsettling in it sleepiness, so unlike the dance floor. The pulse of music and the thud of feet were his religion, far more real than these faded golden promises of absolution. His heaven was now. No one understood.

The Tree House

The tree was lonely. The Mojave Desert was vast and people were scarce. The tree lived on people. On their stories. On the tiny bare feet of their children when they climbed him. On the wooden houses that they made in his branches. On the soft sounds of the teenagers who first found love among his roots. On the rhythm of those who grew up and repeated the cycle. But this tree was lonely. There were no people.

He thought and he thought and one day he hatched a plan. He then began to grow, but not into branches with leaves. He grew into walls with windows. He grew into a roof. And then he waited, waited for the people to come. But it was not a family who came, it was a photographer. And then more photographers and then newspapers. Apparently what the tree had done was extraordinary, but all he wanted was a family. Eventually the papers grew bored with the tree house and one by one they moved away until no one was left.

Years passed and the tree grew sadder and sadder. Then one day he heard a noise, a laughing noise. Children! They had come at last, a boy and a girl hand found the strange tree house, and unlike the adults, they did not want to photograph it. They wanted to play. And even though he knew that someday the children would grow old and move far away, the tree was happy.

Of Death and Dreams

His eyes reflected the pain that seeing me like this caused him. I was standing there, in the middle of the room, tears pouring down my face. I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t face the truth. I turned away. My mother led me out of the hospital room, through the sterile hallways, and into the lobby. We sat down on small blue chairs while I attempted to compose myself. I looked at the mute TV, watching coiffed reporters laugh and talk as if the world weren’t crumbling away. I averted my eyes from their sickening smiles and focused instead on the steady stream of people walking past. I wondered what brought them all here. Were their loved ones approaching death as surely as my grandfather? Was this the worst day of their lives? I sincerely hoped not.

Very soon it was time to return home. As I kissed my grandfather good-bye, I looked deep into his eyes. He had told me not to be sad after three days, that he was only a person after all. But that wasn’t true. He was so much more. He was afternoons at the racetrack and mornings with too many snow clothes. He was nights watching dog shows and days of arguing. He was the stubborn rock that held the world together. How could I let that fall away without a tear?

Once at home, I walked quietly into my room. Perched on my shelf was a journal. I had never opened it. The plain black writing on the tan cover had always seemed too simple and yet too special to be written in. I took it off the shelf. Sprawling onto my parents’ bed, I began to write. I wasn’t writing about anything in particular. The topics ranged from cats to grammar. For about fifteen minutes, I poured my heart onto lined paper. When I had finished, I was surprised to find that there was a weight lifted from my shoulders. I fetched my CD player from my bedroom and inserted Mariel of Redwall by Brian Jacques. I let myself be swept away on a tide of adventure, of strength, of heroes and of love. I was free.

In the morning, I went to school as usual. We were to say our final good-byes that night. It felt strange to be at school. Perhaps the oddest thing was that it was not hard to act normally. Maybe it was because he had never been to my school that his memories could not haunt me there. Sometime around nine o’clock, the teacher’s phone rang. She told me that my father was in the office. My friends wished my grandfather well as I walked out of the room. I suppose that it was kind of them, but I knew. I had known from the second the phone rang that he had already died. I could tell that his presence had left this world. I fetched my things automatically, and my feet led me down the familiar halls and over to my father. As we walked out into the blinding sun, I knew. I knew that the first thing my dad would say would be the time that he had died. I waited.

“It was at about 8:30. Mom hadn’t gotten there yet,” It was so like my grandfather to slip off before we could say good-bye. He had known that it would be easier this way.

Everything went smoothly at the hospital. The nurses came and went. I did not cry. I had accepted the truth the day before. When the complex proceedings had ended, we headed out into an ironically glorious May morning.

That night I had the most realistic dream of my life. I was watching my grandfather. He was sitting in his favorite chair, not looking at me; his eyes were fixed on where the TV would have been. A small smile curved his lips, and an undeniable aura of peace emanated from him. It was immediately clear that he was happy, and with that I realized that I was strong enough to live and to love again.

Stone Stoup is a quality print magazine written entirely by kids up to 13 years old. They invite submissions, book reviews, and illustrations. And get this: if you’re printed, you get paid!

It takes confidence and bravery to submit your work to be published, but I can tell you from looking at your work all summer, Loft Young Writers, that you are good enough to be published. I hope you try!

For inspiration, take a look at this beautiful sample copy of Stone Soup.

Visit the Loft’s Facebook page for pictures of the reception.

For a fun activity at the reception, we handed out writing prompts. A few student artists were brave enough to share what they came up with.

By Isak D., age 9

By Andrew K., age 8

By Daniel B., age 10

Also by Daniel B., age 10

Many thanks to Figment.com. We adapted the prompts slightly from their Daily Themes.

A drawing by Isaiah K., age 9

By Astrid A., age 11

A comic by Wes T., age 12

Another comic by Wes T., age 12

A twisted fairy tale by Thiago X., age 11

Hunger Games poem by Clare L., age 11

Clare L., age 11

By Tyler T., age 9

Never Bring a Lion to the Movies by Mina R., age 6

“Never Bring a Lion to the Movies” by Mina R., age 6
Page 1

Mina, Page 2

Mina, Page 3

Mina, Page 4

Mina, Page 5

If You Give a Pig a Apple by Camille W., age 6

If You Give a Pig a Apple by Camille W., age 6

Camille W., Page 1

Camille, Page 2

Camille, Page 3

Camille, Page 4

If You Give a Mouse the Newspaper by Svetlana G.

If You Give a Mouse the Newspaper by Svetlana G.

Svetlana G., Page 1

Svetlana g., Page 2

Svetlana G., Page 3

If You Give a [Tortoise] Coca Cola by Thomas G., age 8

If You Give a Tortus Coca Cola by Thomas G., age 8

Thomas G., Page 1

Thomas G., Page 2

Thomas G., Page 3

Thomas G., Page 4

Thomas G., Page 5

Thomas G., Page 6

Thomas G., Page 7

We took the train from Caen to Paris. As the train acquired an increasing  detritus of passengers, more and more people accumulated in the cramped compartments. I felt sorry for the poor souls forced to stand during the bumpy, jolting ride, clinging for onto the edges of occupied seats. After my guilt became unbearable, I offered my seat to the Young Woman sitting uncomfortably on my arm rest. She refused at first, protesting softly in French. Her petite facial features were dwarfed by a disgustingly enormous pair of sunglasses. She soon realized that I didn’t speak French and sat down. Most likely she dreaded a prolonged non-vocal/multilingual argument, as did I. “Merci, merci,” she repeated.
And for the life of me, I couldn’t remember how to say ‘you’re welcome’.
I stood in the aisle for the remainder of the trip. Occasionally I bumped shoulders with the Stranger standing next to me, he offering an apologetic grunt and I nodding stoically, too jet-lagged to care. The table in front of us was inhabited by a pair of Businessmen chattering excitedly and fiddling with their smart phones. I could almost see the euro signs in their eyes.

To the left of the older one was a greasy lump of a Man, probably in his early 20s. He reeked of body odor and was reading some sort of poroagraphic comicbook. Cartoon priests molested cartoon choir boys in what I guess might’ve been a humorous manner if I could read French. Across from him was an Old Woman. She wore a scarf on her graying head and a scowl on her massive, French lips. Her face was contorted into an expression of exaggerated displeasure as
she frowned at the Man reading his comics.

I stared out the window and listened to Linkin Park for the next hour or so.
Arriving finally at the station, the Young Woman placed a manicured hand on my Slipknot sweatshirt and thanked me a last time. Again, I kicked myself, wishing I could say ‘no problem’.

“I wonder if outside there’s a bird chirping…” by Wes T., age 12

“The outside world is so full of life today…” by Wes T., age 12