Hogwarts School - Summer

Books

The books were strewn across the desk when I approached with a hand outstretched. I really hadn’t intended to find anything other than the letter opener in Dad’s desk that August afternoon, but instead I inadvertently cut a fresh gash, a paper cut across my future, and ever since then, I’ve walked with worry bleeding like ink within my veins.

People have noticed—professors aren’t blind—but no one has dared ask me about it. Perhaps they are afraid because they are grown-ups and grown-ups know that there are a lot of things beyond control, unscripted. I think that’s why Dad hasn’t told me and hasn’t made an appointment.

An appointment is concrete, and its outcome is the law—a gavel striking across the pages of my brain. And before the neurons break apart, I can see my father’s face looking sullen and uncertain as if he were facing an ethical quandary of one of his textbooks. Not because of what would happen—this always could have happened—but because of the arbitrary way the genes happened to align themselves in his family story without his consent.

Sometimes, I wonder if he knew when they married or when they first met. They must have talked about it. Perhaps she even tried to tell me with a comforting glance or a kiss on my forehead as she comforted me on the steps of Holyrood during a dreich rainstorm. She looked back at me that day too, when I was wading through the drawers on the desk and pushing past our tired law books, from behind a photo frame. Her hair curled neatly around her round cheeks as her blue eyes washed over me—a gentle cleansing of my fears through her reflection.

My reflection, I suppose. Dad always said we looked alike, but I had his systematic way of going about things and of arguing my way through things (gracefully, of course). But we were different too: I lacked her ease, her beauty, and the way the wind caught up in her curls as she visited the shops on Grassmarket.

Our books too were different. I’ve tried, of course, to learn her craft, but I fear my poems are too tight, wound by the same constraint that faces my future now. She read me some of hers then—and the greats: Blake, Barret Browning and the American called Frost—to try and soothe me to sleep, but Dad just jokes I’d point to the law books. There was something about the thickness and rust colors of the spine that drew my attention, even then.

Here, on Dad’s desk, they always looked so magnificent, even deep in the semester when the desk was at its messiest. It was here, tucked under the pages of Arlidge, Eady & Smith’s On Contempt, that I found the doctor’s note and with it, the word: hereditary. I’d gone through the drawers first—it was much more logical that way, for something to be where it should be.

I guess that’s what they’ll do, the doctors: find something where it should be, where it had been all along. They’ll trace my genes like letters only to unfurl them onto a page with Latin words of warning and vast numbers concealed with meaning—like the one I found.

Funny, it was here amongst the law books he uses everyday, just like another lesson plan or an ungraded essay. Does he read it regularly? Or even every now and again? Maybe that’s why he’s not remarried—because Mum is still here, in this house, amongst our books. Maybe he, like me, enjoys being alone: the subtle comfort it brings of knowing your pain is written only for you.

Except I see him—I see the way the wrinkles scrunch up in his face as he grades, the way he sighs on Mum’s anniversary, the way he holds me close when I get off the train—and I think it’s a lie. I think we only work because we have each other—because I see that, and he sees my hidden moments, the way I hover over my books and pull them close. We don’t talk about it—why should we?—but we’re there. We’re here.

If he made the appointment, and I wasn’t here anymore, he’d just have his books. Smith, and Bingham and Bertrand Russell. Although they comprise both his comfort and mine, I doubt they could bridge the gap. And then, unlike before, no little hands would hold yours.

I don’t want to leave you, Dad, without a hand to hold—

—again.

Lovely that Does Not Endure

Don’t ask me about it: my pastoral childhood days 
They didn’t soften like you and yours and the neighborhood
Winters boast not hot chocolate and summer rays
Don’t ask me about it: my pastoral childhood days 
As if there were cucumber sandwiches and mayonnaise
Or some soppy sunset song version of motherhood
Don’t ask me about it: my pastoral childhood days 
They didn’t soften like you and yours and the world

Hi Ema!

Thank you so much for sharing 'We'll Meet Again' with us this summer. This prompt begets stories like this one, but I enjoyed being able to experience this from the person that is dying i.e. Emaline, not her family. That was a really smart decision to set up this piece.

What really stood out of me reading this was the family dynamics in the room and the often unsaid stress of being parent, and wanting your children to have a better life. After all, no one wants to leave behind a child. This tension came through particularly well in the italicized sections as well as dialogue. There's a lot of love.

My first question with this piece is simply that there are so many characters in here! It's a lot for a reader to keep track of, especially in a shorter piece. In something longer, I think you could draw them out and make them more distinct. Personally, I am reading these children as fairly young, but if that's incorrect, maybe just go back and make sure they are coming off as the ages they are intended to be. This is something I struggle with myself so I wanted to raise it. I also wonder if there could be some shaping of the end? Or if it could be cut? I actually find ending with just the dialogue—“I love you too mama.”—really poignant.

I'm glad you were able to focus on such a significant moment and spend time with it. It's clear you really care about all of these characters, and I am glad I got a moment to get to know Emaline and her family.

Soap

Hi Michael!

Thank you so much for sharing 'A Darker Turn' with us. As someone who has not had the opportunity to thread with Michael, I really enjoyed this chance to get to know his story—even in an alternate timeline.

I find both the opening and the ending of piece really strong and emotional. One of my favorite things to write about is place and I love the ocean more than anything so the opening really grabbed my attention and quickly pulled me to a cold beach.

Muffled silence was all he received as it broke only by the slapping of water on skin. He preferred the ocean of his home, offering its crushing temperature difference. It cut into the brain, threatened the body, quieted the noise. The experience promised the world each time a small wave gathered ahead of him, each time he dove below the rolling energy. It was perfectly peaceful beneath that lively surface. His chest was objecting to the building pressure of diminishing oxygen as he swam upward after the wave had passed.

This paragraph in particular stands out to me. I really love how you are able to describe the ocean as this all encompassing body, and indeed, a character in its own right. I think perhaps an emphasis on place could have been woven in throughout, but I think it's really effective here at the beginning. I also enjoy the cyclical nature of opening and closing with the toy solider; that's a really lovely emotional thread in a tangible detail.

Where I get a little bit lost is the middle, and I wonder if there might be space for an elongated piece. Richard, for example, could be fun to flesh out. There's a lot of dialogue here, all in one big chunk. I'm wondering if you could provide more context to dialogue or weave it with more of the introspection and description that falls either above or below it.

There's a lot to explore here in this 'downward spiral' as you call it and I'm excited to see how you can continue to explore these themes.

Soap

Hey Alex!

Thank you so much for sharing 'Dear Dad' with us. I really how you took a prompt that the potential to be very large in scope with (perhaps too) high dramatic stakes, and ground it into something that is very simple and concrete: the struggle to write a letter. Furthermore, this simple act becomes the instrument through which we are able to explore family tensions and dynamics.

What stood out for me in this piece most of all was some really beautiful details in the sentences. That second line with the likening of letters to animals eating one another grabbed me right away (and perhaps brought me back to the early pages of Le Petit Prince). I think there is this wonderful poetic friction as well for a piece that's fundamentally about the inability to write, to have such lush imagery. There's also very much a stream-of-consciousness feel here, which is something I've always felt when reading Devi so it's great to see that consistency here with him. Finally, the forrest imagery is prevalent throughout and makes the whole thing cohesive from the elephant-eating snake to the frogs in the ink well.

Per your own note, there are always things can we can work on. Structurally, I wonder if these paragraphs could be broken up more? I found the single sentence paragraphs really effective to reflect this struggle with writing and I wonder if that's worth exploring more. When we get to the macaw, I think the second person doesn't quite feel as effective as it could be—more like a footnote. I think it needs to be further integrated to evoke this inner tension of duty and discomfort. In the latter half, I feel like some of these themes are getting jumbled together and maybe that's intentional; I am not sure.

However, this is my favorite paragraph:

There were Gods in the clouds, on the other side of the door. He heard them in the Weather, though, as ugly as it was, the peals of their passion that followed those shrieks, burst and diminished, all seasons. He had avoided calling them by name, for they must be called with the proper as to show obeisance alone, Dear God, and a total absence of sentiment and ink.

I feel like this beautifully honored Devi's tendency to get his head stuck in the clouds as we've seen in other threads. It also got me thinking about what role religion does or does not play in the Devarajah family, which might be something to explore in future pieces.

Give yourself some more credit. There are great moments to this. The question of "Was it better or worse than to have spilled it?" still remains in my head after reading as well as the notion of Devi not having to do anything he might be told—by will or by struggle or a combination of both. As someone from a realist tradition, I love that you were able to expand on what would be a really ordinary moment and transform it into something significant. Personally, I think that's where the magic is.

Keeping writing!

Soap

Dear Oscar,

Thank you so much for sharing "Let it Snow" with us.

I really love the simplicity of this piece—the fact that we're really only following two characters, the snow, the longing. A Christmas story is really difficult to make fresh and I think the simplicity really helps in that effort. I also really enjoy the dialogue between Oscar and Holly. While I can't put my finger on it, there's something Hemingway-esque about it—about not saying exactly what they are talking about.

What I would like to have seen is a little bit more of the magic. Outside of the House Elf and the Hogwarts Express model, I don't know that I would have known this is a magical household. I also think some of the language could be punched up in key places—breaking up that simplicity for emotional effect.

I am very curious about this family now and I can't wait to see what Oscar gets up to at castle. Well done.

Hugs,
Elsie

Hi! Please enjoy this modified triolet. For those who are unaware, I had a minor plot last term where Elsie's cat, Justice, was ill. Here is the resolution of that event—in a Christmas miracle.

---

Cat-ail-mas

How bright shone the weary feline tears, wide and unsure?
Together we crossed these cobbled streets, an unlikely family of three.
A cold office, with the white coats again, she expected held no allure
—How bright shone the weary feline tears, wide and unsure. 
In all of this she knew justice of medicine was never secure,
So, imagine the little girl surprise when he returned faced in glee.
How bright shone the weary feline tears, wide and unsure,
As we crossed these holiday streets, an unlikely family of three.

Dear Feyre,

Thank you so much for sharing "Aglets and String" with us. I adore what you've done here and it was a joy to read.

To begin with, I love how you chose to respond to this prompt. The boots were so unexpected for a prompt about power, and yet so perfect for Feyre. It was really an inspired choice. Several images stood out for me, particularly the idea of fear as an ice cube. I could really feel Feyre's frustration and come along with her on that journey. Additionally, your line breaks are really smart. In cases where a sentence occupies a whole paragraph, it gives that sentence weight and I think generally, you choose the right sentences to carry that weight.

For things that didn't work for me, there are two things that come to mind. First, while I continue to praise the imagery, there is a lot of it. And in some cases, it makes for quite lengthy sentences. I just make sure you're picking your best images and let those pack a punch. I also agree with Tippa on the spirits. It's not very clear her relationship with the spirts. Though I wonder if this is because it's still the beginning of that arc?

Thank you again for sharing! This was a beautiful read. <3

Elsbeth

I really struggled with this prompt actually. Originally, I was going to write a hermit crab essay (which might still appear here if I get to it), but there was something about it that was just not sitting well with me. So, I moved to poetry instead. This is a triolet. (For some reason, workshop has me challenging myself with form!) The rune it's meant to reflect is Wunjo or "joy." But as some of you might know, Elsbeth has a rather complex relationship with joy.

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Stardust

How tedious it had become: to pack the stars with insight—
Timidly, quietly, like bluebell petals crushed in library books
—Of the joy that slipped away as pearly moondust that night?
How tedious it had become: to pack the stars with insight—
Just inside the ash-framed window a cat stared out at twilight
With the girl rumored to inherit all but her mother’s good looks.
How tedious it had become: to pack the stars with insight—
Timidly, quietly, like bluebell petals crushed in library books.