Stephanie Hoogstad
Bio
With a BA in English and MSc in Creative Writing, writing is my life. I have edited and ghost written for years with some published stories and poems of my own.
Learn more about me: thewritersscrapbin.com
Support my writing: Patreon
Stories (322)
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Harry Potter - Critique
It is a magical world of acceptance and love, with as many flaws as the mind that created it. The books have spawned movies, music, and roller coasters, inspired lovers and haters. It is a hydra with too many heads; cut one off, and three will grow in its place.
By Stephanie Hoogstad2 years ago in Critique
“Moby-Dick; or, The Whale” - Critique
What a whale of a tale—in size, at least. This story is more whaling, symbolism, and droning than substance. Unpopular in its day, it has made a remarkable turnaround, although maybe not deserved, and influenced generations of American literature and writers. Is it an American classic? Only in the classroom.
By Stephanie Hoogstad2 years ago in Critique
Barbie: Not For All Ages
An explosion of pink and feminism, of equality that might be truly equal one day. Filled with inappropriate jokes and nostalgia, this is not your daughter’s Barbie movie. So please, do not bring your young children to this movie and then complain about it; it is rated PG-13, after all.
By Stephanie Hoogstad2 years ago in Critique
Forever Changing
I know what you’re all thinking: ugh, another mushy “the Harry Potter series saved my life” piece. Had this been a few years ago, I probably would have written something along those lines. The Harry Potter books did not save my life, per se, but they did define me, shape me into the person that I am today—and then revisiting them through the lens of what their author has become tore me down and made me rethink everything that I had thought that I had ever stood for.
By Stephanie Hoogstad2 years ago in BookClub
Red Shift
I was sulking over a glass of whiskey when a man burst into the tavern. “Help! Rats, Lacanaille has rats!” His screeching forced me to look at him. He was scrawny, though not merely skin and bones. His hair, colored light as straw, was as full and fluffed. His clothes were a deep blue without any other sign of wear. He certainly was not a poor man, so I found it worth my time to listen.
By Stephanie Hoogstad2 years ago in Fiction
The Fairies in Walt’s Window
In the apartment above the firehouse on Main Street, U.S.A., a little light is always burning. Every day and night since Walt Disney’s death, the light has waved and winked at adoring crowds entering the park. Employees have tried to turn it off but to no avail; someone always turns it back on once the door has closed.
By Stephanie Hoogstad3 years ago in Fiction
Peahen
A million violet eyes encircled me Their feathers spread in full display, unfurled like ball gowns gliding across a flawless wood floor. There were necks of lapis lazuli and scaly emerald. One had ghostly feathers, another the ashy feathers of a duster. They strut with bobbing necks. Their onyx orbs bore down on me— pure, deep oblivion. The eyes closed in tighter, and tighter; peach and golden beaks, cactus-needle claws ripped through vulnerable flesh. Rusty blood oozed through open wounds, their jeweled fans swept air from my lungs.
By Stephanie Hoogstad3 years ago in Poets
Poolside Memories
Trigger Warning: Suicidal Ideation Mel parked her motorcycle in front of the community pool at midnight. It being the dead of winter, the pool had closed weeks ago and been drained for cleaning. Mel didn’t care, though. She pulled a six-pack and a pair of bolt cutters out of her sidecar and walked up to the gate. The community center had only used a cheap chain—no bigger than eleven millimeters in diameter—and a bike lock to secure it. The bolt cutters made quick work of the chain, and Mel tossed the tool back in her sidecar before taking her beer through the open gate.
By Stephanie Hoogstad3 years ago in Fiction
The Unborn
She gently turned the egg with her snout. Her breath heated the sand beneath them, and her tail cleared the shards from the hatching pit. The observers had long ago cleared. The dragonlings were with her mate, devouring their first meal. The mother dragon turned the egg again, and again she heated the sand beneath it. She refused to accept that it had never been warm and never would be.
By Stephanie Hoogstad3 years ago in Fiction
