PIECES
AALIYAH POZO Creative writing course portfolio
letter from the author Welcome to my portfolio. This course has taken us in many unexpected creative directions. In this document, you'll be able to find excerpts ranging from nonfiction, poetry, and fiction. I'm not entirely too enthusiastic over some of the pieces, but they are here for presentation anyway! Trying to come up with creative content while struggling with severe depression and surviving through a pandemic has proven to be one of the most draining tasks yet, and boy am I relieved that it's finally over. My writing may be underwhelming, but it is the best work I can present. I should lastly mention that some of the writings are incomplete, and are presented as is due to length concerns. I do dearly hope you find something enjoyable about my work.
TABLE OF CONTENTS Letter from the author 2 Unknown Recipient 4-6 Reflection #1. 7 Vacant Mannequin 8 Reflection #2. 9 Crazy Davey 10-12 Reflection #3 13 About the Author 14
To: Unknown recipient What do you get when you may and breed two people with borderline personality disorder? Results will vary, but this variation resulted in a lifelong sentence of generalized anxiety, major depression, and PTSD. That doesn’t include the terms and conditions that state a strict no-return policy on the parents and revolving door of turmoil surrounding one’s life. Unfortunately, before I could even understand what I was getting into in the womb, I signed off on a shitty 18-year mutual lease with Freddy and JoAnn.
I constantly wonder how the fuck I’ve made it this far in life. With more than enough emotional trauma to ponder on, I’ve compiled an elaborated list of the things that got me through the spectacular shit show that has been my childhood and adolescence. While some of the items/people are personal to me, the fundamental concept of what these represent, may be applicable to others. I understand that the circumstances my life has fallen into are unusual, but that in itself is not what this is about.
For years, I never considered faith or belief in a faith. My lack of it was deeply entrenched in a loss of optimism for a better tomorrow. It seemed as if every tomorrow was less bearable than the day before. At the time that I came to this realization, it had been approximately six months since I was kicked out of my home at 16, a month before my senior year of high school. I’d like to note that the reason I was evicted from that apartment was because my brother had physically assaulted me. Bruised and with a fractured rib, my mother still believed I was the cause and reason for such a violent act. The news came after I moved forward with pressing charges on the 25-year-old who felt it was reasonable enough to slam my 5’3 frame against the window and push
his body weight in its entirety on my chest while attempting to suffocate me. My mother addressed her concerns of possibly ruining his chance at a better quality of life if I decided to continue with his prosecution. He wouldn’t be able to find employment. It’s fine, he’s been fluctuating between unemployment since he learned a person has to actually work for currency. Poor baby boy, no? If I hadn’t tried to fiercely protect our mother, maybe it might not have been my fault, no? I don’t actually think so. I digress. My faith materialized itself in the midst of a two-week nervous breakdown trailed by what psychiatrists call, anhedonia, or emotional flatlining.
Quite literally being unable to feel emotion is intensely wicked compared to the amalgamated pain I felt each time I'd dangled my life inside of a noose. I wanted to feel again, I wanted to feel something at all. It was that dawning conclusion and feeling of absolute nothingness that forced me to find faith in something, anything. So, I did. Registering that not a single soul could pull me out of this void shifted my perception of the world around me. We are all in it for ourselves, and the only way to win the game of life starts through faith. I’ve personally never been much a religion enthusiast; I’ve always found it to be, at times, too controversial. I ruled out religion as a faith to be conscious of. If I didn’t believe God could be there for me, then who would be? I discovered that faith in myself was the only truth I could accept for the time being.
My heart sheds itself, revealing a much-needed rejuvenation of faith. While this sounds like a step-by-step to getting out of a momentous depression, it was a baseline for my path to recovery. It started with an enforced belief in something, whatever it might have been. The only requirement is that something had to be of total reliability to myself. Being around emotionally inept parents and an emotionallyincestuous sibling meant little reliability directly around me. For God’s sake, I was an 11year-old couple’s therapist and mediator. And, my brother? He was preoccupied poorly planning his next act of rebellion and executing what my parents thought was an act of an extreme case of teenage angst. Being a child-adult was way above my pay grade. ****
reflection
For this piece, I ended up going on a rant about how I survived my unstable childhood environments. What I have in this portfolio is only a snippet of a much larger work. This was a nonfiction assignment, so everything in it is true to my experience. Most of the feedback received asked for more clarity and cohesion of certain phrasing. I was also told my introduction was comedic; I suppose that's an accomplishment. I went back and cleared up some of the phrasing, but it might still be confusing. It's mostly a self-reflective piece directed towards a past, future, or present version of myself. I don't think my piece has changed much, as I'm pretty satisfied with what I've written. As far as my creative process, there wasn't really one beside the standard draft, revise and edit stages.
VACANT MANNEQUIN I am silk a vacant mannequin, a silly bandz thunderstorm. But he...is rigid, a sideshow of panic. We are a nutribullet, something. Our love encompasses all. Unconditionality blended, tainting us with its love. Love. I love him. Him! With Everything and Anything, Real or not. Discovery! Existing, existing, Turmoil. Relief, there you are. It is you! Me! Us.
Exist? Why, for each other. But, what, what are You? No, not mine. We do not own us. Not you, me. Not me, you. So…, who are you? Yourself? Wonderful. Myself? Maybe part of you, me. I asked how to love. Silly, we don’t know. We understand it, That’s okay, too. Silly bandz and sideshow of panic! Love. For you. for me. Us.
N O I T C E L F E R
or f ess it c o pr e as e m iv a t s a my e re h f c t o My ite as most r w w l e y is for e m l h e a p t f s m c sim d or i e n : o ch i g p u e n m r e i s i is it 'm t ve hi r c a t w r h I xe or e 't l f e n i r o t n t a e d n a w u ou y. de I g a i e n s m w e i oe e . lik to ur p The r s d e u a wh me e to k s o a g s n t m n a e i l v o v c t a gi h d s e l rd my ct al o u c w o r e t t r of e I n he ins s o T y t h . a e p s d s s e a e h l m of t c 't a n s r e s t ve th ha o e n Tha em n r o o e o i p k f t he spo er be execu T y m . n e o t r t im t l g par ept o a n r n i e o r c ov rs ha e s con as d p e r t g y e i n r ft e a v cha me ve a n I e i l a d y to ta bec er an s d de to tn i ck r c t a a e i b p ed d d e r e r d e e F ag an ef r . s t p s he r i s t e I e e n ve a y p is. s raw e m l m o o it t r f on d i e d. s r e i e h c n uc de o gar t y m un h m t wi poe
He wears a fedora hat, indicating an outdated 2008 American Indie wannabe wardrobe. Worn and torn were the cuffs of his straight blue jeans, coupled with a very simple black t-shirt. He looked like a common variation of a bald, 37year-old white man probably named, “Dave”. Is Dave alright? Doesn’t really matter, that’s his name now. He stands around 5’11 in stature, with a lean frame. His skin is no longer taught, displaying signs of sun-damage and aging. He’s definitely seen more things than the rest of us.
Cra Dave
Dave’s usually carrying an all-too worn out black guitar case with threads hanging out with one another at different corners. Nobody’s ever actually seen Dave open the case. People are undoubtedly unaware of the fact that he happens to be carrying a handgun revolver and three spare bullets inside of there, next to the ounce of low-grade weed. If you poked into his brain a bit, you’d come to find out that the three bullets are intended for a select number of people.He’s seen to be visibly uneasy, but composed. His demeanor reflects some
brain-damage and neurotoxicity brought on by mild substance abuse over the years. When he speaks, his voice quivers just enough for the ear to catch it. It’s as if his thoughts can’t coordinate with his words at the rate he’s trying to output them. It’s mostly noticeable if you’re actively trying to find something off about the guy. His murky cocoa eyes read of despair and solitude, once drained of their fullness at the hands of a lost lover. He’s lost people along his life path, but is ultimately distraught by the loss of a former flame. Life’s tidal waves have crashed his spirit, he has almost become a shell of the person he once was.He’s seeking his lover whom he lost three years ago.
He’s had a few drugs to accompany him on his journey to rediscover his former lover. He’s unaware that she doesn’t want him, and disappeared for a fair reason. Dave claims that at their once Austin apartment, “She” decided to head out for dinner. She didn’t offer any specifics as to where she was going or what time she would be coming back. She just didn’t.Since that night, three years ago, Dave has dedicated the majority of his time hunting down who took his partner. Although, I don’t believe that he’s taken a moment to ponder on the possibility that she just doesn’t want him. He provides few details to the nature of their relationship, possibly indicating there’s more than meets the eye.
Over the course of his endeavors to find his lover, he felt particularly suspicious that he would rediscover her somewhere kept along a dried creek inside Mabel Davis Park. Over a hill of overgrown dried grass, past the stone slab-enclosed magnificent oak tree, and right behind some nursery aged tree variations, laid a once abundant creek. There’s not much wildlife besides your regular city rodents and the occasional deer. Nobody can really explain how or why Dave came to the conclusion that his former girlfriend would be in that small creek, but he was certain of it.
On a warm evening at the park, Dave followed his thoughts to the park, attempting to find Her once again. On today’s excursion, two adolescents were sitting along his usual path. His hunch brought him to the pair of adolescents sitting over a grassy-green blanket, a contrast to the actual dried August grass. They looked like the kinds of people who would carry rolling papers on them. As a matter of fact, Dave saw the pair smoking out of what looked to be a clear water pipe with a hand-painted iguana over it. He assumed he could at least pique their interest enough to get an offer for a few hits if he couldn’t acquire any paper from the teenagers.
REFLECTION This story comes from a man that I met at a park once, but knew next to nothing about. Though a fictional piece, it is loosely true to what actually occurred. The story presented is unfinished, too long and unfinished to put into this portfolio. The idea hasn't changed since its first draft. One of my peers went over this fictional story, and pointed out the emphasis on character and imagery in my excerpt. When editing, I went back and attempted to highlight neglected craft elements such as voice and setting. For the third time, my creative process remained the same. The most change maybe happened when I decided to be more mindful about the character I was trying to develop.
Hello! To briefly introduce Aaliyah Pozo, she is a Venezuelan immigrant currently finishing her degree in psychology and Spanish at St. Edward's University. She isn't entirely certain what goes in author bio's so here are some facts about her. Her left leg is .75 inches shorter than her right. She really cannot whistle. She writes creatively as well as political rants about the government's inadequate job. Struggling with anxiety and depression for most of her life, she has found writing to be an outlet for untapped negative childhood experiences. Her writing is mostly based around her personal endeavors and perceptions of the world. there isn't anything intentional about her writing.
about the author