The Recent Works of a Creative Writing Student: A Portfolio by Rachel Olcott

Table of Contents………………………………………………. 23 Author’s Foreword………………………………………...……. 410 Nonfiction……………………………………………….……… 1114 A Girl’s Best Friend………………………….……..… 1114 Extended Fiction……………………………….……………… 1521 The Glass Butterfly…………………………………… 1521 Microfiction……………………………………….…………..... 2224 As You (Would) Like It…………………………..….…… 22 Wanted……………………………………….………... 2324 Formal Poems……………………………………….…………. 25 The Flower……………………………………….……..… 25 The Storm……………………………………….………… 25 A Dog Wants Only Love……………………………........ 26 Picturesque……………………………………….………. 27 Rainy Day……………………………………….…….. 2829 Relapse………………………………………………... 3031 The Royal Star……………………………………...… 3233 Free Verse Poems………………………………………....…. 34 Arches Are Round……………………………………. 3437 The Lame Child………………………………………. 3840 Language……………………………………….….…. 4142 Teachers……………………………………….……... 4345 Author’s Notes……………………………………….…….…. 4666 Notes on “The Glass Butterfly”………………….…. 4653 Notes on “As You (Would) Like It”………………… 5456 Notes on “The Royal Star”…………………………. 5758

Notes on “Arches Are Round”…………………..…. 5963 Notes on “The Lame Child”……………………....... 6466

Author’s Foreword One of the many unique aspects of creative writing is the writer’s ability to utilize different writing strategies and techniques. A creative writer is not limited to one form of writing nor are they limited to one type of genre. A writer may be defined by their pieces, but their own possibilities are indefinite. This Creative Writing class examined and utilized multiple writing strategies and techniques. From brainstorming to sentence type, rhythm to metaphors, haikus to villanelles, and characters to scene creation, anyone who says they haven’t learned from this course is lying. Of the various strategies and techniques we used in the class, I found the line break exercises, exploration of various poetic forms, use of the character questionnaire, and the show; don’t tell exercises to be the most useful. During the first marking period, we examined the use of line breaks in poetry. Line breaks can affect how someone reads the poem. An endstopped line (one ending in punctuation) will cause a reader to pause. Caesura can also be used to slow one’s reading pace. Caesura occurs when there is punctuation or hard break within the line itself. Finally, there is enjambment. Enjambment does not have punctuation at the end of a line and continues the idea of the current line onto the next. This does not cause as much of a pause as the reader reads it. Prior to the class I was under the assumption that lines should always end with a comma or a period. I even wrote that a poem should have lots of commas to be considered a poem. It

hadn’t occurred to me that punctuation was not a requirement. All of my original free verse poems use endstopped lines. As I revised, reconsidering line breaks and punctuation placement, I found that enjambment came quite naturally at times. One such example of this can be seen in “Arches Are Round.” This was my first free verse poem and as I mentioned before used only endstopped lines. After revision, a number of lines were changed to enjambment. This helps the poem to flow together and only creates pauses where I believe to be necessary. Word placement was also considered. Most poets believe that the final word in a line is the most important. “Arches Are Round” is the only poem where I divided a line to put emphasis on a word. The twentythird line was divided after the word “hold” to put an emphasis on apathy’s hold on my generation. We also learned many formal forms of poetry during the first half of the class. These forms included cinquains, triolets, skeltonics, rime royals, pantoums, villanelles, ghazals, ballades, rengas, sonnets (Petrarchan and Shakespearean), ballads, and haikus. Each form employed rhyme and/or meter. Of these forms, a triolet, a skeltonic, a villanelle,a ballade, a Shakespearean sonnet, and two haikus are included in this portfolio. A triolet, despite having eight lines, uses only five original lines. The first line is repeated in the fourth and seventh line. The second line is repeated in the final line. The third, fifth, and sixth lines are not repeated. Only two rhyme schemes are used throughout the triolet so that it can be illustrated using abaaabab. The triolet in this portfolio is “A Dog Wants Only Love.”

A skeltonic is a poem that focuses on rhyme. The poem can be any number of lines as long as they are short typically six words or less. The poem goes from rhyme to rhyme as the poet chooses and is supposed to flow together. “Rainy Day” is the skeltonic in this portfolio. A villanelle is a nineteen line poem that can be difficult to explain. The first and third lines act as refrains for the entire poem, which is composed of five tercets and a quatrain. A tercet is a stanza of three lines and a quatrain is a stanza of four lines. The first line is repeated in the sixth, twelfth, and eighteenth lines. The third line is repeated in the ninth, fifteenth, and nineteenth lines. The second, fifth, eighth, eleventh, fourteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth lines are not repeated, but all rhyme. The rhyme scheme for a villanelle is as follows: aba, aba, aba, aba, aba, abaa. The villanelle that I wrote is “The Royal Star.” The traditional ballade is composed of three octaves and a quatrain. The quatrains have the rhyme scheme ababbcbC, where the capital C is the refrain. The quatrain has the rhyme scheme bcbC. All of the lines have eight syllables. The ballade that I’ve written is “Relapse.” The Shakespearean sonnet is the English version of the Italian or Petrarchan sonnet. Both forms utilize iambic pentameter and are a total of fourteen lines. The difference between the two are their rhyme schemes and where the change occurs. In a Shakespearean sonnet, the rhyme scheme is abab, cdcd, efef, gg. The change, conclusion, or contradiction happens in the couplet (two adjacent lines that rhyme). My Shakespearean sonnet is “Picturesque.”

The haiku is a familiar poetry form originating in Japan. The poem is only three lines long, but has a set syllable pattern. The first and third lines each have five syllables while the second has seven. The haikus in this portfolio are “A Flower,” which is in both Chinese and English, and “The Storm.” I enjoyed reading about the formal poems because I hadn’t realized there were so many. I’d never heard of some of the forms like the cinquain and the villanelle. It was helpful to me as a writer to become somewhat familiar with them and to try my hand at writing them. I enjoyed writing the triolet, skeltonic, sonnet, and haikus, but I struggled with my villanelle and ballade. I hadn’t realized how difficult it was to find rhyming words for the words star, track, and strangely. I had to look up words that rhymed with them and find a way to make a coherent poem. For the second half of the course, we transitioned to writing fiction. I found two of the exercises to be particularly helpful to me as a writer: the character questionnaire and the setting exercises. We used the character questionnaire to create both a protagonist and an antagonist. These characters were later used in other assignments. The questionnaire consisted of eleven simple questions and seven more challenging questions. We were asked to answer eight of the eleven and five of the seven. I did my best to answer every question to help me develop my characters, but for a few of them I just had no idea where to start.

I liked using the character questionnaire as a way to organize my thoughts about the character. I usually don’t think about characters that deeply. I’ll have a basic idea of who they are, what they like, and what their story is, but I won’t fully develop them until I start writing. This time I planned out exactly who she was. Answering the questionnaire took me a few days because I wanted to choose her backstory, personality, and world carefully. The same goes for the antagonist. Though none of the excerpts involving my protagonist Lilith and her antagonist Zeus appear in this portfolio, believe me when I say this one tool helped me grow immensely as a writer. I plan to continue with these characters and their odd world of gender division. Finally, the setting practice helped me to do just that. I am one of those writers who just wants to get to the point and go, go, go with the story. However, I have realized that my works can lack details and be more telling than showing. Prior to the class I would use minimal or very simple details to describe characters or their surroundings. These details were mainly sight or sound focused. As I read through the articles on setting, I realized that I’d pretty much forgotten the other three senses. I am now aware that the five senses can and should be used to help immerse the reader in your story. I am now trying to incorporate all five senses into my writing, especially smell. The revised version of “The Glass Butterfly” is meant to have more sensory details than the first.

I’m not sure if I could pick a favourite piece from this portfolio. I like each of the poems (except the ballade) and stories because they all have a piece of me in them. I am also very indecisive. I will try to choose my top three pieces. My personal narrative, “A Girl’s Best Friend,” makes me happy because it was the first time my family met our puppy, Bella. (She was originally named Clover as in the narrative.) I love Bella immensely and I can’t imagine life at college without her. I also really like my extended work of fiction, “The Glass Butterfly.” (The name itself is a reference to Alice Munro’s “Day of the Butterfly.”) I liked using a child’s perspective to view the darkness and inevitability of death. A child is told what death is, but they don’t truly understand it until someone they personally knows has passed. For me, it was the death of my grandmother that brought about this sudden realization that people could be here one day and gone the next. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve also learned that death isn’t always something to be feared. It all depends on how you look at it. I choose to look at it as the grandmother does in the story if you believe in God and act in His name, you will go to a place without pain. My microfiction “Wanted” holds a place close to my heart as well. It focuses on the blurred lines between wants and needs in today’s world. As Showbread would say, “the things I need I hold them dear, but the things I want hold dearer.” I want to make a change in the world for those who don’t have easy lives, but I also want to make others aware of who needs help.

As aforementioned, my least favourite piece was the ballade. I had difficulty rhyming the words track and strangely. I also had trouble coming up with a coherent poem after the first stanza. I was limited on words to use but thankfully I chose to talk about insanity. That being said, the narrator is talking to you as if you are a man plagued by your formal youth and glory. The major assignments the personal narrative, the extended fiction, and this portfolio helped me to grow as a writer and a person by realizing the importance of accountability and deadlines. I am a procrastinator and I know it. I also overwhelmed myself with courses this year, which lead to my online work being pushed aside for my AP classes. I have been trying to break this habit and so far have not succeeded. But missing the deadlines for the personal narrative and the extended work of fiction hung in the back of my head until I finished them. This portfolio cannot be late, nor do I plan on submitting it late. Furthermore, as a writer, the personal narrative and extended fiction piece proved to me that I can write short stories. I am used to writing poetry or aiming for novels, but short stories are quite fun. I proved to myself that I can write a personal narrative despite my unexciting life and that I can create a successful short story. This portfolio proves to me that I can use many forms of writing and that there is always a way to experiment with my creativity. I hope that you feel the same way after reading through it.

A Girl's Best Friend Why is there a castle next to a railroad? It was a reasonable question. I stared ahead, wide eyed. Or at least as wide as my eyes can open, which is not very much. Never the less, I was staring in amazement at what was beyond the windshield of my father's car. Though I could see the railroad, guarded by a chainlink fence to ward off intruders, I also saw a colonial building. The bricks and columns supporting it were brightly colored, standing out from the plain buildings surrounding it. It was not a castle, but the sheer size of it made me think of it as one. It was old, no doubt, and beautiful. I admired the history that it held. I was also confused as to why it was placed on this corner. It was an old, decorated building next to a traffic light and a railroad. It didn't seem a very fitting place for such artwork. True, this had nothing to do with why I was here. My family, consisting of my mother, younger sister, and father who was driving, was eager to reach our destination. A few minutes later we were outside of Newark, Delaware. Trees lined the highway and my father, a tall man with a large forehead, turned into a neighbourhood. The streets winded like a river, connecting the houses together like a grove surrounding it. I looked at the red fleece blanket beside me. It stood out, much like the castle home, amongst the dark seats. It sat, alone and with no purpose. But its purpose was waiting for us. My sister wore a golden jacket, her long hair flying behind her as she raced to the door. My parents and I followed suit. My mother, eyes shining, rang the doorbell.

A middle aged woman with dark blonde hair opened the door. She smiled at us. She was not dressed to impress, but her appearance didn't lack either. Her clothes indicated exactly who she was: just a simple woman who was used to strangers in her home. "Hello," she greeted us. "Are you here for Clover?" We nodded eagerly, like hungry children. This moment had been long awaited for, as it had been a lonely few months without a dog. Our former friend had died of a ruptured liver and stomach, much before her time. My family was heartbroken, given that Abbey had loved and protected us for the past ten years. The house was silent without her and sorrow hung in the air like a sour smell that wouldn't leave. It had been an arduous task to find another dog to adopt, but finally we had found the eight week old Clover. We entered the house briskly, situating ourselves in the parlour as the woman went to fetch the puppy. The room was was painted an off white colour and decorated with vintage findings: an old sewing machine, a carved desk, and books with worn bindings to name a few. The furniture was lightly colored as well and included a couch, chair, and ottoman. The house smelled of a recently cooked breakfast. In the room beyond the parlour, a TV could be heard babbling. The woman returned, carrying a yawning pup in her arms. The little imp was completely black. Her ears fell limply on the sides of her head. She yawned, an oval of pink hiding in the black fur.

"This is Clover. She's the last of her litter. They arrived earlier this week from Georgia. She just woke up." The woman scratched the pup behind the ear with her index finger. "Would you like to hold her?" Natalie immediately stepped forward, holding her arms out for the puppy. Clover was transferred into her arms. Her tail looked like a black stick attached to her rump. It wagged back and forth, back and forth, a blur of black. Her fur was soft like velvet and dark. It was tinged with brown at the tips and she had one patch of white fur on her chest. Her eyes, open now that she was getting attention, were large chocolate circles in her tiny head. Her snout was short, not scrunched and pushed in like a pug's, just short as an undeveloped puppy's is. Her head was small and her eyes seemed to pop out of them. Light grey tears hung from the corner of her eyes, confirming what the woman had told us. Her ears were little flaps on her head, hanging as a labrador's ears tend to do. The fur in them was shorter than the rest of her body, only a centimeter at most. Her legs, like the rest of her were, not fully developed and short. They were no longer than my dad's pointer finger. Her body rose steadily as she breathed, the fur seeming to float up and drift down. We took turns petting the soft fur, gently running our fingers through it so as not to hurt her. The fur was warm, a pleasant feeling on my cold fingertips. It was short and soft, not course like a dog's fur. It was fluffy, like a chick's feathers.

This was Clover, our new puppy. My dad smiled widely. "She's a cutie," he commented as us girls showered her with love. She was happy to receive it and we were happy to give it. We all grinned from ear to ear as we pet her and took pictures, enthralled that we had another family member. "Rachel, take a picture on my phone," Natalie commanded. "I want to send it to Lauren." I took her iPhone, dressed in a blue otter box, and took a few pictures of her holding Clover. Natalie smiled and fixed her hair, while the pup started to lick her face. "She likes to lick off lotion," the woman explained to us. My sister giggled and tried to stop the puppy from licking her. Clover stopped caressing Natalie's face with her small, pink tongue long enough to realize that there was a neck to be licked too. There was also hair to chew and she went to work entertaining herself. After a few more pictures, I was allowed to hold Clover. Her small body fit perfectly in the basket of my arms. She was a warm bundle of fur and so soft. There was no doubt in my mind that I was going to help take care of her and love her. I looked around at my family. Natalie was eagerly texting her friends pictures of the puppy. My mom was smiling as was my dad. This happiness, it was electric. It buzzed around us as we looked at Clover. We had waited for another dog to fill our hearts and here she was, in my arms.

The Glass Butterfly Hospitals are dreadfully unhappy places. You can smell death or pain around every corner. Or you smell the newly cleaned floors, a stench that burns your nose and tells you where you are. The walls and floors may be clean, but it doesn’t make it feel any more welcoming. Of course as a child, I didn’t pay attention to the lingering death. It hung around me each time I went to visit my grandmother, but I never noticed it. All I knew was that we were going to the big, brick building where Grandma was staying. She hadn’t always been there, but at the same time I could hardly remember a time when she wasn’t. Naive as I was, I actually enjoyed going to the hospital. As I’ve mentioned before the place was extraordinarily clean, which I found to be impressive in my impressionable age. I was in awe of how all the people in plain, ugly clothes could keep a place this large clean and still have time to take care of Grandma. There were many of them. They were different ages, genders, shapes and sizes, but the only one I remembered was Anna. Anna was the nurse who took care of my grandmother. She was a pale young woman with very red lips and curly brown hair. She was always darting between rooms and made it a point to say hello to me. Sometimes she would even run down to the cafeteria to get me a cookie. While Anna was young, my grandmother was very old. You could see the blue veins in her hands, which I found fascinating. It looked like the skin had been suctioned onto her bones

and veins. Her skin sagged and her hair was thin and white. She had wrinkles that caused a constant look of unhappiness. But she was in fact very happy. I’m not sure how anyone could be as happy as she was, given that she was dying. She was stuck in bed in a place that shouldn’t be called home to anyone. She needed help to get dressed, go to the bathroom, and sometimes to eat and drink. She was old, weak, and helpless. Yet she would always make the nurses and my family laugh. She knew she was dying, but she would rather spend her time making others days than counting down her own. I loved my grandmother very much. In the back of my head, I knew that she was dying. I knew that we had to visit her in the hospital because she couldn’t take care of herself. But I was a kid and I believed that Grandma could live as long as she wanted to, that she was choosing the right moment to go to Heaven. One day, I was left alone with my grandmother. My parents were going down to the cafeteria to eat lunch, but I didn’t want to leave Grandma alone. I wasn’t very hungry for the cafeteria food anyway. “Don’t pester anyone and stay out of the nurses’ way,” my mother instructed me. “If they ask you to leave then you stand outside the door until they say you can come back in. Don’t go anywhere unless it’s with Anna. Ok?” “Ok,” I nodded and sat down on the chair near Grandma’s bed.

My mother blew me a kiss and waved before leaving with my father. It was just Grandma and I. She looked at me and motioned for me to scoot the chair closer. I hopped off of it and pushed it across the tiled floor. It made a screeching sound, but I figured that Grandma couldn’t hear that well anyway. I sat down again, resting my arms on her bed and my head on my arms. Being this close, I could smell the distinct smell that she had. It was musty but tinged with the smell of a new hospital gown. Grandma looked at me with her perpetual frown, but I knew that she was smiling on the inside. She seemed frailer than when we had last seen her. Her hair was plastered to her head and her hands shook despite them resting on her stomach. Her breathing was creating a wheezing noise that reminded me of somebody who was about to sneeze. “Grandma?” I asked. “When are you going to Heaven?” Her lips moved into a small smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “Well, I think that’s up to God to decide. I could go in a few seconds or I could go in a few months. We’ll just have to see what He has planned for me.” “Grandma, what are we gonna do when you go to Heaven?” I had never been to a funeral and my parents had never explained what one was to me. Death itself was an abstract concept to me because nobody close to our family had died in my short lifetime.

She thought about my question for a few moments before she answered. “You’re mommy and daddy will be very sad and so will all of your aunts and uncles and cousins. But I don’t want you to be sad, ok? I don’t want you to be crying like they will. “I’m gonna go to Heaven and it’ll be a happy place. I’ll be able to walk like I used to and I won’t be in this hospital. I’ll be dancing and singing with your grandfather and all of my old friends who are already up there.” She looked up towards the ceiling and pointed to it too. I was old enough to understand that she meant up in the clouds, which is where I believed Heaven was as a child. “But I’m gonna miss you, Grandma.” She patted my head with a shaking hand. “Oh, didn’t I tell you I didn’t want you to be sad? I know that you’ll miss me and so will the rest of our family. But you’ll see me again when you go to Heaven. And I’ll be able to see you when I’m up there. I’ll watch you grow up and get married and” “Ew, Grandma! Boys are gross,” I squealed. She chuckled before coughing lightly. “Well, as you get older you find that boys get a little less gross. But do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, Olivia?” I nodded, because I understood as much as a six year old could. Grandma was going to go to sleep, but she was going to wake up in Heaven. And up in Heaven she would be free to walk

and sing and dance with Grandpa, whom I’d never met. It seemed simple enough and she was certainly happy, but I still wasn’t satisfied. “But Grandma, what if I wanna talk to you or see you? I know you’ll be up in Heaven, but how do I know when you’re listening to me?” “Oh, you are just like your mother always asking questions. I don’t think that you’ll always know when I’m listening or watching, but I’ll do my best to show you that I am. In fact, I have an idea. “Do you see the glass butterfly on the table beside my bed?” she asked. “Your grandfather bless his heart gave that to me shortly after we started dating. I was a dancer and he told me that I looked like a butterfly when I danced. I was light on my feet back then. “Anyway, I want you to take that glass butterfly home with you today. When I go to Heaven, you can look at the glass butterfly and remember both me and your grandfather dancing up in Heaven like butterflies.” My eyes widened as I looked at the glass butterfly. I had seen it numerous times, but this was the first time that I really examined it. It was no more than an inch and a half wide and an inch tall. It sat on a small stub that resembled a twig. It was a small figurine, but it seemed large and heavy to my childhood self. Its wings were resting open and each wing had spots. The larger wings had three spots from the upper tip of the wing downward. The smaller wings had

two spots at the lower tips of them. It was not a masterpiece by any means, but I thought that it was the most beautiful object in the world. I carefully reached for the butterfly. I knew that glass objects were very fragile and I feared that I would drop it. The smooth glass was cool in my warm little hand and I was just as cautious to bring the butterfly back to me as I had been to go get it. “See, isn’t she beautiful?” my grandmother asked as I continued to stare at it. I simply nodded. I was overwhelmed by the fact that Grandma had given me one of her prized possessions. It was small and old, but it meant so much to her because of my grandfather. I’d never met him, but holding the butterfly made me feel as though he was standing behind me and gazing at its beauty too. My parents soon returned and my mother tried to take the butterfly away from me. She didn’t want me to drop it and cut myself on the shards. My grandmother reasoned with her that I was old enough and responsible enough to hold it and to keep it. She let my Grandma have her way and the adults chatted for awhile. In a few days my grandmother had died. She left peacefully in her sleep and went to Heaven. My parents and my aunts and uncles cried a lot afterwards. But I knew that she was happier in Heaven because she could see Grandpa. She could sing and dance with him; she was free to be a butterfly again.

I cried too, despite what Grandma told me. I missed her and the odd way she smelled. I missed the way her cheeks fell so that she looked like she was frowning. I missed her thin white hair and her old wrinkled face. But I had the glass butterfly and I knew that she was a part of it.

As You (Would) Like It Sarah had never grown tired of the swing. It was a simple rope and seat tied to the branch of the largest tree in the yard. For hours on end she would sit there. She talked with her friends, played with her dolls, or just sat there staring at the sky. She had always been the favourite child. On the other hand, Devon had always been ignored. She looked almost exactly like Sarah, yet received about a tenth of the same attention. Devon was a quiet child and try as she might, could not garner any love from Sarah. Her twin would ignore her pleas to have a turn on the swing, her request for a glass of water, and her cries that Sarah was being unfair. Alarmed, their mother tried to fix the problem while they were young. “Sarah, please share with your sister.” Or, “Sarah, let your sister have a turn,” were not uncommon phrases. Sarah would nod her head absentmindedly. Being a child, she was more occupied by whatever she was currently doing. She also disregarded her mother because she had no idea who Devon was. She was an only child.

Wanted He had a habit of reading the ads on the bulletin board. The board hung next to the exit of the grocery store. It was unassuming. To most who walked by it was nothing more than a mess of papers. To him, it was a glimpse into the lives of people he may never meet. Today’s mess had nothing new, but he read over the papers anyway. Wanted: Dog sitter. Must be experienced with large dogs. Call 5551892 . Found: Male pug. Is very friendly, but not housetrained. Call 5552368. Open House: On Monday the 17th, there will be an open house at 123 Main Street. 5 beds, 3 baths, finished basement. Visit www.fictionalrealtor.com for more information. NEW! NEW! NEW! Test drive the new car that everyone wants! Don’t miss your chance for a great deal! He continued reading over the papers. They screamed at him to read them to buy this, visit here, find this, call someone. They demanded his attention and adoration. Should he miss a detail, life would surely cease to exist. He turned to leave, but noticed a bright pink paper by his feet. He knelt down, picking it up with his gloved hands.

Needed: We are looking for volunteers to help with holiday meals. We also need donations for the coming winter. Food, blankets, and clothes are all accepted. Please visit www.fictionalshelter.com for a complete list of items. Know of someone who could use our help? Please call 5557034. “Huh. I didn’t know there was a shelter around here,” he grunted. “I could have used it a few months ago.” His gloves, tattered and stained, placed the paper back on the board. He removed a tack from a car ad and stuck it through the paper. It hung in the center of the board like a child’s masterpiece on the kitchen fridge. “Funny how nobody saw that,” the homeless man mused. “All of these things to want, when people like me have things we need.” He left quietly.

一朵花 (Yi Duo Hua) 一朵漂亮花， (Yi duo piaoliang hua,) 种的只一个。可是， (zhong de zhi yi ge. Ke shi,) 它非常高兴。 (ta feichang gaoxing.) A Flower A pretty flower, the only one that grows. But, it is very glad. The Storm A storm rages near. It is angry, violent. The dark clouds roll in.

A Dog Wants Only Love A dog wants only love, Or maybe a toy to chew, Not to be given a shove, A dog wants only love, And to chase a dove, To feel warm and safe too, A dog wants only love, Or maybe a toy to chew

Picturesque What beauty is this; this peaceful meadow, The grass blows freely in the summer wind, Above it an oak tree casts a shadow, And butterflies float around free, unpinned. A river runs through the beautiful scene, Its crystal clear water crawls downstream, The rocks that it washes are ohso clean, And the feeling it brings is like a dream. No one has tainted the life that is here, The meadow is in bloom with bright flowers, The creatures that roam may rest without fear, And I feel as though I could stay for hours. Alas, I must leave you here dear painting, For I must go as the moon is waning.

Rainy Day I wish the sun was out, I am about to pout, Because there is no drought, I don't want this rain, It is a real pain, I have nothing to gain, Maybe the flowers do, But to them boohoo, And to the trees too, The rain is too loud, Like it's proud, In that big grey cloud, I try to smile, But it's been raining for awhile, Why is the weather so versatile? I wish for sun, So that I can run, And have fun, Outside in the grass, Not stuck in class, Or swimming like a bass, I can play with my dog,

Unless there is fog, Then I'll read a blog, Sun please come out soon, For a pleasant afternoon, And later I'll see the moon

Relapse Did you ever speak to a wall? Talking as if it could speak back, Have you ever walked down a hall, Muttering to yourself, off track? Thinking you are a maniac, And people stare at you strangely, What is it that you seem to lack? You ask yourself: am I crazy? Some children toss around a ball, Will one be the next quarterback? Or will he be like you and fall? Becoming an insomniac, Can't find peace in all of the black, You stare into it dazedly, And suddenly there's a flashback, You ask yourself: am I crazy? You see yourself with a snowball, You toss it; it hits a backpack, There is surely no time to stall, Run! Past the house with the smokestack,

Run! But you still get a good thwack, Suddenly it all is hazy, After your memory lost track You ask yourself: am I crazy? Now you live in a culdesac, Your mind is going unstably, Not sure which thoughts are just playback, You tell yourself: I am crazy.

The Royal Star There is no brighter star, Hanging in the sky, To be seen from afar A royal like a czar, Cannot be passed by, There is no brighter star A step above the bar, As it is so high, To be seen from afar Appearance you can't mar, It is not a lie, There is no brighter star Perhaps it is bizarre, Light can amplify, To be seen from afar If it wrote a memoir, We would all know why

There is no brighter star, To be seen from afar

Arches Are Round I don't understand Kids these days. I'm one too, But that doesn't mean, I'm the same as you I'm not mainstream, I'm not a hipster. I am me. I don't paint my face, I don't do drugs, I don't fight, I don't get suspended, I don't fail my classes Yet I see All these kids Who are my age Who can't do simple math, Who drop out of school, Who smoke, Who don't care anymore.

And I don't understand How apathy Can have such a hold On my generation I don't understand Why everyone thinks That having a big chest Or a big butt Is all that matters, Or why there are people famous For having them I don't understand My generation And its fascination With the artificial, Superficial, Supernatural. Or why it thinks It knows everything, When it didn't know That coupons are for One time use,

Or that there are people Other than themselves Perhaps I'm just a pessimist, Or maybe I see it differently. What the world is, What it values, I can’t help But to fear For our future. If my generation is to succeed, Because of the lack Of knowledge, Caring, Values, Beliefs, Will we be Like Orwell's 1984? With a Big Brother Over our shoulder? Or will we be in a world Like Vonnegut's Where we have to dumb everyone down?

I don't know what the future holds And I am afraid Because of what it is now. But at least I know That arches are round.

The Lame Child The United States of America is a lame child. It was once strong. It ran about and played. It was in control. It commanded attention during class. It knew the right answers. It was free to roam, To run about as children do. America was happy But now, it is a lame child. It fell and broke its leg. It is in a cast, Made by China. It is on crutches Flimsy and barely able to support Its weight as it grows. It grins, but it is not always happy. It is not free in its being anymore. The child has limitations. The child is part of the bigger world. It realizes that it cannot keep limping.

It does not want to hurt, To be broken, But so it goes As it keeps going to school, The child doesn't know All the right answers. Its pride is hurt. It is no longer on top. It eats supersized portions, Relies on the internet, And has internal wars, Where no side is completely right The child called America, Younger than the others, Which prides itself on itself Cannot brag to its classmates anymore. It cannot be perfect. It is lame, Dragging one leg behind it. With each step it takes It remembers the past And wants that future.

But it is stuck Hobbling along, While others sit, walk, or run

Language What a terribly beautiful thing Language is. What power, Wisdom, and dignity, Can come from the mouth. Or from the hand, The computer, The eyes. Language is A wonderful tool. There are almost no limits. We can learn one, Two, three, four, Or as many as we want. The mind works in mysterious ways And we witness it every day. We speak and understand, Read and write. The value of language, So vast it is. Our knowledge of words, In English, French,

Spanish, Chinese, Arabic, Russian, Latin and more. Communication is key, And we communicate through language. Words, letters, characters, Our entire body is a language, Waiting to be spoken, Or perhaps hidden from the world.

Teachers I can't imagine what it's like To be a high school teacher Having to deal with teenagers, Loud and dumb Yet think they know it all, Who talk back and have sass, Who don't really care It must be hard to teach People who'd rather be Doing drugs, having sex, Watching TV, and who knows what. Because you can't break through To everyone Teachers must be tired Considering all the hours They spend tutoring Teaching and grading. Do they ever go to sleep? Do they ever want to give up? I imagine the answer is yes

Because I would be stressed Trying to help out this generation Do teachers know what their students do? Do they know who is bad? Who is good? Though that's rather subjective, Do they know who talks about them? Do they read the writing on the bathroom stalls? I hope they don't Because there's some ugly stuff That people say about each other I wouldn't want to be a teacher, Have to work a lot And deal with kids Who don't respect you or listen to you. But I guess being a parent Is like that too. Hmmmm, Neither sounds too fun. But I guess in the end It's rewarding to see success.

I'm just glad I'm still a kid.

Author’s Notes Some of the works in this portfolio have been revised and others left alone. Of those that have been revised, the most notable are “The Glass Butterfly,” “As You (Would) Like It,” “The Royal Star,” “Arches Are Round,” and “The Lame Child.” Notes on “The Glass Butterfly” The most notable changes in “The Glass Butterfly” after its revision are the added sensory details. While already rich with these details, I felt that I could add more. As I read through the story again, I found places where I could slip in the sense of smell or of touch. The story begins with Olivia, the narrator, describing the hospitals by their smell. I had meant to add the smell of freshly cleaned floors and cleaning chemicals in general, but I didn’t see where it would fit in. Another smell related detail comes in a better description of what Olivia calls her grandmother’s “odd” smell. Again, I was unsure of where to slip this in when writing the original version. I was also unsure of how to describe the smell that an older person has. I knew that the word musty meant moldy or stale and after confirming this, I added it into the

twelfth paragraph. I also split this paragraph to change from the subject of Grandma’s smell to her looking at Olivia. Sight, touch, and sound details were added as well. In the third paragraph, I added the word “plain” before “ugly” to specify that Olivia, a child, is talking about the scrubs nurses wear and not generally saying that they are illy dressed. I added a description of the veins in the fifth paragraph. I added “blue” to specify the colour and described the grandmother’s hands as I saw them. The word “smooth” was put before “glass” in paragraph twentyeight to add a small touch detail. Finally, I placed the word “lightly” behind “coughing” to specify that her grandmother is not cough hard. A hard cough sounds different than the light tickle of the throat. Grammatically, I changed most of the dashes to commas. The dashes in paragraph three and seventeen were changed to commas after I had reviewed the feedback on my personal narrative. I also found that I had written that Olivia’s parents had left, but in the next paragraph her mom is talking to her. I corrected this mistake by changing “had went” to “were going.” I added the word “I” at one point, but that was because I had missed doing so in the first place. Finally, in paragraph fifteen, I added a quick comment about death. As a child Olivia isn’t aware of what death truly means. I mentioned this before in my Foreword. This comment is

meant to remind the reader that this is an innocent little girl who hasn’t lived long enough to see anyone she knows die. The Glass Butterfly (Original) Hospitals are dreadfully unhappy places. You can smell death or pain around every corner. The walls and floors may be clean, but it doesn’t make it feel any more welcoming. Of course as a child, I didn’t pay attention to the lingering death. It hung around me each time I went to visit my grandmother, but I never noticed it. All I knew was that we were going to the big, brick building where Grandma was staying. She hadn’t always been there, but at the same time I could hardly remember a time when she wasn’t. Naive as I was, I actually enjoyed going to the hospital. As I’ve mentioned before the place was extraordinarily clean, which I found to be impressive in my impressionable age. I was in awe of how all the people in ugly clothes could keep a place this large clean and still have time to take care of Grandma. There were many of them different ages, genders, shapes and sizes but the only one I remembered was Anna. Anna was the nurse who took care of my grandmother. She was a pale young woman with very red lips and curly brown hair. She was always darting between rooms and made it a point to say hello to me. Sometimes she would even run down to the cafeteria to get me a cookie.

While Anna was young, my grandmother was very old. You could see the veins in her hands, which I found fascinating. Her skin sagged and her hair was thin and white. She had wrinkles that caused a constant look of unhappiness. But she was in fact very happy. I’m not sure how anyone could be as happy as she was, given that she was dying. She was stuck in bed in a place that shouldn’t be called home to anyone. She needed help to get dressed, go to the bathroom, and sometimes to eat and drink. She was old, weak, and helpless. Yet she would always make the nurses and my family laugh. She knew she was dying, but she would rather spend her time making others days than counting down her own. I loved my grandmother very much. In the back of my head, I knew that she was dying. I knew that we had to visit her in the hospital because she couldn’t take care of herself. But I was a kid and I believed that Grandma could live as long as she wanted to, that she was choosing the right moment to go to Heaven. One day, I was left alone with my grandmother. My parents had gone down to the cafeteria to eat lunch, but I didn’t want to leave Grandma alone. I wasn’t very hungry for the cafeteria food anyway. “Don’t pester anyone and stay out of the nurses’ way,” my mother instructed me. “If they ask you to leave then you stand outside the door until they say you can come back in. Don’t go anywhere unless it’s with Anna. Ok?”

“Ok,” I nodded and sat down on the chair near Grandma’s bed. My mother blew me a kiss and waved before leaving with my father. It was just Grandma and I. She looked at me and motioned for me to scoot the chair closer. I hopped off of it and pushed it across the tiled floor. It made a screeching sound, but I figured that Grandma couldn’t hear that well anyway. I sat down again, resting my arms on her bed and my head on my arms. Grandma looked at me with her perpetual frown, but I knew that she was smiling on the inside. She seemed frailer than when we had last seen her. Her hair was plastered to her head and her hands shook despite them resting on her stomach. Her breathing was creating a wheezing noise that reminded me of somebody who was about to sneeze. “Grandma?” I asked. “When are you going to Heaven?” Her lips moved into a small smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “Well, I think that’s up to God to decide. I could go in a few seconds or could go in a few months. We’ll just have to see what He has planned for me.” “Grandma, what are we gonna do when you go to Heaven?” I had never been to a funeral and my parents had never explained what one was to me.

She thought about my question for a few moments before she answered. “You’re mommy and daddy will be very sad and so will all of your aunts and uncles and cousins. But I don’t want you to be sad, ok? I don’t want you to be crying like they will. “I’m gonna go to Heaven and it’ll be a happy place. I’ll be able to walk like I used to and I won’t be in this hospital. I’ll be dancing and singing with your grandfather and all of my old friends who are already up there.” She looked up towards the ceiling and pointed to it too. I was old enough to understand that she meant up in the clouds where I believed Heaven was as a child. “But I’m gonna miss you, Grandma.” She patted my head with a shaking hand. “Oh, didn’t I tell you I didn’t want you to be sad? I know that you’ll miss me and so will the rest of our family. But you’ll see me again when you go to Heaven. And I’ll be able to see you when I’m up there. I’ll watch you grow up and get married and” “Ew, Grandma! Boys are gross,” I squealed. She chuckled before coughing. “Well, as you get older you find that boys get a little less gross. But do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, Olivia?” I nodded, because I understood as much as a six year old could. Grandma was going to go to sleep, but she was going to wake up in Heaven. And up in Heaven she would be free to walk

and sing and dance with Grandpa, whom I’d never met. It seemed simple enough and she was certainly happy, but I still wasn’t satisfied. “But Grandma, what if I wanna talk to you or see you? I know you’ll be up in Heaven, but how do I know when you’re listening to me?” “Oh, you are just like your mother always asking questions. I don’t think that you’ll always know when I’m listening or watching, but I’ll do my best to show you that I am. In fact, I have an idea. “Do you see the glass butterfly on the table beside my bed?” she asked. “Your grandfather bless his heart gave that to me shortly after we started dating. I was a dancer and he told me that I looked like a butterfly when I danced. I was light on my feet back then. “Anyway, I want you to take that glass butterfly home with you today. When I go to Heaven, you can look at the glass butterfly and remember both me and your grandfather dancing up in Heaven like butterflies.” My eyes widened as I looked at the glass butterfly. I had seen it numerous times, but this was the first time that I really examined it. It was no more than an inch and a half wide and and inch tall. It sat on a small stub that resembled a twig. It was a small figurine, but it seemed large and heavy to my childhood self. Its wings were resting open and each wing had spots. The larger wings had three spots from the upper tip of the wing downward. The smaller wings

had two spots at the lower tips of them. It was not a masterpiece by any means, but I thought that it was the most beautiful object in the world. I carefully reached for the butterfly. I knew that glass objects were very fragile and I feared that I would drop it. The glass was cool in my warm little hand and I was just as cautious to bring the butterfly back to me as I had been to go get it. “See, isn’t she beautiful?” my grandmother asked as I continued to stare at it. I simply nodded. I was overwhelmed by the fact that Grandma had given me one of her prize possessions. It was small and old, but it meant so much to her because of my grandfather. I’d never met him, but holding the butterfly made me feel as though he was standing behind me and gazing at its beauty too. My parents soon returned and my mother tried to take the butterfly away from me. She didn’t want me to drop it and cut myself on the shards. My grandmother reasoned with her that I was old enough and responsible enough to hold it and to keep it. She let my Grandma have her way and the adults chatted for awhile. In a few days my grandmother had died. She left peacefully in her sleep and went to Heaven. My parents and my aunts and uncles cried a lot afterwards. But I knew that she was happier in Heaven because she could see Grandpa. She could sing and dance with him; she was free to be a butterfly again.

Notes on “As You (Would) Like It” As you will see, the original version of the microfiction is quite different than the final. The idea of the story has not changed, but the way in which it is presented has. I was set on telling a story where the mother for some reason, be it grief, denial, guilt, imagines that her daughter Sarah has a twin named Devon. The mother is worried about Sarah because she never acknowledges Devon. But how can she when Devon doesn’t exist? Originally I had planned to have this revealed through Sarah’s ending dialogue. In this version, she was old enough to realize that something was wrong because Devon did not exist. However, the way I worded it made it seem as though the mother had never mentioned Devon before. This doesn’t seem plausible if the mother had been seeing Devon since Sarah was a toddler. The original version focused mainly on comparing and contrasting the two girls. Sarah is the perfect child, while Devon is ignored and forgotten. Devon’s appearance is described as “like a skeleton” to hint at the revelation at the end of the story. I also described her as having a childlike face she would never grow out of to indicate that she had died before being born or at a very young age. However, I changed the way I presented the story. I didn’t like how the first version had the girls as little girls, then jumped to them being older. It seemed illogical to me that the mother wouldn’t do anything about Sarah’s negligence of her sister for that long. To fix this, I presented Sarah as currently still being a small child. She plays with dolls, friends, and likes to

swing. By doing this, I could reveal that Devon was nonexistent without having the question of why Sarah hadn’t realized her mother’s problem sooner. I didn’t come up with the title until making this portfolio. I recently read a book about Shakespeare for my AP Literature class and I thought the title “As You Like It” would work. I added the “would” in parenthesis because the mother of the story sees the world as she would like it. I also wasn’t sure if titling it exactly after the play would be plagiarism. As You (Would) Like It (Original) Sarah had always been the favourite child. She had long, golden locks. Her cheeks were always rosy and alive. She loved to run and play outside. Her friends adored her. She loved her father and mother, yet ignored Devon. Her mother told herself that it was only a phase. The girls grew up, but nothing changed. Sarah was smarter, taller, and prettier than Devon. She was athletic, smart, and popular. The boys only paid attention to her. Devon had accepted the fact that she was not pretty. Her hair was thin and plastered to her head. Her skin had never gained colour and she resembled a skeleton. She had a childish face, which she would never grow out of.

The mother grew tired of Sarah’s lack of compassion for her sister. “Sarah, why don’t you love Devon? She’s always loved you, but you ignore her like she’s a fly.” The mother held back tears. She was unable to understand why Sarah didn’t care for her sister. Sarah looked at her mother quizzically. “Who’s Devon? I’ve always been an only child, Mother.”

Notes on “The Royal Star” As I mentioned before, I had difficulty finding words to rhyme with star. This caused the original poem to have some coherence issues. For example, “appearance you can’t mar, / as it is so high” doesn’t make sense. You can’t harm its appearance because it is so high? It kind of makes sense, but to me it seemed like it switched topics from appearance to location. “Perhaps it is bizarre, / beauty amplify” is another odd placement. It’s bizarre that the star amplifies its beauty? To fix these errors, I switched the placements of “appearance you can’t mar” and “a step above the bar.” These make sense in context because being a step above the bar, the star is very high up in both location and beauty. It also is not a lie that the star is so beautiful that you cannot disfigure it. As for “beauty amplify,” line sixteen, I changed it to “light can amplify.” In context this makes much more sense. It would be bizarre if the light could naturally amplify itself to be seen from further distances. The Royal Star (Original) There is no brighter star, Hanging in the sky, To be seen from afar A royal like a czar, Cannot be passed by,

There is no brighter star Appearance you can't mar, As it is so high, To be seen from afar A step above the bar, It is not a lie, There is no brighter star Perhaps it is bizarre, Beauty amplify, To be seen from afar If it wrote a memoir, We would all know why There is no brighter star, To be seen from afar

Notes on “Arches Are Round” “Arches Are Round” was changed using my newfound knowledge of enjambment. I realized that I didn’t need to place commas after every line, so I reread the poem and changed the punctuation. Some lines have enjambment while others have purposeful punctuation. One of the lines which continue onto the next needed to have a word added to make the two lines coherent. Because of this, “and” was added to the beginning of line thirtysix. “Or” was added to the beginning of line forty for the poem to flow better. For this same reason, the word “and” was removed from line fiftyone. Arches Are Round (Original) I don't understand, Kids these days, I'm one too, But that doesn't mean, I'm the same as you I'm not mainstream, I'm not a hipster, I am me, I don't paint my face,

I don't do drugs, I don't fight, I don't get suspended, I don't fail my classes Yet I see, All these kids, Who are my age, Who can't do simple math, Who drop out of school, Who smoke, Who don't care anymore, And I don't understand, How apathy, Can have such a hold on my generation I don't understand, Why everyone thinks, That having a big chest, Or a big butt, Is all that matters, Or why there are people famous, For having them, When they would be labelled,

Abnormal, if they lived, In a time period before ours I don't understand, My generation, Its fascination, With the artificial, Superficial, Supernatural, Why it thinks, It knows everything, When it didn't know, That coupons are for, One time use, Or that there are people, Other than themselves Perhaps I'm just a pessimist, Or maybe I see it differently, What the world is, What it values, And I can’t help, But to fear, For our future,

If my generation is to succeed, Because of the lack, Of knowledge, Caring, Values, Beliefs, Will we be, Like Orwell's 1984? With a Big Brother, Over our shoulder? Or will we be in a world, Like Vonnegut's, Where we have to dumb everyone down? I don't know what the future holds, And I am afraid, Because of what it is now, But at least I know, That arches are round.

Notes on “The Lame Child” Similar to “Arches Are Round,” the main difference from the original to the final is the use or lack thereof of punctuation. Many of the lines are simple sentences so I replaced the comma with a period. If the thought could be continued from one line to the next, I used enjambment. This helps the poem to read faster. I added “and” at the beginning of line thirtytwo because I felt that it needed a conjunction to flow smoothly. I also added “it” line fortyfour so that it had a clear subject. Finally, I added the word “or” between “walk” and “run” in the final line to clarify that one is not doing all three at once. The Lame Child (Original) The United States of America is a lame child, It was once strong, It ran about and played, It was in control, It commanded attention during class, It knew the right answers, It was free to roam, To run about as children do,

America was happy But now, it is a lame child, It fell and broke its leg, It is in a cast, Made by China, It is on crutches, Flimsy and barely able to support, Its weight as it grows, It grins, but it is not always happy, It is not free in its being anymore, The child has limitations, The child is part of the bigger world, It realizes that it cannot keep limping, It does not want to hurt, To be broken, But so it goes As it keeps going to school, The child doesn't know, All the right answers, Its pride is hurt, It is no longer on top, It eats supersized portions,

Relies on the internet, Has internal wars, Where no side is completely right The child called America, Younger than the others, Which prides itself on itself, Cannot brag to its classmates anymore, It cannot be perfect, It is lame, Dragging one leg behind it, With each step it takes, It remembers the past, And wants that future, But is stuck, Hobbling along, While others sit, walk, run