Shruthi rao's portfolio

Hi. This is my por-olio. ☺ Shruthi Rao July 30, 2014 Crea=ve Wri=ng

Table of Contents • Section 1- Poetry – Poetry Cover Page……………………….4 – Poetry Paragraph………….…………….5 – Moon Poems Cover Page.……………6 – Moon Poem…………………………….7 – Moon Prose……………………………8 – Moon Haiku…………………….……9 – Original Poems Cover Page…...…10 – 1st Original Poem and revision…….11 – 2nd Original Poem and revision……12 – 3rd Original Poem and revision……13

Table of Contents • Section 2- Prose – Prose Cover Page…………………………..14 – Prose Paragraph…………………………….15 – Assignment 1 Original …………………….16 – Assignment 1 Revision…………………….17 – Assignment 2 Original.……………………18 – Assignment 2 Revision.…………………...19 – Assignment 3 Original …………………...20 – Assignment 3 Revision…………………….21 – Assignment 4 Original…………………….22 – Assignment 4 Revision……………………23

• Section 3- issuu – Pictures……………………………………..24

POEMS!!

Mom: What did you learn today?

Me: …Nothing?

• Wrong answer. As per my experience, I learnt the most in the poetry sec=on due to the fact that I rarely prac=ced poetry before this course. The course helped me find a new way to express myself, and for that, I will always be grateful. Aside from simply learning poetry, I also embellished my skills as a writer through this unit. I am now able to properly write both prose and poetry without making use of “my darlings”.

Before this course, I had always wriTen about love or death, nothing in between; and I have now accomplished the task of wri=ng something that isn’t as abstract as these two categories. Another important lesson to me was rhyming. In any past poems I may have had to write for a class, I always had rhyming in it, which eventually turned into a habit.

When I wrote “We Were Infinite” it was a new experience for me because I had not yet achieved the courage it took to step out of my comfort zone and stop rhyming. Crea=ve Wri=ng allowed me to step out of the safety of my walls and explore various genres and emo=ons and forms of poetry that I had not been exposed to before, and for this, I thank you.

Moon Poems

July 15-18

Original

Revision

Moon Prose

The moon is a glowing white circle in the vast ocean of the

night sky. It is known for its beauty and yet said to cause hysteria. It is known for its purity and yet is said to glitch the newborn child. What can one make of the moon? The scien=st argues that it was created through the debri from the collision of Earth and another planet, that it orbits the Earth, and that it was formed 3.5 million years ago. The ancients say that the moon -­‐Goddess Selene-­‐ was the daughter of the Titan Hyperion and Theia. I believe that the moon is pure, but in excess turns evil. I believe that Selene existed, but in turn her beauty went ex=nct. I believe it causes defects, and yet, it can cure. I believe that it causes hysteria, but sparks infatua=on. All facts, all myth, what would you believe?

Original

Revision

Poems

Original

Revision

Revision

Original

Revision

Original

Revision

PROSE • Because emo*ons are confusing.

• Because they annoy the heck out of me.

• Because wri*ng fic*on is the best kind of wri*ng.

• Because imagining a completely different world where whatever you say goes is epic.

• And because I <3 short stories.

What did I learn in prose?

Hmmm, let me think about it for a second.

• Despite the fact that I learned so much in poetry, prose will always be my favorite (sorry). I have found that I am a very “me=culous writer” in workshop, due to the fact that I have very straigh-orward opinions about preTy much every aspect of wri=ng. I became known as “that-­‐ -­‐girl-­‐who-­‐always-­‐ disagrees”, but I embraced it, and it’s just a part of my character now. I mean personality…see what I mean? I’ve learned to put my work out there in this sec=on. Usually, I keep my poetry and prose and all my wri=ng in a folder that no one except I gets to see, and now I’ve broken out of my shell and it’s been great so far.

Jubilant County: Original

There was blood on the floor, blood on the walls, blood on her body; but when she blinked again, it was gone. Her limp being lay there on the grey-­‐stoned floor, unmoving. It was not the first =me she had surrendered to the Ins=tute's cruel ways. That's probably why she was moved to a different cell, set aside from the other occupants of this hell house; she was completely and uTerly alone. It's not that she exhibited symptoms of insanity, no sir, but for some reason the guards found her "unable to cooperate peacefully among peers due to psychological concerns that have affected conven=onal life." Right. She couldn't change much even if she wanted to anyway. She was s=ll the same Eveline that was dropped off at the Ins=tute by her mother when she was twelve. She s=ll wore her grey tear-­‐stained peasant dress, she was s=ll barefoot. And worse, she was s=ll in The Tower. The Tower was the name Eveline had given her "living quarters." The "living quarters" had a single window above a cold fireplace that never lit to begin with. At least not while Eveline was kept-­‐sorry, living-­‐in there. on the opposite side of the room stood a cot, its blankets worn and tossed to the side as though poisonous. Which Eveline was convinced it was, for she felt a strange bi=ng on her legs and back when and if she slept on the cot and not the grey-­‐ stoned floor. A brutal bang on the door knocked Eveline out of her reverie. She got up from her fetal posi=on and slid the panel on the iron door open so she could see her visitor. The man at the door cleared his throat and handed her a tray of unappe=zing food. The murky blandness of the soup never ceased to amaze her. She nodded wordlessly at the man shut the panel. Her breath hitched and she almost dropped the tray as she saw an image reflected back at her in the stainless-­‐steal texture. A girl's face could be seen, her skin blotched and pale from lack of sunlight. Her brown hair was in clumps and burly, as though it hadn't been washed in years. Which it hadn't. Her evergreen eyes had a swollen and wild look about them, as though they had been broken before, shaTered. Eveline shook her head, snapping herself out of the fear she felt of her own reflec=on. She gathered the tray and proceeded to throw its contents out the window. She downed the water, though. Water was the only substance that was desirable here. Or anywhere, for that maTer. Actually, Eveline no longer found anything desirable.

She wasn't sure she would any=me soon either. Her life had been one big Shakesperean tragedy, star=ng from the day her mother found Eveline kneeling in front of the altar with a knife pointed at herself with one hand and the Holy Book in the other. She had tried explaining to mother that it was for the best she be gone, that it was for the best that no one remember. Aher all, a child like Eveline needed special care and protec=on. People whispered about her, men hooted at her, their eyes wandering un=l Eveline had felt every ounce of self-­‐respect and dignity fall away. A glint of light caught her eye, making her turn to face the edge of the cot. It seemed as though something had been wriTen on it. "Please enjoy your stay at Jubilant County Hospital" A sick laugh blew from Eveline's mouth, slowly turning to hysteria as the mirth and sheer absurdity of the line hit her. Soon she was coughing and the guards came in the Tower and stabbed the needle in her back. She fell to the floor and drihed into a beau=ful dream. A girl ran through what seemed to be a wedding chapel. She was certainly dressed for the occasion-­‐ a flowing white dress with a single blood rose pinned in her hair. She passed the altar and came to a fork in the path. In one corner lay a single feather pen and parchment, the ink contamina=ng the paper. In the other stands an ebony black table. A dagger is placed on the table, the shadows cas=ng a red glow on the knife. "Which do you favor?" a voice echoes. Eveline picks the dagger.

Revision: Jubilant County ! ! ! ! ! ! !Jubilant County" !There was blood on the floor, blood on the walls, blood on her body; but when she blinked again, it was gone. Her limp body lay there on the grey-stoned floor, unmoving. It was not the first time she had surrendered to the Institute's cruel ways. That's probably why she was moved to a different cell, set aside from the other occupants of this hell house; she was completely and utterly alone. It's not that she exhibited symptoms of insanity, no sir, but for some reason the guards found her "unable to cooperate peacefully among peers due to psychological concerns that have affected conventional life." " ! Right. She couldn't change much even if she wanted to anyway. She was still the same Evelyn that was dropped off at the Institute by her mother when she was twelve. She still wore her grey tear-stained peasant dress, she was still barefoot. And worse, she was still in The Tower. The Tower was the name Evelyn had given her "living quarters." The "living quarters" had a single window above a cold fireplace that never lit to begin with. At least not while Evelyn was keptsorry, living-in there. On the opposite side of the room stood a cot, its blankets worn and tossed to the side as though poisonous. Which Evelyn was convinced it was, for she felt a strange biting on her legs and back when and if she ever slept on the cot and not the grey-stoned floor. " !A brutal bang on the door knocked Evelyn out of her reverie. " !She got up from her fetal position and slid the panel on the iron door open so she could see her visitor. " !The man at the door cleared his throat and handed her a tray. Her daily meal consisted of a burnt-to-ashes piece of toast, one bowl of soup that looked to be made from clay rather than broth, and a single glass of water. The murky blandness of the food never ceased to amaze her.

She nodded wordlessly at the man and shut the panel. Her breath hitched and she almost dropped the tray as she saw an image reflected back at her in the stainless-steal texture. A girl's face could be seen, her skin blotched and pale from the lack of sunlight. Her brown hair was in clumps and burly, as though it had not been washed in years. Which it hadn't. Her evergreen eyes had a swollen and wild look about them, as though they had been broken before, shattered. Evelyn shook her head, snapping herself out of the fear she felt of her own reflection.

She gathered the tray and proceeded to throw its contents out the window. She downed the water, though. Water was the only substance that was desirable here. Or anywhere, for that matter. Actually, Evelyn no longer found anything desirable. She wasn't sure she would anytime soon either. Her life had been one big Shakespearean tragedy, starting from the day her mother found Evelyn kneeling in front of the altar with a knife pointed at herself with one hand and the Holy Book in the other. She had tried explaining to her mother that it was for the best she be gone, that it was for the best that no one remember. After all, a child like Evelyn needed special care and protection. People whispered about her, called her a witch; and men ran from her, their eyes wandering until Evelyn had felt every ounce of self-respect and dignity fall away. A glint of light caught her eye, making her turn to face the edge of the cot. She hurried to the edge and wiped aside dust that had collected through the years. It seemed as though something had been written on it:" Please enjoy your stay at Jubilant County Hospital! " !A sick laugh blew from Evelyn’s mouth, slowly turning to hysteria as the sheer mirth and absurdity of the line hit her. Soon she was coughing and the guards came in the Tower and stabbed the needle in her back. The red substance took effect and started flowing through her veins, letting it calm her until she fell to the floor and drifted into a beautiful dream. " !A girl ran through what seemed to be a wedding chapel. She was certainly dressed for the occasion- a flowing white dress with a single blood-red rose pinned in her hair. She passed the altar and came to a fork in the path. In one corner lay a single feather pen and parchment, the ink contaminating the paper. On the other side stands an ebony black table. A dagger was placed on it, the shadows casting a red glow on the knife. " !"Which do you favor?" a voice asks, its sound reverberating through the chamber." !Evelyn grabbed the dagger. "

POV Assignment: Original Wait a LiGle “BE QUIET, YOU MEANIE! WE. ARE NOT. WEIRD!!!!!!!” yelled Shruthi.

I frown at the girl being assaulted by my dear cousin and put a protec=ve arm around her. Partly to assure her and partly to make sure that she won’t punch Rachael. Rachael being the annoying girl across the street who just has to comment on everything. So what if we’re modeling on the roof of the car? Mind your own business, girl.

“Whatever,” says Rachael, strulng away back to her perfect liTle house across the street. You beTer walk away, you meanie!

“Come on, Shruthi. Don’t listen to her. Let’s get back to modeling.” I offer.

She nods, a scowl s=ll present on her liTle face. I jump back up on top of the car and wait for her to climb up. She puts her hand on the hood and shimmies up, using her feet to get hold of the slope.

“Okay. How about this?”

I pose with my leh hand on my hip and my right hand up in the air, blowing a kiss to the sky.

“No. That’s silly.” She says, turning to face me. “It’s more like this.”

With that she put both hand on her hips and smiled up at the sky, her liTle features twis=ng up in a grin.

I roll my eyes at her. She may have the “innocent” look down, but I’m older, so obviously I’ve been there, I know all her liTle tricks.

“Awwww, you look so cute!” I say, throwing an arm around her.

“Hey! You’re only two years older than me!” She argues, crossing her arms across her white-­‐ frocked chest and pou=ng.

I sigh, and tug at her hand to make her get off the car.

“Come on. Let’s go inside.”

“Wait a liTle.” She slides down the windshield to the hood and sits there, in her white frock and =ny face, and looks up at me, wai=ng for me to join her, and to con=nue to spoil the heck out of her.

I slide down and join her, wai=ng to see what happens next.

When I get there, everything is s;ll for a minute. The tree’s leaves stop shaking, the cars stop coming, and Shruthi is s;ll, completely s;ll for a minute. It’s picturesque for a minute, for a second, for a ;ny millisecond.

And then the world decides to hit play and Shruthi is off the car in a blur and running into the house, saying something about Barbie and TV. I jog aher her, making sure not to trip on the tricycle.

“WAIT! Don’t lock me out again!”

POV Assignment: Revision

Wait a LiGle There is a photograph in my scrapbook. Shruthi stands with her fists folded over her chest, heavily frowning at a short-­‐haired girl. I stand with my arm over Shruthi’s shoulders, protec;ng her and holding her back at the same ;me. I smile at the picture…we were so young. It was taken back in the good old days of princesses and princes and happily-­‐ever-­‐aFers-­‐ when anything and everything was possible. We were kings and queens one day, models the next, and grown-­‐up make believes in our own world. But when we did grow up, it never took away our childhood. We stayed as one through and through-­‐ telling secrets, keeping promises, and geIng beJer together. Shruthi is special to me. Maybe more so than her sister at ;mes, for I knew her first; and first crushes, first loves and first sisters hold dear places in our hearts. My first sister sits with me now, tapping her foot or finger, trying (and failing) to stay s;ll and actually listen to me for once. But, hey, that’s what you get with and ADHD cousin. She’s been more s;ll than she was back then, more idle than the excitable six-­‐year-­‐old in the picture. I sigh, recalling the day and its wonders. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “BE QUIET, YOU MEANIE! WE. ARE NOT. WEIRD!!!!!!!” yelled Shruthi.

I frown at the girl being assaulted by my dear cousin and put a protec=ve arm around her. Partly to assure her and partly to make sure that she won’t punch Rachael. Rachael being the annoying girl across the street who just has to comment on everything. So what if we’re modeling on the roof of the car? Mind your own business, girl.

“Whatever,” says Rachael, strulng away back to her perfect liTle house across the street. You beTer walk away, you meanie!

“Come on, Shruthi. Don’t listen to her. Let’s get back to modeling.” I offer.

She nods, a scowl s=ll present on her liTle face. I jump back up on top of the car and wait for her to climb up. She puts her hand on the hood and shimmies up, using her feet to get hold of the slope.

“Okay. How about this?”

I pose with my leh hand on my hip and my right hand up in the air, blowing a kiss to the sky.

“No. That’s silly.” She says, turning to face me. “It’s more like this.”

With that she put both hand on her hips and smiled up at the sky, her liTle features twis=ng up in a grin.

I roll my eyes at her. She may have the “innocent” look down, but I’m older, so obviously I’ve been there, I know all her liTle tricks.

“Awwww, you look so cute!” I say, throwing an arm around her.

“Hey! You’re only two years older than me!” She argues, crossing her arms across her white-­‐ frocked chest and pou=ng.

I sigh, and tug at her hand to make her get off the car.

“Come on. Let’s go inside.”

“Wait a liTle.” She slides down the windshield to the hood and sits there, in her white frock and =ny face, and looks up at me, wai=ng for me to join her, and to con=nue to spoil the heck out of her.

I slide down, wai=ng to see what happens next in the spontaneous and fidgety life of Shruthi Rao. When I get there, everything is s;ll for a minute. The tree’s leaves stop shaking, the cars stop coming, and Shruthi is s;ll, completely s;ll for a minute. It’s picturesque for a minute, for a second, for a ;ny millisecond.

And then the world decides to hit play again and Shruthi is off the car in a blur and running into the house, saying something about Barbie and TV. I jog aher her, making sure not to trip on the tricycle.

“WAIT! Don’t lock me out again!”

Character Descrip=on: Original

Rise of the ForgoGen

Stories, everyone has a story. No maTer whom they are or where they’re from. My story is one that reaches so deep into my soul, that it reaps the very existence of my being. It is one of misery, anger, worry, pain, and heartache. But to understand my story you must understand rebirth. Everyone is born for a purpose, a reason, with a task they are des=ned to complete. But does rebirth really explain my story? +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Breathing hard, the woman ran through the colorful crowd, pushing her way past the townspeople, who simply stumbled as though a strong wind had knocked them over. No one no=ced the nervous woman running; occasionally glancing over her shoulder, making sure her speed was ahead of her pursuers. It was almost as though she didn’t exist.

“I must escape,” she kept muTering to herself.

She ran through an ally, searching for a door or some exit from the dead end, when a red scarf was thrown out of a doorway. Smiling, she ran into the house. She couldn’t see much through the dim light, but her intui=on told her that she was in some sort of cavern, with scarves and colorful cloths draped over the sides. Lanterns hung from the walls, giving dim light to the room. In front of her stood four doors, all of which lead into different direc=ons. Mist encircled three of the four doors.

The fourth door had a bright glow around it, as though Enlightenment lay beyond; but the woman knew beTer. It was a trick she herself had set up-­‐ with the help of her fellow Gods and Goddesses. It was designed to lure the weak-­‐minded into an environment in which they belonged. She knew what lay beyond each door, she knew everything, but what she chose would decide the fate of the world. No, it would design the fate of the Universe, the fate of Time itself.

She breathed in, her sa=n robes moving like liquid in a vile. When she looked up again, she looked imperial, the look of a Queen. Everything was below her Power and Might. She knew this, the other Gods knew this, and Eternity knew this.

Humanity need not remember this era, she decided. This era held too many Divine Beings; it held the secrets to the Universe’s dreams. This era had so much happiness, so much hope, so much prosperity, and yet she had seen in the Oracle that this was to be taken away, all of it-­‐ replaced by despair and desola=on. She nodded, knowing which door she would choose. She thought hard of fire-­‐ the flames curling around her body, the heat smoldering her robes of silk, the embers dancing in front of her eyes, and the Queen of Time burnt down to ashes.

Character descrip=on Assignment: Revision Rise of the ForgoGen

Stories, everyone has a story. No maTer who they are or where they’re from. My story is one that reaches so deep into my soul, that it reaps the very existence of my being. It is one of misery, anger, worry, pain, and heartache. But to understand my story you must understand rebirth. Everyone is born for a purpose, a reason, with a task they are des=ned to complete. But does rebirth really explain my story? +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Breathing hard, the woman ran through the colorful crowd, pushing her way past the townspeople, who simply stumbled as though a strong wind had knocked them over. No one no=ced the nervous woman running; occasionally glancing at a locket on her neck She ran through an ally, searching for a door or some exit from the dead end, when a red scarf was thrown out of a doorway. Smiling, she ran into the house. She couldn’t see much, but her intui=on told her that she was in some sort of cavern, with scarves and colorful cloths draped over the sides. Lanterns hung from the walls, giving dim light to the room. In front of her stood four doors, all of which lead into different direc=ons. Mist encircled three of the four doors. The fourth door had a bright glow around it, as though Enlightenment lay beyond; but the woman knew beTer. It was a trick she herself had set up-­‐ with the help of her fellow Gods and Goddesses. It was designed to lure the weak-­‐minded into an environment in which they belonged. She knew what lay beyond each door, she knew everything, but what she chose would decide the fate of the world. No, it would design the fate of the Universe, the fate of everything.

She breathed in, her sa=n robes moving like liquid in a vile. When she looked up again, she looked imperial, the look of a Queen. Everything was below her Power and Might. She knew this, the other Gods knew this, and Eternity knew this. Her power had grown to control the world as it was known, it decided the course of things. Aetus was the Goddess of Time, and her decision to either preserve or demolish this =me period would decide the course of humanity. She had seen visions in the oracle that showed scenes of suffrage and destruc=on in the near future. Humanity need not remember this era, she decided. This era held too many Divine Beings; it held the secrets to the Universe’s dreams. This era had so much happiness, so much hope, so much prosperity, and yet she had seen in the Oracle that this was to be taken away, all of it-­‐ replaced by despair and desola=on. She nodded, knowing which door she would choose. She thought hard of fire-­‐ the flames curling around her body, the heat smoldering her robes of silk, the embers dancing in front of her eyes, and the Queen of Time burnt down to ashes.

Awkward/unusual selng assignment: Original

Cloud 9 “So, I got the job? Really?”

Margareta Frost had not expected this to go so well. In fact, she was surprised when the editor she spoke with had called her to set up the mee=ng in the first place.

Margareta didn’t have nearly as much experience as her compe=tors; her photos were simple and stable, something her Professor had given her a hard =me about.

Professor McKinley thought most of her work to be conserva=ve, too conven=onal, too ordinary for the world to like.

Margareta wished her dear teacher could have seen her now, gelng accepted by the editor-­‐in-­‐chief of BeJer Homes and Gardens to be the agency’s top media consultant, specializing in photography.

Oh, yeah. McKinley would’ve loved that.

“You’ve got the job, Frost. Remember, you start next week at 10.”

With a firm handshake and a goodbye, the editor leh the coffee shop.

Smiling to herself, Margareta walked home, feeling a sense of accomplishment and euphoria at the thought of wronging her once-­‐dreaded professor.

Lately, her life seemed to be headed in such a posi=ve direc=on that she wondered if it was truly happening. Last week, in front of the Harbor, a place she ohen visited when she needed to think, her five-­‐year-­‐boyfriend had proposed. She s=ll smiled at the sight of the emerald ring on her hand.

Now she had a job, a house, an amazing fiancé, it was like she was on cloud 9.

As she thought this, a strange sensa=on overtook her, as if splilng her into a million =ny par=cles. She looked down and saw the skyline of ManhaTan and the busy traffic that constantly overtook New York. Was she dreaming or was New York gelng smaller?

With a thump, Margareta landed on a soh cushioning surface. All around her she saw blue. Sky blue…

She looked down and almost fainted in disbelief.

A woman walked in, smiling big and looking completely at ease.

“Hello. Welcome to Cloud 9. Once you enter happiness, you won’t want to leave!”

Awkward/ unusual selng assignment: Revision “So, I got the job? Really?”

Margareta Frost had not expected this to go so well. In fact, she was surprised when the editor she spoke with had called her to set up the mee=ng in the first place.

Margareta didn’t have nearly as much experience as her compe=tors; her photos were simple and stable, something her Professor had given her a hard =me about.

Professor McKinley thought most of her work to be conserva=ve, too conven=onal, too ordinary for the world to like. How could someone so bland get a job like this?

Not that she was complaining.

Margareta wished her dear teacher could have seen her now, gelng accepted by the editor-­‐in-­‐chief of BeJer Homes and Gardens to be the agency’s top media consultant, specializing in photography.

Oh, yeah. McKinley would’ve loved that.

“You’ve got the job, Frost. Remember, you start next week at 10.”

With a firm handshake and a goodbye, the editor leh the coffee shop.

Smiling to herself, Margareta walked home, feeling a sense of accomplishment and euphoria at the thought of wronging her once-­‐dreaded professor.

Lately, her life seemed to be headed in such a posi=ve direc=on that she wondered if it was truly happening. Last week, in front of the Harbor, a place she ohen visited when she needed to think, her five-­‐year-­‐boyfriend had proposed. She s=ll smiled at the sight of the emerald ring on her hand.

Now she had a job, a house, an amazing fiancé, it was like she was on cloud 9. But, s=ll…something felt off about it. Everything seemed too perfect, like the calm before a storm.

She shook her head and kept walking, ignoring the nagging feeling of suspicion and enjoying the ups in her life for once.

As she thought this, a strange sensa=on overtook her, as if splilng her into a million =ny par=cles. She looked down and saw the skyline of ManhaTan and the busy traffic that constantly overtook New York. Was she dreaming or was New York gelng smaller?

With a thump, Margareta landed on a soh cushioning surface. All around her she saw blue. Sky blue…

She seemed to be in some sort of magnificent castle. Golden-­‐yellow arches and marble columns emphasized the wealth of the selng. She was in front of a golden fountain, where a mermaid spewed water into the drain. Strange inscrip=ons were wriTen along the edges of the fountain, giving it an ancient look.

A woman walked in, wearing a golden…was that a toga?

“Hello. Welcome to your very own Utopia. Once you enter happiness, you won’t leave it!”

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