Creative Writing Portfolio 20062007

1
Creative Writing Portfolio 2006-2007

• Darby Sanders
• 12
• Mrs. Dowling

2
Introduction

• First of all, I would just like to say thank
  you and welcome to my portfolio. I worked really
  hard at getting everything just right, and well
  Im pretty proud of it I must say. A lot of my
  work is art and music inspired, because lets
  face it, Im kind of a hippie. The following
  pieces just discuss life and the questions that
  come along with living on this earth. I hope you
  enjoy!
• -Darby

Table of Contents
3
Table of Contents

• Portfolio 3
• Journal Entry 1
• Journal Entry 2
• Journal Entry 3
• Journal Entry 4
• Journal Entry 5
• Writing Assignment
• Poetry
• Reflections

• Portfolio 1
• Slab of Wood
• The Lonely Oak
• Crossroads
• Skin
• The Journal
• Orchid Massacre
• The Parisian Sunset
• The Smile
• Reflections

• Portfolio 2
• Vanilla
• Dust
• The Lost Faery Princess
• John Handcock
• The Mirror
• Forgotten
• A Crystal Ghost
• A life on Edge
• Letter
• Fantasy
• Reflections

4
Slab of Wood
Its solace to weary students, a gentle pillow
to the exhausted. A surface on which dreams take
form and peace of mind is found. To others it may
seem menacing, a torture chamber that delights in
taunting the aching joints of unfortunate bodies
everywhere. It strips them of comfort by
eliminating movement, hunching the raw backbone
over mountains of tedious class work. To some it
is an innocent canvas that begs an artists eye
to fill it with beauty. Only the lucky subjects
become home to sacred carvings such as Dj and
Mary 4-ever. How romantic. To others it is a
pedestal of learning, a carrier of thoughts. Its
an able bearer for the burden of knowledge,
helping to carry the weight. Through my eyes I
have witnessed the evolution of this simple slab
of wood and metal. I have seen it as all these
things dreamy comfort, confining torture, work
of art, and noble burden carrier. I see the soul
behind the polished bark. But I suppose to others
it will always just be an ordinary school desk.
5
The Lonely Oak
The lonely tree, Dappled drab with falling
leaves, is soon to be Bare. And the harsh
frost Lingers On tomorrows whisper.
The train of fog slithers by Like a disappearing
snake. It unfurls its breath, A stale
breeze, That rips through Blank Branches Howling
like chains that clank.
6
Crossroads
Im at a crossroads, as they say. My decisions
in the next few years will change my life
forever change the world. Maybe Im on a
polished stage somewhere, in a swanky club where
I could whisper the secrets of that good old
jazz, that bluesy devil, to the crowd until my
voice gives out. Where I could croon jazzs
gospel until my soul grew weary. But maybe
instead the stage is a little gritty. Maybe a few
of the lights overhead need repair. Im not
singing a jazz ballad after all, but instead
acting out an emotional dialogue with another
actor. Maybe he screams Stella! Then I ignore
him and disappear offstage, adrenaline still
numbing my legs, still coursing through my pulse.
Maybe I can feel it in my eyelids. Its
everywhere. Maybe I even smudge my stage makeup
as I hurriedly pull on my next costume its a
quick change and Im pregnant in the next
scene. Maybe Im a thousand miles away from that
stage in a nice suburban house. Im facing the
glowing screen of a computer, pouring my mind
onto a blank page. Spilling small drops of the
story upon every line as my fingers rapidly
strike the keys. Maybe there is a curly haired
toddler bouncing in my lap. Maybe Im in a
modest house in a poverty stricken country,
married to the free spirited man of my dreams.
Each morning I converse with my neighbors about
the weather or the meaning of life, in their
fluent tongue of course. Sure, they say to each
other while walking to the market, her accent
sounds a little odd, but shes part of the
family. Then the other women nod and smile and
then continue to other subjects. Or maybe Im
alone. Maybe Ill adopt. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
7
Skin
I am made of skin. Soft. Delicate. Not a steel
barrier. I dont have a magnetic force field to
deflect hate. No, it sinks right in. Yet I am so
grateful that my milky flesh Lets it escape just
as easily. With a single breath the wind whips
through, Clean. I find that unlike anger -unlike
that awful word, hate, It takes only a mere drop
of sadness to stay forever. A hint of sorrow. A
stifled sob. A silent cry. Absorbed til the
end. That single teardrop is stored within Until
Im carrying a puddle, A lake, A river, An
Ocean. I find I cannot wring myself dry. But for
every liquid cry, There is a laugh, a smile, a
coy look, A contented sigh. There is a sunrise, a
bluesy tune, autumn leaves, A full moon. And its
a wonder that with all this weight of the
world, The earth still manages to carry me. To
support the burden under my feet. -To cradle my
heart into content.
8
The Journal
It was sewn with imagination. Dyed in passions
hues. A blank state of expectation. -The pen
waiting for its cue. Now soaked to the brim with
ink, Life flooding every page. Words speak softly
of sunrises And grace untouched by age. Leather
holds whispered secrets, Binding carries that old
painful crush. The journal inhales my existence
-Begins its own life with a hush.
9
The Orchid Massacre
Everyone was frozen until finally the teacher
regained his composure and rushed out of the
classroom. Jake felt his legs get up too and was
soon out the door following his professor
closely. The school was comprised of nine
different stories and had one central spiral
staircase. It was all a blur to Jake as he rushed
to the top railing of the stairs, where a crowd
had already gathered. Everyone was looking
downwards as he shoved his way through the
crowd. His heart raced as he followed the gaze
of his classmates down eight stories. Down to
where he saw a heap of black curls and the green
of a letter jacket. His letter jacket. He knew
in that instant that it was Carly. He knew, and
yet Jakes mind could not make sense of the scene
below him. His shaking hand gripped the railing
before him as he watched her scarlet blood seep
down the last few stairs, making a thin red trail
on the marble steps to the ground floor. She must
have fallen down the center of the spiral
staircase. Jake could almost see her curly hair
flowing in the air as she fell. He pressed his
forehead to the railing to steady himself but
instantly retracted in horror as he saw scratch
marks upon the wood beneath his very own
fingertips. Beside the deep gouges, clearly made
by desperate nails, was a purple orchid, tied to
the railing with a black ribbon. He stared
confusedly at the plum flower before turning to
run down the stairs. His best friend, his
girlfriend of eight months and two weeks was dead.
Prologue It was a Thursday, one week
before Halloween, at Pratts Institution for Boys
and Girls, a tall brick private school in the
east side of New York, when the first murder
occurred. The grey eerily quiet hallways of the
school were covered with leering skeletons and
dusty orange and black crepe paper that hung
along the walls like overgrown vines. It was
precisely fourteen minutes past twelve as Jake
Viera bubbled in his last question to the Caesar
test when he heard a most disturbing sound. It
was a sound that would later haunt his nightmares
and torment him in hours of idleness. A
sickening scream, one he thought sounded
familiar, ripped through the halls and came
bursting into his classroom. Every student
dropped their pencils and whipped around in their
seats toward the door, all listening as the
shriek continued. It got gradually softer and
then abruptly ceased with a nearly inaudible
thud. Jake went numb all over. His stomach
evaporated and left him feeling nauseas. He
looked around at his fellow classmates and
noticed some who went pale, while others mouths
flew open. The blonde girl beside him raised a
freshly manicured hand to her glossed lips,
stifling a gag.
10
The Eiffel Tower burned with glittering
stars That last night on the Seine. Crisp wind
fluttered like the light wings of
faeries, Twirling my hair mischievously as I
breathed it all in. -The Parisian Sunset
hypnotized me. Lovers waltzed under the living
work of art, Dancing in time to the laughter of
the river. Pink lazy clouds embraced the starry
tower, Holding it captive to the fading sky. A
couple balanced cigarettes on their forefingers
As a smoky haze spiraled heavenward with each
deep chuckle. I drank in the scene, intoxicated
by its overwhelming serenity. And would fly home
knowing I had witnessed the origin of
beauty. -The Parisian Sunset still hypnotizes me.
The Parisian Sunset
Paris, France
11
The Smile
She was even more beautiful that I ever
imagined. I knew her presence was near when I saw
the smaller children running down the corridor.
Everyone was whispering her name in all different
tongues. Her stare floated down the hall and
pulled me in from around the corner. She smiled
at me as I joined the crowd, winding my way to
the front. I was sure in that moment that I was
just one out of millions who had lain my eyes on
her beauty, and yet I was quite certain that no
one had seen her like I had. I will never
forget the roundness of her cheek. Nor the plump
but delicate form of her hands. I wanted to touch
them they were so real. I saw the way her hair
became one with the background, like she was
fading away. Like she wanted to be hidden
forever. And of course, I will never forget those
eyes. How they never let go of my gaze. She was
perfect. It took me several minutes to pull
myself from her beauty and realize where I was. I
looked around and saw a young girl grasping her
grandfathers hand. He then lifted her up to his
hip to see above the crowd. I heard her tiny
gasp. I will never forget the words he said to
her that day. In a soothing English accent he
whispered into her hair, See that smile? Its
incredible. The human spirit, darling, this is
it. The girl nodded and turned her adoring gaze
back to the painting before us. Both of our eyes
flew to those lips. It took me but a glance to
realize that the old man was right. I wasnt just
staring at a portrait of a young woman. I was
looking into the world. In that smile I saw pain
and joy, love and sadness. I saw myself. I saw
the young girl. I saw my great grandmother. I
even saw you.
12
Reflections

• I think that the mystery assignment was the most
  challenging. Im not very good on planning ahead
  with my work so this was difficult at first to
  decide how the story was going to turn out before
  I even started it.
• Of which assignment are you most proud? What in
  particular have you done well on that assignment?
  I am most proud of my poem Skin. I like it
  because I just let my thoughts flow initially
  before editing it, so it really accurately
  captured my emotions.
• 3. I decided not to include my memoir because it
  turn out like I had wanted. For appropriateness
  reason I had to cut out a lot of the authenticity
  and I think that left it too sparse to be
  considered accurate.
• Slab of Wood I see the soul behind the polished
  bark. I like this sentence because it is so
  concise but effective.
• Lonely Oak And the harsh frost Lingers on
  tomorrows whisper. I like this sentence of the
  poem because it emphasizes how truly alone the
  tree feels.
• Crossroads Maybe I can feel it in my eyelids.
  I like this sentence because it is so descriptive
  and raw. I think that it accurately depicts the
  intensity of adrenaline on the body.
• Skin I find I cannot wring myself dry. This
  is my favorite line because it describes the
  physical and mental result of sorrow, how you
  carry around your tears forever, never free from
  their water.
• The Journal The journal inhales my existence
  -begins its own life with a hush. This sentence
  is nice because after a while, rereading your
  journal, you can just see it living through your
  experiences.
• Orchid Massacre His best friend, his
  girlfriend of eight months and two weeks was
  dead. I love this ending sentence because it is
  so shocking and emotional.

13

• The Parisian Sunset A couple balanced
  cigarettes on their forefingers As a smoky haze
  spiraled heavenward with each deep chuckle. I
  love this sentence because it perfectly captured
  the scene I saw. The smoke was like magic and the
  couple was so intimate that it truly defined
  Paris for me.
• The Smile She was perfect. This sentence sums
  up the indescribable beauty of Mona Lisa.
• 6. I would assume that the writer is strong in
  descriptive language but sometimes has difficulty
  making it clear what she wants to portray, she
  can be vague sometimes. I would suggest trying to
  make the meaning more clear and concise to the
  reader.
• 7. I could easily extend The Parisian Sunset
  into a narrative or short story. I have such a
  clear view of that night that I could turn it
  into anything.
• 8. I could make The Smile into a poem very
  quickly. In fact, that was my original intent but
  I just wanted to tell it exactly as it happened.
  However, I do think that it could be more
  powerful as a poem.
• I think that Crossroads allows my personality
  to show the most. In it I can see my creativity,
  imagination, and dreams all wrapped into a piece
  about my uncertainties with the future.
• A lot of the girls say that I write very
  descriptively but I think that sometimes that can
  get in the way of what Im trying to get across.
  Ive been trying to make my meaning more clear
  and will continue to work on that.

14
Ron Weasley, (Harry Potter)

• 10. Oh bloody hell, I hate readin books and
  poems. This is real rubbish. I doubt even
  Hermione would think its any good, and she reads
  all the time! Maybe Ill bring it to the Common
  Room so that Harry can get a kick out of it. He
  should use this sunshine and rainbows lot on
  Voldemort. I mean honestly, one reading of these
  ridiculous poems would be sure to knock him flat,
  the vile bugger. Blimey, I mean what's this? It
  was sewn with imagination. What does that even
  mean anyway? Even muggles know that only a good
  charm could sew together a living journal,
  otherwise it would scream its full head off. Ive
  had enough. Its time for Quidditch practice
  anyway, our first match against Slytherin is on
  Saturday and we really have to get ready if we
  want to crush them.

15
Vanilla
Cold Confection of Delight I do not want you But
you tempt me so. I Am tempted And I
shiver. Candlelit by a burning flame Flames of
affection Vanilla candle My nose trembles in
thanks Appreciation for your scent So, ever so
soft A feather against my nose. Fin

• Cheesecake resting on my lonely plate
• Smooth
• Delicious
• Smooth and delicious
• The taste of summer
• Tickles my tastebuds
• Shhhhhhh..listen to them sing

16
Dust
Jimmy Dale sat at his desk in Mrs. Glients
seventh period History class one spring
afternoon. He glanced at the clock as seconds
ticked by, moving more lethargically than usual,
he thought. To the teacher, he appeared to be
diligently reading his textbook, however the
truth is that Jimmy was having a battle with his
eyelids. He fought with all his might to force
them open, but with the ally of the humming
nearby air ventilator, his eyelids were certainly
winning. Finally he gave in and let the welcoming
waves of daydreaming to pass over him. Mr.
Dale! Will you kindly rejoin us here and get your
mind out of outer space? Jimmy awoke with a
jerk, his glasses askew. So sorry Mrs.Gliet
he mumbled. But then Jimmy stopped abruptly and
stood up so fast that his chair was knocked over
beside his desk. His eyes grew so wide that they
threatened to fall of the ledge of their sockets.
Then for the first time since kindergarten, Jimmy
Dale started to scream. A split-second later,
before his fellow students had time to see the
source of his terror, Jimmy was evaporated by a
deafening explosion. His entire class too was
vaporized on the spot. In fact, most of Mars went
up in flames. Not a soul was spared that
afternoon on the fourth rock from the Sun.
17
The Lost Faery Princess
A leprechaun. A pixie. Her freckles spell out
mischief. A sprite. A faery. Her hair burns
with an auburn glow. A wandering fawn. A
faltering bud. Her eyes brim with shimmering
pools of innocence. Shes lost. And reaching
for my hand with small fingers, Ice-cold fingers
smudged with paint. Shes a phoenix with feeble
wings, Just learning the feel of flight Gulping
in the winds sweet taste for the first time.
That fair skin, Like pale rose petals, Will
soon be toughened. Her misted, timid spheres
will soon be un-blinded. I only hope she likes
what they see.
18
John Hancock

• My name is written
• On the Eiffel Tower
• At this very moment.
• Just sitting on the brown paint
• Inches from the ledge
• In rushed cursive.
• Right this very second
• I bet this little piece of me
• Is basking in the winter sun.
• It must be mid-afternoon
• on the Seine.

And yet here I am, Trapped in this fluorescent
purgatory of cheap paint and windowless
views. Here, while my signature, My scrawl of
John Hancock. Overlooks the dream of Paris,
gazing down at the fashionistas dressed in
French vogue head to toe their heels clacking
sharply on the stone. They dont even know I am
there,Just an American girls messy
handwriting,Watching from above, A couple
hundred feet closer to the clouds of heaven.
19
The Mirror
The mirror see us. It sees the uncertainty in
our walk. The flaws we try so hard to mask. The
glint on our eyes from tears held back. But who
sees the mirror? Who sees the dust around the
frame? The worn out wood at its back? The
shards of glass cut by one winding crack?
20
Laying upon the green earth, The grass tickles
my chin, Press my ear deep into her hive, -Hear
her humming within. She sings of overlooked
treasures, Who day by day go unseen, -Of a
glassy green pond, -Of the moon in the trees.
Her words form a story, That rarely gets told.
Like an evening paper forgotten, We forget what
she holds.
Forgotten
21
A Crystal Ghost
Absorb me into the earth Like a sponge. Ill be
forever yours. Release me from the sharp chains
of this world, From the shackles of this
so-called civilization. This speck in the
darkness. Nothing more than a period on an
ink-filled page. A fleeting glimpse of the
sunlight in the rearview mirror. A sixteenth
note in a symphony. Already gone. But you last
forever. Let me be your ghost. A humble servant
to the sunrise. To the blossoms on a vine, To
the graceful curve of a swans neck.
I want to be clean. Pure. Like a newly
laundered towel. White and fresh. I want to be
the wind, I do. I want to be a gust of
nothingness. Invisible. A crystal ghost. I want
to be free from misery. No longer a slave of
rainy days. Of grey skies. Of thunder. Of
screams. Of hate. Purify me. Clean me with the
sky. With the velvety leaves. Swallow me up.
22
Always on edge. Keep your composure. Dont lose
your balance now, Dont fall. Be as light as a
whisper. Be as bright as a star. Please dont
let them see How fragile you truly are -dont
break. Stay on that edge. Hold the composure
Keep your balance now. You cant fall.
A Life on Edge
23
Dear Darby, Someday you will read this, Im
sure. Youll come across this journal in a box of
old belongings, fragments oflost childhood days,
and be brought back to high school. To wasted
friendships. To truly crushing crushes, boys who
melted your heart before stomping it in the mud.
Maybe the journal is a little dusty, so frayed
that the binding is a little loose. You'll look
back and hardly recall how your hand rested on
the other page. How Liz let you borrow a pink
fuzzy pen with a butterfly on top. How every time
you dotted your i's the butterfly looked like it
could just take off flying around the room. I
doubt you even remember this, but today I walked
to school. The sky was slashed with graceful pink
and peachy streaks, like a magic wand had ripped
through its shroud. Clouds stretched themselves
out over the blue blanket overhead and lazily
smiled down at our world below. I smiled back.
Its January, but the rising sun still lent me
some warmth for the morning. In that moment I
realized its a New Year. And I just know this
will be my defining year. 2007. It even
sounds mystical. Anything can happen. The next
twelve months, 365 days, and 52 weeks will be
what transforms me, a naïve dreamer, into you. I
only hope that, in the end, we are proud of each
other. See you soon. Love, D
24
Fantasy
Everyday I wake up to find that I have feathery
wings sprouting from my shoulder blades,
leftovers from the most recent dream. A unicorn
awaits beneath my window, even though I live in
the basement. Green Faeries tug on my ears,
forcing me to greet the day with a wince. The sky
paints itself pink with every step on my walk to
school. My teacher is still a fire breathing
dragon, and my knight in shining armor still
walks me from class to class. Witches conjure
mysterious potions for us at lunch. After class,
the good sorceress sprinkles some sparkling dust
on my shoulders that helps me fly onstage. Then,
after a long day of being surrounded by mortals I
call my friends, I follow the yellow brick road
back to my magical castle.
Yes, I truly live in a fantasy land.
25
Reflections

• I have developed a more solid personal writing
  style. The poetry assignments allowed me to
  experiment more freely and I think that it has
  led me to become more confident in my choice of
  writing.
• Lessons I have learned in writing include
  accepting new outlooks and trying to interpret
  things different. This helps me in other classes
  because it allows me to view the material in new
  ways and be more accepting of different opinions.
• I truly do not have a favorite in my own
  writings. I think many of them share a similar
  theme and serenity that has become more defined
  with each piece of work.
• One strategy I have used to accomplish the
  writings is keep a journal with me at all times.
  I get my best ideas at the most random times and
  having a journal with me allows me to retain some
  of that original inspiration until I can get to
  computer.
• My strength in writing is creativity. I take true
  events and put my own perspective on them,
  creating an entirely new story.
• I need to develop a more heightened awareness of
  technical writing dos and donts. Sometimes my
  tenses switch and Im so involved with the story
  that I hardly notice.

26
Reflections

• This year, I finally developed a style all my
  own. I feel like that is truly a worthwhile
  accomplishment since it truly defines me as a
  writer.
• I always try to apply creativity to my other
  classes. The biggest lesson I have learned from
  writing is how to look at things from a new
  perspective so I always try to do that everywhere
  now.
• After looking over my articles one more time, I
  really love Forgotten and John Hancock. I
  feel that these poems capture my style fully and
  I just get a feeling of calm when I look at them
  once again.