Forward - A Portfolio
"Opposites Attract" - March 11, 2016
It continued all to high school, as a lot of stuff like this happens to - Thomas became the "Douche" of the school, with AXE body spray and golden chains every day since the first day of Sophomore year, surrounded by other sophomores and freshmen who were somehow becoming more annoying by every day's passing. Meanwhile, Rowland was on the complete opposite spectrum, known as the prettiest "pretty boy" River Walk High School has ever known - hair tied in a messy man bun, chipped violet nail polish messing around with the handle of his backpack. Sure, he had the more "eccentric" friends, but he always kept his cool.
The two were the most opposite things on the planet. Which is why it is strange looking at the two of them, surrounded by an audience of clapping hands and a few cheers mixed in, holding hands in matching white suits as our prom kings.
"A Surprise" - 5 - 1 - 16
She turned down the speakers a bit to hear Chris. He wasn't far away, they were both lying on her carpet after all, but she had some days of selective hearing, and unfortunately today was that day."
"Yeah?" Andrea answered, her arm reaching to her side for that pack of bubble gum.
A sigh. Unusual. "Andie, don't laugh."
She did exactly that. She didn't mean to, but whatever. "I won't."
"You just did," Chris said with a blank in his tone.
Andie sighed. "Okay, now I won't laugh a bit. Now what is it?"
Silence. This wasn't like her best friend. He was always so perky, always able to speak to make up for Andie's shyness. Andie sat up, leaning on her bed side and focused on a spaced out Chris.
He got back to reality quickly, soon looking to Andie. Soon, he was sitting up as well, taking his best friend's hand. "Andrea, please."
There was hesitance at first, but she soon followed her hands to tightly grasp his. He was clammy. She could feel the sweat, and she wasn't even near his forehead.
Another sigh. "Um.... there's a... u-uh...."
He was going off. This only happened when he was nervous. What was he nervous about?
"Chris, what is it? Please," Andrea pleaded at the Junior, "you can do this, just tell me."
He wasn't in tears. He obviously wasn't, otherwise she would be cradling him in her arms while he was desperately choking out tears. However, he just looked more impatient, putting the right words together. Chris could though, he was a good guy. He could do anything like this. And so, his grasp growing tighter and a frown deep on his face, he finally said something.
"You got any sevens?" His voiced cracked as Chris started to snicker.
Chris started to snicker, which then turned in stomach-churning laughing. Their grasp was let go, and with a free hand Andie was soon contemplating what had happened. It first turned to anger, then sadness, then annoyance again. She punched Chris on his side as he was back to the ground, throwing away a wrapper of bubblegum in the process.
"Asshole! Don't do that shit again!" Andrea yelled, staying in her spot. It was too comfy to give up.
Chris was still laughing a bit before answering. "Sorry, sorry. Thought I could joke a bit."
Andie took the pack from him and threw it out of her bedroom by the door. "Well, it wasn't too funny. And for that, you're getting me an apology drink."
Chris groaned a bit, looking back and forth from the ceiling to Andie. Finally, he got up. "Okay, okay."
She was leaning over to get her phone on the nightstand, still charging, when she heard the words spoken by Chris Tanners as he left to Andrea Martin's cabinet downstairs for a hot Coke. "But really though, I am actually really gay."
"Chances" - May 13, 2016
Thom stirred his coffee a tad more than he should have. The man, in a trench coat too hot for South Carolina's humid Spring air, with the shaggiest hair, looked Thom dead in the eyes.
With a sip, Thom continued. "Go on."
The man folded his arms on the table, covered by a stainless white sheet. "You see, what I do is nothing more than reasonable. We get rid of the worst of humanity, the worst the world, hell even the universe will see. Your sexist and messy VP neighbor? Buried by Tuesday. That racist co-worker? Out by Wednesday, without his desk cleaned. Anyone and everyone you or I, the average people hate, will be - lets say - gone."
"And you wanna know how?" He flipped a coin, landing flat on heads on top of their salad fork. "A little dedication, a little love, and a ton of fun. At my business, we take care of our customers as professionally as one can in this type of business. Pamper them, a massage on where it hurts more. Frozen yogurt, some roses, all that beauty. All that beauty, and then five minutes later their heads are lying on the floor, blood oozing like Gushers to a five year old."
No wincing from Thom. The man looked disjointed. He rolled his eyes, digged in his pockets and found a business card, sliding it to the young man's side of the table It read in bolted black Times New Roman "THE ASSOCIATION - WASHINGTON D.C. - 107 RIBER LANE." Thom looked back at the card, then at the man's ridiculous smile, and then the card. He looked to his own jacket, then took that and left. He could assassinate as well on himself.
Besides, the man was next. Should have asked where Frederick Road was. Oh well.
"Speaking, Testing, 1,2,3" - May 21
Hello. Hello? Hello, hello! Oh shit. Believe me, that sounds as good as you can think it does. I never - I mean, I would have never thought that I would be hearing that, which makes this more than words can describe it.
Seventeen years. That's how long I went without hearing myself. Or at least, using sign language. Also another thing I never believed I would never be able to do, but thank God for surgeons. I mean, yeah, that's sound strange, but you have to realize that I always blamed one person or type of person for seventeen straight years for my deafness - surgeons. Just every type of surgeon. They kept telling me for years and years and years about this kind of surgery that could reconnect my vocal cords and at least give me an idea of my voice.
Which, obviously was a load of bull.
I never, up to this point, got that surgery. Too expensive the one time, not enough material the next, or just that the doctor died in between surgeries that same day I was supposed to get mine. Yes, that is true.
Dr. Terry Bradshaw. 55. Heart attack. Or choked on a peanut. Either way.
Obvious, I am not blaming these doctors entirely. I won't even blame God or Jesus or whoever is up in the big sky for my disability. It wasn't too bad - I got to decorate my tube when I was seven. The stickers sucked, but it was still cool. I'm just blaming myself. Blaming myself for what?
For hating myself. Scratch that, for making myself hate myself. For years, these thoughts of self-loathing and anxiety towards how others thought about me as a whole ruined a lot of aspects of my life. Grades were down, life was getting to me. It was rough. And now, with something as what you and I are facing right now, all of that previous stuff mentioned just seems to be pointless. Pointless as in that I can talk.
I can talk. And anything else will not stop me.
"Blur" - May 13, 2016
It’s 7 PM at twilight, the sun near its peak on pink. You are about to leave, the last employee of that crepuscular record store nearing it’s own peak of interest. You might hang out with friends later, but you will probably be stuck at the house, in your own universe of records and lots of smokes - though you are trying to limit the amount.
However, at this exact moment, like it has been all day now that you recall, you feel like a spec in the surrounding ghosts around you.
The record store is dead silent, and besides that song of that one artist you have grown to like in recent memory repeating in your head in courtesy of a customer who was searching for that album earlier - there is still a feeling of eeriness, of a null environment. And so, desultory, with the intentions of leaving early after a day of your high performance as well as impeccable listening skills, you look back. Dust has a battle with the remaining bit of pathetic sunlight, the cash register’s are all shut down, and for a split second, it feels calm.
Before you see the girl in the middle of the flat room, scanning the Blues section by the stainless window.
You call her “you” - because what else could you call her - and she sprints out like she’s on the track team. That song in your head speeds up as well, matching the pants coming out as you run behind to find this girl, ensuing this mystery exactly at the 80’s new wave vinyls. You consider going to the police, but it should not be that hard to catch this young lady. You are young too, almost the same age. It should be that easy.
She does beat you - reaching the same spot you were at as you dangled around with your store-closing keys. Both of you stop, sweat easily visible from each other’s forehead. She smirks in a split second, then finally leaving through the back to storage, It was like this was a game, and you were not the most easy at games. Also, you really just wanted to at least speak to this asshole, even if it did make you sound 90 years old.
And so you follow the mystery’s pursuit, closing the doors behind you because you are still that kind. But, there is a new world facing you. No longer are you looking down lines of vinyls and CD’s, posters of bands you either know by heart or have at least a decent knowledge of scattered across the blue walls and glass windows, outside a sunset pulling specs of stars to the skylines.
You are in a warehouse, and a real one at that. Exuberant in size, the bricks chipped around you as no noise, once again, is made. A more extravagant color of fall leaves shines from the room’s window onto the concrete floors. Yet, this room feels regal, a ballroom of sorts.
You don’t know where you are. And yet, you know where you are. It becomes a second home, a safe haven. And for a few hours or more, this is exactly that.
5 - 27 - 16
A silent but deadly drip over a classroom.
The cover of Catch-22 by Joseph Heller.
Doo-wop through walls at 1 in the morning.
5 - 13 - 16
Neon lights reading "USED BOOKS".
Leftover cigarettes in a coffee shop.
Signatures of famed 19th Century authors
Silky lounge clothes.
4 - 14 - 16
The odd new smell of glasses.
Bounds of books.
Fog in the morning.
Moments of absolute fear.
3 - 18 - 16
Oncoming storms on an oncoming day.
Paper lamps hanging on it's last breath.
The repetitive tapping of fingers.
Goosebumps you get listening to your favorite song.
2 - 29 - 16
A quiet section of Barnes and Noble.
James Joyce novels.
A car ride at 7 in the morning.
Opened warehouse windows.
STORY SLAM I - "The Helper" - February 26, 2016
Once upon a time, it was sixth grade and people were developing or already had crushes. I, with my Matilda hair grown out but the most awful looking purple placed in it and my anxiety still tagged along, was one of those red polo-plastered kids. And my target was a boy in my same grade, to whom I had both History and Math with, known as J.T. Rowland. J.T., as many others alongside I would say, was a complete “dream boat hottie” - identical floppy as a mop Justin Bieber haircut, cobalt eyes that would easily get confused at math alongside everyone else, and braces too noticeable not to be, well, noticed. He was five foot seven, and with his red polo's and Sketchers sneakers along with his hums of the Minecraft themes and Jay-Z songs, I knew I had to at the very least speak to him.
At this point in my life, I had grown out of the previously-told phase of “no friends, no problem”, with now with more friends by only two more. Still, I had one person I was on the rocks with, who we will call Jenna. Jenna was a more popular figure in our side of the school’s sixth grade hallway, and she lived for it, where as I followed as sheep to their food or slaughter. Either way, none of this ended up good for me. During lunch one day, among the noise of every single student in their seats, between bags of bagged lunches and our school’s Mystery Pizza’s, I had finally told Jenna, a “supposed friend”, that I had a crush on J.T. Rowland. She responded politely, said it was cute, and we moved on.
Cut to about three weeks later, at this same school, All three of us and really the rest of the school, are an honor roll event being held during our electives, feeding everyone with hopes of pizza, getting out of class for said event and also the hottest tunes of 2011. As Party Rock Anthem blasts quite loudly through the gym speakers, the teachers who volunteered to hold such an event by the snack table, I was on the bleachers talking to really everyone I had known. Soon enough, half of them started to go to the dance floor - which was not even really a big enough floor, it was basically just a corner - and one of them was Jenna. While I was still talking it up with the ones who decided to stay behind, I distinctly remember the fear in my eyes that had grown from the tiniest spark to the biggest blaze as I saw Jenna, once again a “supposed friend” talking and slowly joining eye contact to me with J.T., smiles on their faces. It was the truest moment of fear I have ever had at that point - I mean, Jenna is my friend, she wouldn’t do anything bad right? She wouldn’t do anything petty, right?
It was two hours later, now back in the hellish class of math. Our teacher had given us a worksheet to do with a partner to choose to do this sheet together. It was loud, but good enough to also hear the teacher making plans with my English teacher for something. I was almost done, proud of myself, when it happened. He leaned over, his braced-smile glaring my starstruck eyes, a smirk of what I now realize was to be knowledgeable. as he gave me a dirtied up note, folded to no end, and went back. And when I opened it, all that read was -
“Alex, you do know I don’t like you like that right? - J.T.”
At that moment, once again, my world shattered. It felt like the pits of hell had opened up and I was falling into them like Alice falling into Wonderland, screaming into the void with all of the anger or frustration I could ever feel inside of my head. And I was mad, so mad at this “friend” that we didn’t speak for an entire three months until we had to work together one day and she admitted she was made to do it by some mean girls at school. To which I silently, somewhat forgave her for. Somewhat.
Still, now looking back on it, there are lots of things I realize something about that single moment, where my eleven year old self felt as if the world could never give me a boyfriend, like I would never get that true love shown in “high brow” love movies like the Twilight quintet movies. Now, when I look back to that moment, no matter what, I look at that moment and want to tell myself one thing.
It didn’t matter.
I do not like anyone personally, even on a sexuality level. I love the thought of people - their movements, their tones, holding hands, their eyes, the skin’s softness, just really everything about them. However, the relationship aspect has never truly been for me. I do not have trust issues, on the contrary - but I do not see the point of keeping or falling in love with someone else for a distant future of nothing. And with this event, with a boy with floppy hair and braces to be seen, I do not say that he was the reason I ended up this way: that was my own findings, or my own “fault” as many people would blindly say. However, I would love to look back to him and say thank you. Because as much as he was not the main source, he was a helper.
Which I guess also helped with himself as well because he too, turned out to be gay. Either way, I thank his floppy hair.
"On The Threshold of Heaven" - March 1, 2016
On the threshold of heaven, the figures in the street
Become the figures of heaven, the majestic movement
Of men growing small in the distances of space,
Singing, with smaller and still smaller sound,
Unintelligible absolution and an end
Lights flickering exuberantly tagged alongside the world’s point of view,
a pair of snapping fingers passes by, riding ever so slowly
Underneath the luxury of that new Goliath -statue side,
pointed up in the triangular shape, up, up it goes!
Making those who pass by shoot their eyes straight to it’s skylight
Incandescent in their movements, becoming insouciance
As they witness God in their last defense before their descent,
As the sunsets sets, languid in their knowing that
this is not the end.
"Untitled :1" - March 4, 2016
In the midst of noise and quiet,
Where one succeeds while the other fails
While one lives in loud chit-chat while the other lives in nebulous whispers
One plays pop or rock,
as Other plays jazz and classical -
One lives life to its chaotic sonar
as Other lives in sapphire resonant
One is an alto, belting to the glasses discontent
as Other is a tenor, humming below to the chapel's love:Thing comes in, bringing one and other together at last, separating the quiet from radio static.
"Limmericks for Dummies!" - March 4, 2016
Ladies and gents, meet a dumb brute!
Not knowledgeable about poetry, but is cute!
It rhymes on two measures,
Usually about stories of other's pleasure,
And that my friends is the dumb brute!
"True Love Waits" - May 13, 2016
surroundings falling slowly,
You know I made that mistake
A Million Times in One
And I know you're begging on your knees,
but I'm not a fool.
Our paradise is not lost,
but with the creatures of hell.
And we are both the source.
So admit it, it was all our fault.
The door hangs off by a thread,
and we watch the sea roll by.
And we watch our true love say goodbye.
FLASH FICTION I - "Gateways" - March 15, 2016
If you, in this moment, ask if I had any regrets in life, there is only one I would say, and that is when I went through that gas station mini-mart door filled with drinks that said in bold Cambrian lettering that THIS IS NOT AN EXIT and became a time traveler somehow destined to put the history of the world up until now in order and not be screwed up. Now, many would assume this was a prank, that some little middle school twerp printed it out and taped it on the door as a joke. But oh no - it had to be serious, it just so happened to be a gateway to new dimensions, people, all that jazz - because of course it did.
Listen, you know what I wanted instead of this life? Instead of going back and forth to the Jurassic Era to find some dinosaur skulls and hide them so that America could win at Yorktown? Instead of being tortured by Edwardian guys with mustaches way too primed for their own good for a day and a half so that William Howard Taft wouldn't get assassinated? Instead of accidentally making America an aristocracy just by offering a girl, who turned out to be a family member of Louis XIV, a piece of my granola bar? I just wanted my cappuccino, to get back in my car and drive back to Pennsylvania, whether I had a job left or not. But no, I just had to become a time traveler. And yes, while sometimes it can be quite fun, I essentially regret it to my last moments or days. You try saving time throughout strange gateways through time and space. Not so fun, trust me.
FLASH FICTION II - "In The Kitchen" - March 20, 2016
Walker stepped into the kitchen, a straight eggshell white all around, for a simple lunch. He had hoped he wasn’t an over eater like his sister, who was at Duke or Yale or some prestigious, high society university. He always forgot which one, but he always remembered how she snacked insanely. Then again, years of lacrosse will do that to you. Her favorite was usually pringles.
He went to the cabinet near the door to their distant kitchen, a nice beach blue that their father, hesitantly, painted. Opening the space that seemed to go to the walls, he scanned the space up and down. No signs of his favorite trail mix, the ones with less almonds and more raisins. Mother needs to go to the store soon. Still, Walker keeps searching around, up or down for something filling to eat. Not fine cuisine like his mother made every Sunday. This was Saturday, there was no need for a fancy meal.
Yet, he found himself craving. This craving was unlike Walker, for he never had such a feeling of desperation before, besides the occasional feeling after Lacrosse practice. He did not feel right about it. However, he had no idea what he was in fact craving, or at least it was not coming up in his mind.
Afterwards, Walker goes a good pace near the edges of the counter - made from finer, though thought to be less expensive, granite - to the prize of this marble kitchen in the eyes of, at the very least, Walker’s humbly-delightful grandmother; the family fridge, four doors, stainless metallic, only for $399 at the local Sears his father previously held a job at. He enjoyed it. Still, however, there were no signs of anything he was craving, at least edible wise. Sipping wise, at least in the sense of a beverage cooling someone’s tooth-filled insides, he felt like he wanted a Coke. Besides, that was the only true calorie-based sugary thing they could have that belonged in the fridge. Their mother was a health nut, being a dietitian and all, as she always wanted the healthiest foods, fresh and not gross processed snacks. His father could not get into such a “craze” as he quite sarcastically called it, unfortunately.
Walker heads to the kitchen table, made of the finest oak tree from their forest-bounded backyard that had fell two years earlier. He opens the coke, getting sprayed a touch by the liquid, before taking a small gulp out of the bottle and setting it down. He sets it down with his right, skeleton hand, the same one he took a drink out of seconds ago, taps his fingers that symbolized how he was deciding on what to eat, until he gazed something out of the right corner of his right eye, when he noticed right then that there, beating and presumably still alive, that there was a gushing human heart on the edge of the table.
A sense of stiff thought reigns in Walker for what seemed to him later as an eternity, however was only two seconds, before the teen finally shakes his head in disappointment. Father must not leave things on the sides of furniture, Mother always correctly predicts its decay. He moves the organ near her prized stainless white vase. Something finally clicks in Walker - Pizza. They have leftover gluten-free pizza from last night. Pizza was always a good substitute.
SHORT STORY - "The World Has Turned And Left Me Here" - May 10, 2016
You aren’t even at the party. You weren’t even invited, you shouldn’t even be worrying. Yet, you are. It’s a Friday night, a beautiful Van Gogh Night of navy dark with a subtle yellow loosing to the specs of universe known as stars, and especially a busy one at that - cars pass by in a flash on the street next to your house, while your mom stays in the living room continuing to read through whatever she’s reading this month. You are almost certain she stole your copy of your second favorite book. But she hasn’t said anything about since you got home, so the verdict still stands.
You didn’t even want to be at that party. Obviously you didn’t! It’s high school sure, and despite what your well-intentioned aunt tells you, high school is not all about the parties and popularity. Nobody at your school, hell even in this town doesn’t care about those Mean Girl-stereotypes of cliques. It has certain groups of friends who know each other, subsequently knowing or having a connection to pretty much everyone at your school, but it is not so much about the cliques. Or is it? I mean, there are certain people that seem really exclusive, like some nightclub which your anxiety is trying its hardest to get you in. Now thinking about it more, they do seem to treat you more down than they do to each other, like you’re some child. But they’re the ones that are just stupid. Or it is possible that all of you are stupid. In hindsight, it mostly likely seems to be you.
Anyways, back to your suffocating panic attack. You can feel the pressure. You question whether it is actually medically okay to feel the pressure around your room. It most likely should not be, but hey! Would you look at that, it is! You need something to take your mind off of everything, something that can reassure you and really your mother, because let us be real for a second, she knows about these panic attacks way too well. You have to get those books renewed from the library; maybe you could read them? Then again, you haven’t even started on them. Plus, reading two books in two days seems too time-consuming. and the public library is closed on Sundays, so it would be risky. You were still gonna renew them though.
Okay, what about music? Actually, that doesn’t sound bad right now. Music does calm down a lot of people in the world, as you read in a statistic once which you cannot conveniently remember where from. You sit up from your contradictory insomniac-Sleeping Beauty pose, grab your phone and to your music, where the decision becomes surprisingly difficult. It shouldn’t be difficult. Nothing should be difficult. Maybe you’re making it out to be strenuous again. You made the confronting debate on women’s rights with Samantha Jason more than it needed to be: the talk between your best friend in seventh grade about why they “forgot” to invite you to their awesome birthday party with balloons and a horse. It is obviously terrible, also it is not some “rush of exciting thrills” as your father put it once. You seriously have a bad habit of stuff like this. Do you change this? You choose the album of your most indie-st band possible. Sometimes it soothes you down, can keep you from losing your mind.. Only for that time being.
Maybe some food would help too? Nah, you think, I’ve been getting a little chubbier lately. That’s out of the question. How about watching TV? Well, there isn’t anything too interesting on any channel right now besides some reality shows. You don’t mind them really. It’s a guilty pleasure to watch them. But you have to keep up appearances, be that unique entity to the world that it has never seen. You can’t be one of them. After all, you’ve built yourself up as that, and -
There’s a ding, lowering your music, which has switched to some folk band you have never heard of. Your friend has texted you. Of course you respond, because they are your best friend after all: you two have been in each other’s circles since eighth grade, you obviously will stick together.
“What are you up to?” it reads. She always had good punctuation in text.
“Nothing really lol.” You respond quickly. It’s the truth.
Here comes the hellish part: waiting for the response. You think it would be fine, they’re just taking a minute. But for some reason that minute turns into more minutes, which soon turns into practically a century of waiting, and you don’t know whether to text and ask if they ever got it or ignore them altogether. She responds.
“I thought you were going to that party tonight?”
Why did she have to bring it up? Despite the bitter reminder, you answer back. “Didn’t get an invite from anyone.”
Another minute, another period that feels like an eternity. “Huh???” Another few seconds that feel longer than the last until a new response. “I thought I told Davis to invite you?”
Fear strikes up once again. Of course Davis was the one to invite you. You tell the guy not to be a jerk to a few freshman doing their work and he gets pissy at you. It is really stupid though that you never caught onto the guy.
“Well it doesn’t matter because I didn’t go anyways,” She responds. That was the other thing you could always count her on. It was like the two of you had some telepathic connection on what or what not to do. You both didn’t go to the birthday party of the most cattiest girls in your 8th grade class, you both know when to make the plans for any concerts or hang outs. You smile a little bit.
“Cool though.” How about you ask her to spend the night? It wouldn’t be too bad. She lives a block away, and it isn’t that dark outside. This could be your saving grace of the night! You wouldn’t feel like such a miserable, self-loathing human being, listening to some admittingly upbeat songs while trying to convince yourself that you are more than your anxiety. You could take your mind off of things, enjoy what you enjoy with one of the people you hold close to your heart. This could actually be a good night. You can do this. If she says no, then it is not that big of a deal. You can hang out with her tomorrow, or Sunday. Besides, you see her every day at school. It wouldn’t be life changing.
“Hey,” you start with. “you wanna hang out tonight?” It sends. Three dots pop up. Those dreaded three dots are all you see on her side of the messages, and after what feels even longer than an eternity, she answers back.
“Sorry, out with family all weekend.”
Okay. This is fine. You have other friends. Who are probably at the party. Who are probably intentionally ignoring you. Who have decided not to continue to associate with you anymore. This is fine. It’s not the first time.
“Cool,” you respond. This is fine.
Three dots come back on the screen, before a new text comes up by her. “Hold on, mom’s calling me.”
You put your phone down. A new songs by some jazz band you like comes on. This isn’t fine. Because she, the world has turned and left you here in the suffocating hell of a darkening red, near blood-colored room. And as always, you cannot control it. And that kills you inside.
SCREENPLAY - All Good Things - May 27, 2016
ACT I / SCENE I
Silence. Nothing more than a slight humming. Suddenly… radio. Old time music, resembling something your great grandmoter would listen to.Birds chirp from outside, the world just seems at peace.
INT. ELIZA’S ROOM (1957) - DAY
A window, light of a morning dusk shining through. White lacey curtains sway in the morning breeze, while on the desk in front of the window, the radio continues. We PAN right to the rest of the room. It is tight knit, filled with wicker furniture. Nearby a chair with a pair of plain mary janes on top, while a bed has someone sleeping as white covers over their body in neat formation.
CU. A pool, one you would see in a backyard in LA.
CU. ELIZA SIBLEY
A seventeen year old girl. Fair, almost something out of story books, especially in her sleep. Hands are resting on top of the covers. Hair shines from the light of the window while peaceful on her pillow.
Eliza’s eyes open in a start. She stays in her position for a little longer before a face of confusion comes over her. This does not look common at all.
She sits to a start on the right side of her bed.
CU. On a nightstand next to her bed, a clock reads 7:50. The red mark continues clicking. Nothing seems out of the ordinary.
CU. The same grand pool, but with something floating. A body.
She raises her eyes to the door. She breathes in, then breathes out.
INT. BEDROOM - DAY
OS. Eliza walks towards the door slowly.
CU.Underwater. A shadow lurks over the blue. The camera moves up, and it is the same body, now easily seen as a girl.
INT. HALLWAY - DAY
Eliza sticks her head out of the door, turning her head to the left and right. Beams of light shine through, but the hallway is fading towards deadly dark pass her room.
OS. Eliza leaving her sanctuary and the hallway, with shadows of darkness behind.
Another WIDE SHOT of the foyer of her two-storied house shows Eliza coming down the stairs, wandering around with as much confusion as the audience at this moment.
INT. KITCHEN - DAY
Another WS. sees Eliza walking slowly through the door into the kitchen, where another window lets the light of morning shine through. Meanwhile, a sink is running and pots are being put up. Something is cooking. She looks around and soon… stops. In horror.
WS. of the rest of the kitchen. Light still expands through the room, though ends at the table. The table itself is filled with the stereotypical nutritious breakfast foods, with Eliza’s father and brother MATTHEW and GIBSON SIBLEY respectably at the table with pancakes on their forks. However with the exception that the two of them, as well as ALICE, all have bloodied rabbit heads instead of regular human heads. The rest of their bodies have unmatched patches of rabbit fur on top of their ivory skins, while their clothes are tattered and barely recognizable.
Eliza, what’s wrong?
WS. of Eliza standing in utter shock at the door frame. She does not cover her mouth or runs away immediately, but rather just takes it all in.
CUT TO ALICE, trying to walk towards her daughter, hands now in plain sight with nails pointed to no end and furry.
(blood coming out)
Eliza, what is the matte-
Before Alice can get another word in, we CUT BACK TO Eliza, who quickly grabs a cooking pot and smashes her mother in the head to the floor. At this point, the teen is shaking, her eyes bulging out in shock. She knows what to do and yet does not. CUT BACK TO Matthew, who is now standing up at the table, but not helping her. Gibson is still sitting, but looks to be getting angrier.
Alice, though not unconscious, is down to the floor with her body acting more lifeless than it should. However, she is conscious enough to stare up at her daughter for the few more seconds she has and growls.
You shouldn’t have done
that, young lady!
A quick cut back to GIBSON and MATTHEW as the father and son soon bolt towards ELIZA in a huff, desperate to kill her. She has bolted at this point through the dinning room and towards the foyer again, the pot grasped in her hand. We quickly cut back to GIBSON and MATTHEW, who are sprinting like dogs towards their family member, foam coming out of their mouths. ELIZA panics and runs towards the right, going into the garage.
INT. GARAGE - DAY
ELIZA closes and locks the door behind her before the two creatures previously known as her family members catch up to her. They eventually make it to the door, only to claw tirelessly to get to Eliza. She runs towards a filling cabinet, and searches through for something.
CU. Her hands as she inside of the filing cabinet, pulling out a handgun. She clocks it. Bullets are inside.
CUT TO the door breaking open. She spins around, both boys leaping to the cabinet. They slowly move, foam now growing and eyes crazed.
What’s wrong, sis?
Finally, Gibson pounces towards the girl, who promptly shoots him in the face. He dies before he even lands. Matthew stands his guard for a few seconds, but soon grows even incensed and pounces as well. Eliza shoots a few times, Matthew also falling dead.
POV. of the two’s fur falling apart, their bodies soon turning into dust.
CUT BACK TO
WS. Eliza slowly sinks towards the ground, tears on her face. She grips the shotgun tightly. The morning sun shines brightly through another window.
EXTRA PIECE - "Margaret Universal and the Quest for Monsters"
Margaret Universal, with the shortest hair in her class and green eyes as deep as fungi on a rotting tree, is a simple girl with a simple family in a quaint town that love her dearly. A sixth grader with the best intentions for everyone, while keeping her love of comics and imagination closely. However, some would say she is not a simple girl, considering her entire family is made of the retired cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents, and parents of a universally famous monster series that adopted her at childhood after abandonment. With the 10,000 residents of Hollow City adjusted quite well onto the family's defense, plus the quick wits of the family themselves, Margaret believed that besides the Holly City Fall Festival, no scares were necessary for keeping the loving family together.
That was until the dreaded Black Suits did exactly that, kidnapping them and leaving the family torn apart for what Hollow City thought was seemingly for good. However, with her wits and hard dedication, as well as her best friends Caspar and Gerard, English teacher Mrs. Laemmle and janitor O'Hauptmann, Margaret is on an adventure for not only her sake, but for the sake of her family as well.
REVISION OF GROUNDERS
With revisions, I would like to make changes or add changes to works that I was that not able to make at the time of writing them, which would basically be all of my pieces. However, the pieces that I believe need the most work are the journal entries. I am not the best at doing “beginning-of-class-practice” things such as Bell-ringers or Grounders in this case.
Which is not to say I do not enjoy the topics brought up on those tiny slips of paper or just don’t do them altogether, The problem is that I am a perfectionist, and I need to add detailing and characterization to everything, even when it is not necessary. Characterization for And so with journals, which are usually supposed to be completed between 15 to 20 minutes at the beginning of every class, I took these prompts home, really looked at them and with my time, revised my previous work to make it at least intelligible for some. With something as "Speaking, Testing, 1, 2, 3", I wanted to give the narrator a sense of meaning for her happiness towards her being able to speak finally and have a good reason to be happy, which the original draft did not have.
It was all a matter of going over the drafts and changing them to fit how I wanted their writing style, tone, and anything else.
REFLECTION OF CREATIVE WRITING I
1. What did you find most useful about this course?
This course has taught me a lot about how to improve my writing style and how I as a writer can grow and teach myself better techniques for a future reference.
2. If you could add one more thing to this course, what would it be?
Not adding more, but I would have loved to talk more about our screenplay course. It was fun to see such a different format other than short stories and the standard book format, and creating something for a relatively imaginary screen was intriguing.
3. What did you learn about yourself as a writer this semester?
That I have a while to develop a certain style in my pieces and figure out what I want to talk about in my stories.
4. What was your favorite reading of the semester? Why?
The readings from Kurt Vonnegut. I have always been a fan of his deadpan humor but sense of dark reality that he is known for.
5. What plans do you have for your writing career?
To continue on with the knowledge I have acquired from this class and Mrs. Penley while also searching for more opportunities in publishing and creating more stories.
6. Where do you find your inspiration to write?
In anything, truly. You can find the simplest of things in writing and
7. What prompts/ideas do you have that you’d still like to write? Project ideas?
My screenplay and to extend on that more.