Final Word #2

Dear Mrs. Topham,

         The end has finally come. I have completed this mini-portfolio. I hope that I have met your requirements, for I had to dig around old files and emails for a long time looking for past papers from my freshman and sophomore years. Most of those files are long deleted or lost, and I am sorry that I could not retrieve those old pieces. You see, this is the first year I've actually had a real portfolio. In the past, we would turn in papers throughout the year and not keep them organized. Although we were supposed to have a portfolio junior year, the class turned into chaos and we ended up having a two piece portfolio. Although this mini-portfolio might not meet your satisfaction, I assure you that I now know why you made us do this. I understand how much I've grown as a writer, and how much room I have yet to grow. The future is bright, and I gained the necessary tools from you this year to prepare myself for creating future pieces. I cannot thank you enough for your great wisdom and knowledge that you have passed onto your students, and I hope that you continue to in the future. All of my accomplishments would not be possible without your guidance. Thank you, and best of luck in the future!

Sincerely,

Kevin Grube

Freshman

Freshman year consisted of a lot of essay questions dealing with passages we would read in class and during finals. I gained skills in interpreting stories by identifying certain themes and meanings to the stories and the characters in them. Freshman year was not a Creative Writing type of class, for we never had the chance to create our own stories.



The Stolen Party

"The Stolen Party" is a story about a young girl named Rosaura who is invited to a party by one of her friends, Luciana. But, there's a problem. In reality, Rosaura's mother is the maiden at Luciana's house and Rosaura's mother thinks she's only invited because of that. But Rosaura's mother is deeply mistaken. It's unfair of her mother to accuse other people of being liars simply because they are rich. Rosaura says, "You know nothing about friends!" And she is certainly right and proves her mother worng about being prejudice towards rich people. When Rosaura arrives at the party, she immediately asks about a monkey being at a party from what she heard. Luciana responds by saying, "He's in the kitchen. But don't tell anyone because it's a surprise." This is an example of of their friendship because Luciana has enough trust in her friend to tell her about the secret surprise of the party. Only true friends tell each other secrets because they trust one another. In addition, after school everyday, Rosaura and Luciana do their homework together while drinking tea and telling each other secrets. Luciana gives all the inside information about the party that she tells nobody else.

In conclusion, friendship is not about money or wealth, but about finding someone with the same interests as you, and Rosaura and Luciana share this. Nobody in the world can seperate genuine friendship, and Rosaura's mother realizes that by the end of the story.

-This was an essay response on my final to the short story "The Stolen Party". I don't remember reading this piece, but after re-reading my response, I do remember certain characters and the general outline of the story. Again, this was a one draft piece, so there was no capability for it to grow. I hate writing short responses to stories because they are always rushed and straight to the point. No creativity was illustrated in this piece, and there were countless grammatical and spelling errors throughout the piece.

Sophomore

-Sophomore year is definitely a blur in my memory. Again, this was a year filled with reading books. But, I'll admit that I did enjoy most of the books we read. Sadly, we would take short paragraph response tests, vocabulary tests, and fill-in-the-blank quizzes to learn the information. In reality, I only wrote one paper sophomore year. Luckily, I found that paper and you will see it shortly after reading this short introduction. Hope you enjoy this little piece I wrote sophomore year, for it brought back a lot of memories from my early high school days!

Powder

         "...And the best was yet to come-switchbacks and hairpins impossible to describe. Except maybe to say this: If you haven't driven fresh powder, you haven't driven" (Wolff 3). This quote represents the bond between the father and son growing towards the end of the story. While the dad is raving on about what a great driver he is, the author's originally worried about the state troopers until he admitts that he has trust in his father. Therefore, it's evident to say that the idea of opposites attracting is a crucial and important theme in this short story, due to the fact that the two central characters are total opposites. They have a special bond that brings them closer and closer to each other.

         In the story, the author is practically the opposite of his father. The author, as told by his dad, is always planning and thinking ahead. This statement is supported by the fact that the boy has his clothes on numbered hangers to ensure proper rotation. In addition, the author asks his teacher for due dates far ahead of their due dates so that he could draw up schedules. On the other hand, the author''s father can only be described as a risk taker. A prime example of this is when the father snuck the boy into a night club, even when the adults were trying to work out their differences. Also, the father mentinos several times that, "she won't forgive me..." (Wolff 1) because of the fact that the highway is closed and the boy would be returned home extremely late on Christmas Eve. Furthermore, this can only point to the assumption that the father's been granted several opportunities to make up for his mistakes, but repeatedly fails the expectations of the boy's mother. But with that in mind, when the father and son are together, they have the most exhilarating times. Even with the two of them breaking the law and driving through a forest, the boy realizes that he can relax because of the trust he has in his dad. The boy explains, "This was one for the books. Like being in a speed boat, only better... He was a great driver. All persuasion, no coercion. Such subtlety at the wheel, such factful pedalwork. I actually trusted him" (Wolff 3). This short passage fully reveals the confidence he has in his father and the genuine fun they're having together, as the boy describes as being on a speed boat, but only better. This also ties into the idea that opposites attract because the author's enjoying the time he has with his father and all the mischief that they are creating together. And at the same time, their relationship grows stronger.

        This short story demonstrates the idea of opposites attracting to the fullest. The main characters in the story couldn't be any more different from each other. The father is described as a forty-eight year, rumpled, kind, bankrupt of honor, and flushed with certainty person, not to mention that he sneaks into night clubs with his son in the midst of a divorce. On the other side, the author is mature, intelligent, and is always thinking ahead when it comes to homework, clothes, and even his father. He fears that they will get caught by the cops for driving through the forest, but at the same time states that he's having the time of his life. He trusts that his father will get him home. So, how can two completely different people have so much fun together? The best answer to that question is the idea that opposites attract, and there cannot be a better example to support this theory than the relationship between the father and the author.

Powder Reflection

-Much like my freshman year, I learned that I used to over use the same phrases. I must've used "the idea that opposites attract" at least 20 times in this piece, even though the paper was only 3 pages long. In addition, my introduction is horrible because it brings no context to the story. I open with a quote, which is a safe thing to do. This year, I've learned to open my pieces unexpectedly or with a bang. This was an essay response piece to the short story "Powder" on my final exam. I actually remember reading that story and liking it a lot. It reminded me of a lot of my friends and how they're so different from their parents. But, this piece has limited capacity since it's a response to a story. Therefore, there's no future corrections necessary for this piece.

Junior Year

-Before I get started, I just want to say that junior year was not a prime year for writing. Like I said in the introduction, every piece we did was based off a story or passages from the final. Therefore, the writing junior year was more analytical and essay based. I didn't like this very much, but what could I do?


Chutney

          "Mrs. Caziz walks around like a wicker cane. She is empty like a well." This quote signifies how much sorrow and pain Mrs. Caziz has been through. She has nothing in her life that makes her happy, especially her crazy and abusive husband. She has nowhere to go, nobody to rely on. That is, until she meets a young girl who changes her life forever. Cooking chutney was the only outlet for Mrs. Caziz before she met her future apprentice. But, chutney can't provide all the necessities for a person to release all their emotions and problems. That's wy the young girl is crucial to Mrs. Caziz. Though cooking chutney and developing a new friendship with the young girl, Mrs. Caziz grasped the opportunity to rekindle her confidence and self esteem and gain a sense of pride and identity. These two things Mrs. Caziz has in her life are her outlets for her troubles, allowing her to be happy and face reality knowing htat she has a supporting network.

          "The only time she doesn't purse her lips so they turn white is when she's cooking. I say nothing, afraid to crack her. She is an egg and I'm afraid to spill out her yolk." This passage exemplifies how crucial cooking is to Mrs. Caziz. Throughout the entire story, she is being punished and yelled at for being ugly. As a result, whenever customers come in like the woman with a "voice that sparkles champagne" Mrs. Caziz hides downstairs until they have left. This personifies how much control and impact Mr. Caziz's words have on her confidence and self-esteem. But, the only thing Mr. Caziz cannot take away from her is her passion and joy for cooking. When the narrator enters her life, she takes complete advantage of her opportunity to teach this young girl how to cook. While she is teaching this young girl, she regains a sense of identity and independence, smiling and laughing, as she watches the narrator attempt to make chutney. Outside of the chutney, Mrs. Caziz has nowhere to go, nobody to help her, and nothing that makes her happy until the narrator enters her life. Through the purple eyes, verbal abuse, and constant craziness of her husband, Mrs. Caziz desparately needed someone in her life to release her anxieties, feelings, and memories of her past. The young girl is Mrs. Caziz's second outlet, proving that building a relationship can have an impact on someone's life forever.

         The young girl and narrator created the perfect friendship because they have so much in common. Like Mrs. Caziz, the young girl comes from a place with nobody who she can rely on and has nowhere to go. "But we needed money to keep my stomach from avenging me in the night." The one person in her life, her mother, is similar to Mr. Caziz since she is described as a "crying raging floating person" who tells her daughter that cows fly and that her mother was FDR. Therefore, they have such familiar pasts and can relate to each other. In the last few paragraphs, we see Mrs. Caziz giving powerful advice to the young girl, telling her to keep her youth in a bubble. In addition, she finds herself telling this young girl about her childhood, recalling her fondest memories of her past in India. This gives Mrs. Caziz so much pleasure that the narrator describes her overwhelming joy as "Her wrists shake and her bangles clink against each other as her face relaxes. Little monkey hands branch out from the corner of her eyes when she smiles." The narrator being there allows Mrs. Caziz to release all her sadness, anger, and other bottled up emotions and memories Therefore, when the narrator states, "I notice how much she is starting to resemble the chutney that she makes," I believe that the narrator is trying to say that she is happy and rejuvinated since her passion is creating chutney, which in turn is the thing that makes her most happy in life.

          It's astonishing how cooking a simple seasoning like chutney can have such a big impact on one's life. Chutney is the pride and joy of Mrs. Caziz. Cooking chutney is her escape from the harsh world she lives in. Her tough times take a turn for the better when the narrator enters her life. A new friendship is created, which allows Mrs. Caziz to rediscover her joy outside of cooking spices. Truly, the power of friendship can never be under-estimated.

Chutney Reflection

-After reading this piece, I learned a few things. First off, I must've used the word "chutney" over a hundred times, along with "Mrs. Caziz". Also, I noticed that I plugged in random quotes and didn't explain their significance and how they related to the story. Moreover, I noticed that I used the same lines over and over again, trying to lenghten the piece. Granted that this piece was written under time constraints, I definitely notice how much I've improved from last year. There was no conferencing for this piece, and therefore cannot be expanded or improved for the future.


Prom

         The highlight of high school is most definitely attending Prom. Going downtown with your classmates from school and celebrating with dinner and dancing is like no other experience. Junior year is the first year guys can go to prom. At first, I was ecstatic about the idea of going to prom with the girl of your choice. I imagined myself at the sweet Marriot Hotel, talking with my friends at the dinner table and then enjoying a lovely dance with my date. Then, post prom would come around and everyone would have a great time spending the night with each other, whether it be watching movies, reflecting on the previous day’s events, or playing games all throughout the night. At post prom, I’d release all of my anxieties, worries, and stress for that very magical night. But, after imagining all of this, I realized that there was one humongous problem: getting rejected by the person you want to take.

When my brother went to prom when I was a freshman, I made fun of him a lot because he was nervous about getting rejected or asking the girl he wanted to go with. I would constantly give him smack for not manning up and asking a girl. I mean, how hard could that be? During sophomore year, I told my brother and my friends that I would ask the hottest girl to prom because I wasn’t a wimp like the rest of them. But, when junior year came around and it was time for me to actually step up, I found out why my brother had struggled to get a date. What if I got rejected? Who was my first option? Who was my fallback? How do I ask her? These are all questions that tortured my mind as the months of junior year flew by and prom was rapidly getting closer. After everybody reconvened from spring break on April 4^th, the asking began. I fell way behind the game as I watched almost all of my friends ask their dates during that week. They all had clever ideas, whether it be putting rocks in front of the girls house that read “Prom”, or filling the locker with tennis balls that say “Prom”. One of my friends even wrote a song and sang it to his prom date. Fortunately, all of my friends date’s said yes, which boosted my confidence a little bit. But, I still needed to find out who I was going to ask and how I was going to do it. Finally, I got a hint from one of my friends that a certain girl wanted to go with me. She hadn’t been asked, so I decided to go for it. After searching on the Internet “creative ways to ask a girl to prom”, I finally stumbled upon a method that was both easy and cute. I bought a really big teddy bear, put hand-picked roses in its arms, and had a card in the flowers that read “Prom”. When I approached her door to deliver the package, I made sure that nobody was watching and that she was the one to answer the door. I called her to come outside and answer the door. When she came to the door, I was holding the teddy bear with the flowers in front of my face. I told her to grab the teddy bear and read the card in the flowers. She seemed very excited and surprised since I went to her house at 11 at night without any warning at all. When I asked her myself, she immediately said “YES!” and hugged me in exhilaration. At that moment, a huge monkey went off my back, for now I knew that I had a cute date to prom. When we said our goodbyes, all I could think about was how I wasn’t going to be the kid that didn’t have the guts to ask the girl he wanted to go with. That night, all I could think about was post prom, which is a completely different story itself.

Prom Reflection

-This was a portfolio piece for my Junior portfolio and I remember writing it in less than 2 hours. It's obvious that this piece was basically bullshitted because there's absolutely no direction or meaning to the piece. The only thing this piece does is outline the experience of what happens before, during, and after prom. There's no creativity in this piece because I conferenced it once with a classmate who gave me no constructive feedback. Therefore, the work I put into this piece shows itself. But, the concept of Prom is definitely something I've considered writing about in the future. As for this piece, I think all hope as escaped it.

Childhood Memory

   The most vivid memory of my childhood was learning how to ride a bike. Right before my fifth birthday, I set a goal to master the two-wheeled bicycle. Although I still don’t know why it was so important to me, something about moving from three to two wheels was special. For months, I’d watch my older brother and his friends chase each other around on their two-wheelers, zooming around the culdesac, laughing at me as I tearfully watched them mock me. I felt ashamed, embarrassed, and humiliated. I wanted to prove them all wrong by going as fast as them one day. I imagined whooping them in races around the culdesac and throwing all their insults back in their faces. The time for revenge was never more present than those two weeks before my fifth birthday. For the first week, I focused on balancing on the bike before even riding it. I wanted to make the first real ride a memory I’d never forget. I wanted to show those goons that I could ride a two-wheeler without failure. Each day, I would gear up in my Quicksilver black helmet, Reebok kneepads and elbow pads, and Nike low cut black shoes before getting on the bike. I sought after perfection and nothing less. Preparation was essential and I was willing to take every precaution so that when the day came to ride that two-wheeler, I would not fail. All the long hours that I put in during that hot, sticky, humid summer in August would most certainly pay off. After mastering the balancing technique, I decided to pedal for the first time. I was so confident in my abilities that I called all my brothers friends to watch me perform. The moment everyone sat down to watch me; I announced that I would successfully coast around the culdesac without falling. When I put my feet into the holders where the pedals were, I felt confident. I was balancing perfectly on the bike and decided to pedal without thinking. That was a huge mistake. Without even traveling more than two feet, I leaned over the bike so far to the point where the front wheel launched me completely out of the seat. I face planted into the scorching sidewalk, with streams of blood gushing from my broken nose. Tears flowed down my red hot cheeks as I got up and ran back into my house in humiliation.  My brother and his friends were crying because of laughing so hard at my utter failure. Since that day, I have not once attempted to ride a two-wheeled bicycle.

Childhood Memory Reflection

-Again, this was another terrible Junior Portfolio workshop piece. As you can see, it's one paragraph long. It's actually funny reading this piece because it sounds like a reflection itself! There's no direction, meaning, or significance in this piece. This is just a stupid memory of mine, and I had no creativity in telling this memory. The point of view makes the piece dull, and the writing itself was dreadful. Again, I probably spent a total of two hours scrambling to write this piece. If anything, this piece has taught me just how much harder I've worked in Creative Writing, and what it takes to make quality piece. As for trying to salvage this piece in the future, I would say that I could possibly do it since my "Dream Piece" this year was also a memory. If I took a creative approach to telling this memory, I think the end result would actually be successful.

              

        

Senior CW

Senior Year

Creative writing is rapidly coming to an end. This class has prepared me for college and I certainly believe that I've gained the necessary tools to grow more as a writer after high school. I just want to thank you for all your help and knowledge. Going to class this year was fun and challenging, the perfect combination for me. I was put to the test this year for the first time in an English class, and I thank you for that.


Dream Piece

It’s a beautiful summer afternoon in the lively city of San Diego, California. My brother and I stand on top of a 50 foot cliff, admiring the ever-lasting ocean. There is a bay filled with hungry seals, feeding on the endless supply of fish stationed at their breeding grounds along the rocky coastline. The reflection from the sun on the ocean would make for an ideal postcard to send to all my friends who were slaving away in the gruesome summer heat of Chicago. I take a deep breath of the ocean breeze through my nose. It travels refreshingly through my body, sending my mind into a state of peace and relaxation. The waves below us are crashing loudly onto the soft, alluring sand. The waves hiss as they smash into the ground, only to be swept back into the ocean by the strong under tow.  La Jolla beach is just to the left of us as I admire the little kids playing in the ocean and sand. They have no worries in the world, as they joyfully build sand castles. I notice a group of kids dashing out into the water to catch a giant wave. “Ah, what I would give to be a kid again…” The seals are putting on a show for the tourists as they begin toying with each other like kids in a ball pit at a birthday party. They are flinging freshly caught fish onto the shoreline, preparing a grand feast. A few of the seals are impatient as they attack the deceased fish lying on the sand. This angers the other seals as they barrel into the young ones, punishing them for their ill-manners. The people below are laughing hysterically, and I want a closer look.

            As I peer over the edge to get a closer look at the seals, I felt a cold, damp hand on my shoulder. Chills ran through my body as I became paralyzed. My whole body was frozen, and I didn’t know why. Then, something turned my body around like a play toy, as my legs and arms swung helplessly in the air. I did a face plant into the ground, and felt a warm sensation streaming down my nose. I rolled over in pain as the blood flowed uncontrollably down my cherry colored cheeks. I took my hands off my face and stared into the eyes of my brother. His once ocean-blue eyes were now bright red, as he pierced through my soft blue eyes. We stared at each other for a moment. I couldn’t figure out what was going on. I tried to muster up words, but nothing came out. He kept smiling at me like I was a piece of meat. His devilish eyes began to glow. He let out a demonic growl and stomped the ground.

Without warning, the earth underneath me begins to crumble. Desperation and fear swell my mind as I attempt to grab a slab of grass to prevent my fall. But, the roots rip open from the ground, and I begin my descent. Hot sweat pours down my red cheeks like a river of lava surging down a mountain top. My screaming brings great joy and amusement to my brother as I stare into his devilish eyes. His eyes are mocking me as I become enveloped in my suffering of humiliating agony. The sun pierces through my eyes like a knife through soft bread. The world around me turns to darkness as I am free falling to my end. As I swing my body around to face the water, I notice a giant, grey fin sticking out of the water. I narrow my eyes to get a better look. The fin swiftly disappears for a second underwater. But, a monster is rising out of the water. Its mouth is agape, showing its 4800 razor sharp teeth. It’s a great white shark. It must’ve felt the vibrations of the water as I thrashed my body around in terror. I can imagine the beast leaping out of the water, snatching me with its powerful jaws, and using me as its new ragdoll before it devours me. I look into the sharks dark, slender eyes. They are fixated on me. His eyes, like those of my brothers, are mocking me, for the king of marine life realizes that I have no escape route. The smell of a thousand of dead corpses stings my eyes as I begin to cry profusely. I shut my eyes so hard I thought my eyelids would peel right off.

I thought to myself, why me? What did I do to deserve this? How did this all happen? Then I stopped. I thought for a moment. How did I get here? I opened my eyes and looked around. I had an epiphany. This is all a dream! So why the hell can I not get up? I pinch my arm, since that’s what you’re supposed to do if you’re dreaming. I open my eyes. I was engulfed in complete darkness. It was a very eerie feeling. I wasn’t even falling now. But I’m not awake. I was just lying on the ground. But there was no ground. I stood up and looked down. What was holding me up? I know I’m dreaming, but I have not control of it. My ears pick up a faint ringing in the distance. I gaze out and see a tiny red dot. The ringing begins to get louder, and the red dot approaches rapidly. As the red dot began to take form, an unbearable buzzing sound shocks my auditory system. I can hear my ear canals bleeding, screaming for mercy. My head is throbbing like someone is smashing my forehead with a giant iron hammer. The pounding is too excruciating to manage. I let out a thunderous roar to stop the agonizing beeping sound…

Poof! I wake up to my annoying alarm clock in a pool of sweat. I am wearing a white T-shirt, only it’s now a shade of grey. I looked at my boxers. They are filled with sweat, but no urine. I look at my legs and notice my feet are still trembling. I let out a giant sigh of relief, turn off my alarm, and lay on my bed for a few moments. Then, I am rudely forced out of my bed to start the day when my mom yells, “Kevin, time for school! Get up!”

Dream Piece Reflection

-This was definitely one of my favorite pieces to write this year because I started it at the beginning of the year and never stopped working on it until the big portfolio was due. I went through numerous drafts of this piece. I know this piece is well developed because I changed the story many times, adding in new details constantly and putting the time and effort to conference with various people. The greatest catalyst for this piece was definitely through conferencing because I gained new creative ways to tell the story and add certain aspects to bring it to a new dynamic. At first, I struggled with tenses because I was inconsistent with using the past and present tenses. By focusing on one main perspective, I was able to overcome tense issues. As for the future, I would definitely like to continue editing this piece and see where it can go.

Prologue

A tall man on a dark, slender horse was barreling down the gravel road of the small countryside town, prompted to deliver a chilling message. Dark creatures were following this man on the horse, observing his urgency to get the message to the unfortunate soul. Blood would be spilled tonight.  Not just the blood of one man, but the blood of a family. An inhumane, predetermined slaughtering from the hands of the Confederacy. A massacre of this magnitude would go unwatched.  The man on the horse was panting heavily, his breath leaving an unnerving trail of cold air that swept through the small town of LaGrage, Kentucky. The man had reached his destination. He stepped off his horse. All went quiet. The crickets stopped chirping, the owls stopped hooting. All creatures of the night were fixated on the man as he delivered the letter to Mr. Christopher Wilkins. The man swung his head around, noticing a pack of jackals. He smiled at them as he knocked loudly on the door and proceeded back to his horse. He rode off into the distance, laughing hysterically as he turned and watched Mr. Wilkins grab the small letter. He said, “I cannot wait to see this!”

   Christopher Wilkins and his family were enjoying a beautiful summer dinner. Mrs. Wilkins had put on a spread for the ages as they rejoiced in their surreal mansion. The sun was sinking into the hills of the endless green countryside. Darkness had rolled into the beautiful countryside valleys. Christopher took in a deep breath of air through his nose, exhaling calmly through his mouth. His wife came up behind him, massaging his shoulders as tears began to form under his eyes.

“Honey, they will be here soon to take me away. I have to go down to the barn and tell the runaways to pack up. Take the kids inside and keep them away from the front foyer. Once I’m gone, you can tell them what happened.” Mrs. Wilkins sternly shook her head, reassuring her husband that she’ll keep the young protected. Mr. Wilkins embraced his wife. 

 Mr. Wilkins made his way down to the barn after dinner, checking over both shoulders. He swung the towering red doors open. The clinking and clanking of spoons, fork, and knives came to a halt as the only white man entered the room. A sea of black faces turned to their undercover savior, giving him their undivided attention.

“Everybody, we have a serious problem on our hands. The Confederacy has found out about this safe house and is sending soldiers tonight to arrest me. Now, the trail behind this barn as you know runs 20 miles to the next safe house. It’s essential that you all pack up and head out in the next twenty minutes.” The silence broke children scrambled back to their parents, gathering up various belongings in their little knapsacks. Some of the families gathered in prayer, begging for a safe journey to their next destination. One by one, families filed out of the barn, greeted by Mrs. Wilkins who had prepared small bags for each of the families filled with fruits, bread, and water. Every one of the runaways shook Mr. Wilkins hand and hugged Mrs. Wilkins, thanking them for their kind hospitality and shelter. Once the last of the slaves had left, Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins headed back to the house.

The three Wilkins children were in the house, huddled around the fireplace in the family room. They were on their knees, heads bowed into their hands as they whispered a prayer to God. Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins walked in as the children finished,

“…And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.”

Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins walked over to their children, embracing them as they began to uncontrollably sob. The youngest, Charlie, wrapped his arms around his father, rubbing his eyes on his shirt and holding back the snot running down his nose. “Daddy, will they get to the Butlers? What will happen if they are caught on the trail?” Mr. Wilkins kissed his son gently on the forehead, “Of course they will make it Charlie. The Lord will reward us for doing the right thing. Those are innocent people and they deserve to make it to freedom. God will guide them to the Promise Land.”

            Three soldiers of the finest quality were specially handpicked to carry out the orders of the Confederacy. These strapping young men were hooting and hollering down the gravel road as they strolled to the Wilkins mansion. Each had a tiny flask in their hands, getting liquored up, preparing for their mission.

Tommy turned to Jerry, “Hey, you think God will forgive us for killing that whole family? I sure hope he does.”

Jerry responded, “Sure beats the hell out of keeping those traitors alive. They knew if they got caught, they would die. It was their choice. Besides, we’re all going to Hell anyway!”

The two of them laughed as they took another shot. Ian, the leader of the group, laughed as he hollered, “Boys, we’re going nigger hunting tonight! After we slaughter those traitors, we are going to slaughter those pigs in the pen! Show them whose boss! Hell, we’re doing the world a favor by getting rid of those black sacks of shit!”

They all burst out laughing as they each took another shot, playfully pushing each other and oblivious to the pack of bloodthirsty jackals intensely watching their every move. Yes, they knew that they would have a feast later tonight.

The three killers stumbled to the door, knocking on it loudly as they chuckled about what was about to happen. The door swung open by Mr. Wilkins, who welcomed the three drunken soldiers into his home. He offered them drinks, giving them each a beer as he led them to the dining room. He sat down as the three soldiers stayed standing up.

Ian began, “Mr. Wilkins, this is not only your issue, but a family issue. The Confederacy has ordered us to talk to all of you.”

Mr. Wilkins nodded sadly as he stood up and led them to the family room. Mrs. Wilkins and the three children were kneeling by the fireplace, holding hands and murmuring a prayer.

Tommy laughed, “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s about the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Only problem is, those are traitors over there.”

Jerry added, “Yeah, you know you’re right. It’s a damn shame to have to kill those innocent folks huddled around the fire. But then again, they aren’t innocent because they are holding fucking niggers.” Ian turned to Mr. Wilkins and softly grabbed his shoulder.

 He smirked and asked, “Where are the runaways, Chris? Are they in the house or out back in the barn?” Mr. Wilkins remained silent, too numb to process any information. He looked over at his three children and loving wife, who had stopped praying and turned to the soldiers. Mr. Wilkins could sense and see the fear in their innocent eyes. His youngest boy, Charlie, who was only 6 years old, uncontrollably began to sob. His tiny hands were shaking furiously, and tears were streaming down his eyes. The other two children, Ashley, age 13, and Robert, age 10, shut their eyes and began to pray again. Tommy and Jerry had had enough. They ran over to the children, gun barrels inches away from Ashley and Robert’s foreheads. Mr. Wilkins lunged to rescue his children when he felt something along the back of his head.

“You take another step and I fucking blow your brains in. I’ll ask you one last time, where the hell are you hiding those animals?” The guns were laughing at his children, itching for Tommy and Jerry to pull their triggers. Mr. Wilkins looked over at his wife, who now held her head in her hands. She was murmuring to God, pleading for him to release them from the demons that invaded their home. But, God wasn’t there. The jackals had received front row seats as they observed the events from the family room window. They were not alone. The tall, dark man had returned as well, smiling, patiently waiting for his opportunity to enter the scene. Seeing Mr. Wilkins wasn’t going to answer, Ian motioned for Tommy to take Ashley out into the backyard. He whispered in Mr. Wilkins ear, “Fine, have it your way.”

 One by one, they took his children and his wife out to the backyard, where they shot them each 5 times in the chest, and once in the head just for kicks. Tommy and Jerry raided Mr. Wilkins liquor cabinet, taking a celebration shot after each victim was killed. The soldiers howled like hyenas after shooting each of them, drunk off of Mr. Wilkins hard liquor in the kitchen.  Mr. Wilkins lost everything in a matter of minutes, and was paralyzed to the core. One of the soldiers got right in Mr. Wilkins face and said, “Are there any niggers here on this plantation?” Mr. Wilkins heart swelled with even more fear. The soldier repeated the question again, this time shouting at the top of his lungs, “Where the hell are those animals?! “You can’t keep them hidden forever!” Mr. Wilkins looked up for the first time in ten minutes. He began to chuckle softly. His sniggering was low and demonic. His eyes were blood thirsty, ready to pounce at any moment.  The three soldiers took a step back. The leader of three grabbed his gun from his holster.  He unsteadily pointed the barrel at Mr. Wilkins head.  He narrowed his eyes and snarled at the three soldiers. He said three words; “You will pay.” As he began to rise up from his knees, one of the soldiers released the trigger and put a bullet through Christopher’s head.

Time stood still. The smoked still seeped out of the barrel, swirling around in the air. A chilling breeze swarmed through the window and ran down the killer’s spine. Sweat was trickling down his tan skin, dripping onto the floor, shaping a puddle in front of his tattered muddy boots. The other two accomplices stood solid to the ground, still petrified as if Mr. Wilkins would rise up and take his revenge upon them. They had completely grabbed the attention of the Devil now.  The moon cast a glimmering beam of light into the ominous room. Finally, the killer let out a sigh of relief. He smirked at the lifeless, bloodied body lying inches from his feet. He turned around and began to say, “Boy, what the hell was…” when he noticed something.  His partners in crime had completely vanished. His front lip began to tremble. Sweat began to formulate under his bushy mustache. He scratched his head anxiously. “Jerry, Tommy??” He yelled their names a few more times. No response. The air in the room thickened. The killer began to cough hysterically. Tommy and Jerry were standing in front of him. The killer laughed and began to stand up. Only, something forced him back down. He took a closer look at Tommy and Jerry. Tommy and Jerry were both staring at Ian, trying to plead for help. Their lips were sealed shut as they were tortured in their own suffering. Their bodies were flung through the air to the front foyer. Ian sprinted around the corner and stopped in his tracks. The jackals had received their reward for being patient. Ian watched his companions being eaten alive as limbs, blood, and guts covered the floor and walls. A dark, demonic figure emerged from the dining room darkness. Ian, now beginning to cry, went on his knees and pleaded to God for mercy. The man walked up to Ian. He looked up at the man. The man reached in his pocket and pulled out a knife.

The Devil said, “You are mine.”

Prologue Reflection

-The thing I learned most from this piece is that hard work and dedication pays off. I spent the whole semester working on this piece. I had 8 drafts of this piece, each totally different from one another. This piece started out as a 2 page paper and turned into a 7 page short story by the time I was done. Again, conferencing was the main catalyst in taking this piece to the next level because I was able to take other's opinions into consideration and add new dynamics to the piece. Throughout this piece, I constantly caught myself "dumping" information into little paragraphs because I didn't want the paper to get too confusing. As for the future, this is supposed to be the prologue to a story so writing the actual story would be the next step in this process.

The End

Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock

Twisting, turning, spiraling

The world is in a flux

Mankind mercilessly cares the atmosphere

The Political Machine churns corruption

Youth in Revolt

Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock

Everlasting wars against each other

Pollution turned epidemic

She searches for help

Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock

Mother Earth wounded

Her elders betray her

Youth in Revolt

No hero to be found

Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock

The End Reflection

-Writing poems have always been a huge struggle for me. But, I decided that I'd give it a shot since I had nothing to lose. This poem stemmed from the collage poem we wrote in class with the magazine pictures. Conferencing with my older brother definitely helped me because he's amazing at writing poetry and gave me tips to improve my work. Still, even that didn't change too much because I think this poem is still pretty terrible. I honestly don't even want to continue this piece in the future because I know it can't get much better.

           

Creative Writing Project 2: Introduction

I can honestly say that I'm shocked I'm writing this introduction to my second mini-English portfolio. After I turned in the giant Portfolio of work throughout this entire year, I thought that I was in the clear. I was ecstatic, gearing up for a winter break filled with hanging out with friends, family, and relaxing in my satisfaction of completing the last portfolio. When you told us that we had to do yet another mini-portfolio, I had mixed feelings at first. Maybe this was because I was brain-dead from the weeks, days, and hours of editing, conferencing, editing, reviewing, and even more conferencing. Then, I took a step back and realized that this was a great opportunity to reflect on my past works and examine how I've matured and developed as a writer over my high school career. Reading through my past essays and works made me realize how much I've grown as a writer. For example, when I read a piece from my freshman year, I was shocked as to how bad it was. I couldn't believe I was that poor of a writer to even begin with. It was embarassing to read some of those pieces as I laughed at my incapability to develop any sort of plot, theme, or characters. As I moved up to my sophomore year, I could see a little growth in my writing skills.

Sophomore year consisted of a lot of reading units. We must have read at least 5 or 6 books throughout the year, analyzing them in depth and conversing in deep discussion about certain plots, characters, or themes in the stories. But, I didn't grow as a writer sophomore year because we only wrote during finals. We'd read a story and have to write an essay about the themes of that story. Although I grew as a reader sophomore year, I think I actually took a step back in my writing skills. When I wrote those stupid essay responses, I bullshitted everything. I would catch myself making up things on the spot. I accepted this as a way to make the piece look longer in length. I didn't even bother to go into character depth or develop any sense of theme or point to my writing. Writing was a burden sophomore year, and I wish I had tried a lot harder in developing my skills that year.

 Junior year was another great year of reading books. And when I say great, I am being sarcastic. Again, I must've read 5 or 6 books, all about different characters who find their passion in creating art. What is art? What defines art? Who creates art? What does art mean? What makes art successful? We'd interpret these types of questions throughout the year while reading these boring books. SparkNotes was my best friend sophomore year. Luckily, I still got an A- in the class. This shows two things: 1. The class was way too easy. 2. I wasn't challenging myself at all. Honestly, I didn't care. As long as I was gettting the grade, I was happy. I dreaded going to 5th period English that year becasue it was the most boring class of all time. We'd sit there talking about art, and I slept through the majority of those conversations. I didn't learn much (if anything) that year becasue the class was unorganized and dull. Again, I only wrote 3 essays that year, two during finals and one that analyzed a book we read. I hated that class, and I truly began to loose hope for English classes. That was until I took Creative Writing.

This year in Creative Writing revived my inner creativity and writing potential. This entire year we got to write in various styles, whether it be using first person, third person, dialouge, or poems. The different styles of writing challenged me to think outside of the box and really focus on certain aspects of literature such as character, plot, and theme development. This year was essential in putting me on track to grow in the future, for I now possess the skills and knowledge to take my writing to places I could never imagine. For that, I thank you very much and pay tribute with CW Project #2! Hope you enjoy!