Hi.  This  is  my  por-olio.  ☺  

Shruthi  Rao  July  30,  2014  

Crea=ve  Wri=ng  

Table of Contents

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

Table of Contents

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

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

POEMS!!

Mom:  What  did  you  learn  today?  

Me:  …Nothing?  •  Wrong  answer.  As  per  my  experience,  I  learnt  the  most  

in  the  poetry  sec=on  due  to  the  fact  that  I  rarely  prac=ced  poetry  before  this  course.  The  course  helped  me  find  a  new  way  to  express  myself,  and  for  that,  I  will  always  be  grateful.  Aside  from  simply  learning  poetry,  I  also  embellished  my  skills  as  a  writer  through  this  unit.  I  am  now  able  to  properly  write  both  prose  and  poetry  without  making  use  of  “my  darlings”.  Before  this  course,  I  had  always  wriTen  about  love  or  death,  nothing  in  between;  and  I  have  now  accomplished  the  task  of  wri=ng  something  that  isn’t  as  abstract  as  these  two  categories.  Another  important  lesson  to  me  was  rhyming.  In  any  past  poems  I  may  have  had  to  write  for  a  class,  I  always  had  rhyming  in  it,  which  eventually  turned  into  a  habit.  When  I  wrote  “We  Were  Infinite”  it  was  a  new  experience  for  me  because  I  had  not  yet  achieved  the  courage  it  took  to  step  out  of  my  comfort  zone  and  stop  rhyming.  Crea=ve  Wri=ng  allowed  me  to  step  out  of  the  safety  of  my  walls  and  explore  various  genres  and  emo=ons  and  forms  of  poetry  that  I  had  not  been  exposed  to  before,  and  for  this,  I  thank  you.        

Moon Poems

July 15-18

Original

Revision

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

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

Original

Revision

Poems

Original

Revision

Revision

Original Revision

Original

Revision

PROSE  

•  Because  emo*ons  are  confusing.    •  Because  they  annoy  the  heck  out  of  me.  

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

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

•  And  because  I  <3  short  stories.  

What  did  I  learn  in  prose?  Hmmm,  let  me  think  about  it  

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

Jubilant  County:  Original    There  was  blood  on  the  floor,  blood  on  the  walls,  blood  on  her  body;  but  when  she  blinked  again,  it  was  gone.  Her  limp  being  lay  there  on  the  grey-­‐stoned  floor,  unmoving.  It  was  not  the  first  =me  she  had  surrendered  to  the  Ins=tute's  cruel  ways.  That's  probably  why  she  was  moved  to  a  different  cell,  set  aside  from  the  other  occupants  of  this  hell  house;  she  was  completely  and  uTerly  alone.  It's  not  that  she  exhibited  symptoms  of  insanity,  no  sir,  but  for  some  reason  the  guards  found  her  "unable  to  cooperate  peacefully  among  peers  due  to  psychological  concerns  that  have  affected  conven=onal  life."  Right.  She  couldn't  change  much  even  if  she  wanted  to  anyway.  She  was  s=ll  the  same  Eveline  that  was  dropped  off  at  the  Ins=tute  by  her  mother  when  she  was  twelve.    She  s=ll  wore  her  grey  tear-­‐stained  peasant  dress,  she  was  s=ll  barefoot.  And  worse,  she  was  s=ll  in  The  Tower.  The  Tower  was  the  name  Eveline  had  given  her  "living  quarters."  The  "living  quarters"  had  a  single  window  above  a  cold  fireplace  that  never  lit  to  begin  with.  At  least  not  while  Eveline  was  kept-­‐sorry,  living-­‐in  there.  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room  stood  a  cot,  its  blankets  worn  and  tossed  to  the  side  as  though  poisonous.  Which  Eveline  was  convinced  it  was,  for  she  felt  a  strange  bi=ng  on  her  legs  and  back  when  and  if  she  slept  on  the  cot  and  not  the  grey-­‐stoned  floor.  A  brutal  bang  on  the  door  knocked  Eveline  out  of  her  reverie.  She  got  up  from  her  fetal  posi=on  and  slid  the  panel  on  the  iron  door  open  so  she  could  see  her  visitor.  The  man  at  the  door  cleared  his  throat  and  handed  her  a  tray  of  unappe=zing  food.  The  murky  blandness  of  the  soup  never  ceased  to  amaze  her.  She  nodded  wordlessly  at  the  man  shut  the  panel.  Her  breath  hitched  and  she  almost  dropped  the  tray  as  she  saw  an  image  reflected  back  at  her  in  the  stainless-­‐steal  texture.  A  girl's  face  could  be  seen,  her  skin  blotched  and  pale  from  lack  of  sunlight.  Her  brown  hair  was  in  clumps  and  burly,  as  though  it  hadn't  been  washed  in  years.  Which  it  hadn't.  Her  evergreen  eyes  had  a  swollen  and  wild  look  about  them,  as  though  they  had  been  broken  before,  shaTered.  Eveline  shook  her  head,  snapping  herself  out  of  the  fear  she  felt  of  her  own  reflec=on.    She  gathered  the  tray  and  proceeded  to  throw  its  contents  out  the  window.  She  downed  the  water,  though.  Water  was  the  only  substance  that  was  desirable  here.  Or  anywhere,  for  that  maTer.  Actually,  Eveline  no  longer  found  anything  desirable.  She  wasn't  sure  she  would  any=me  soon  either.  Her  life  had  been  one  big  Shakesperean  tragedy,  star=ng  from  the  day  her  mother  found  Eveline  kneeling  in  front  of  the  altar  with  a  knife  pointed  at  herself  with  one  hand  and  the  Holy  Book  in  the  other.  She  had  tried  explaining  to  mother  that  it  was  for  the  best  she  be  gone,  that  it  was  for  the  best  that  no  one  remember.  Aher  all,  a  child  like  Eveline  needed  special  care  and  protec=on.  People  whispered  about  her,  men  hooted  at  her,  their  eyes  wandering  un=l  Eveline  had  felt  every  ounce  of  self-­‐respect  and  dignity  fall  away.  A  glint  of  light  caught  her  eye,  making  her  turn  to  face  the  edge  of  the  cot.  It  seemed  as  though  something  had  been  wriTen  on  it.  "Please  enjoy  your  stay  at  Jubilant  County  Hospital"  A  sick  laugh  blew  from  Eveline's  mouth,  slowly  turning  to  hysteria  as  the  mirth  and  sheer  absurdity  of  the  line  hit  her.  Soon  she  was  coughing  and  the  guards  came  in  the  Tower  and  stabbed  the  needle  in  her  back.  She  fell  to  the  floor  and  drihed  into  a  beau=ful  dream.  A  girl  ran  through  what  seemed  to  be  a  wedding  chapel.  She  was  certainly  dressed  for  the  occasion-­‐  a  flowing  white  dress  with  a  single  blood  rose  pinned  in  her  hair.  She  passed  the  altar  and  came  to  a  fork  in  the  path.  In  one  corner  lay  a  single  feather  pen  and  parchment,  the  ink  contamina=ng  the  paper.  In  the  other  stands  an  ebony  black  table.  A  dagger  is  placed  on  the  table,  the  shadows  cas=ng  a  red  glow  on  the  knife.  "Which  do  you  favor?"  a  voice  echoes.  Eveline  picks  the  dagger.  

Revision:  Jubilant  County  ! ! ! ! ! ! !Jubilant County"!There was blood on the floor, blood on the walls, blood on her body; but when she blinked again, it was gone. Her limp body lay there on the grey-stoned floor, unmoving. It was not the first time she had surrendered to the Institute's cruel ways. That's probably why she was moved to a different cell, set aside from the other occupants of this hell house; she was completely and utterly alone. It's not that she exhibited symptoms of insanity, no sir, but for some reason the guards found her "unable to cooperate peacefully among peers due to psychological concerns that have affected conventional life." "! Right. She couldn't change much even if she wanted to anyway. She was still the same Evelyn that was dropped off at the Institute by her mother when she was twelve.  She still wore her grey tear-stained peasant dress, she was still barefoot. And worse, she was still in The Tower. The Tower was the name Evelyn had given her "living quarters." The "living quarters" had a single window above a cold fireplace that never lit to begin with. At least not while Evelyn was kept-sorry, living-in there. On the opposite side of the room stood a cot, its blankets worn and tossed to the side as though poisonous. Which Evelyn was convinced it was, for she felt a strange biting on her legs and back when and if she ever slept on the cot and not the grey-stoned floor. "!A brutal bang on the door knocked Evelyn out of her reverie. "!She got up from her fetal position and slid the panel on the iron door open so she could see her visitor. "!The man at the door cleared his throat and handed her a tray. Her daily meal consisted of a burnt-to-ashes piece of toast, one bowl of soup that looked to be made from clay rather than broth, and a single glass of water. The murky blandness of the food never ceased to amaze her. She nodded wordlessly at the man and shut the panel. Her breath hitched and she almost dropped the tray as she saw an image reflected back at her in the stainless-steal texture. A girl's face could be seen, her skin blotched and pale from the lack of sunlight. Her brown hair was in clumps and burly, as though it had not been washed in years. Which it hadn't. Her evergreen eyes had a swollen and wild look about them, as though they had been broken before, shattered. Evelyn shook her head, snapping herself out of the fear she felt of her own reflection.  She gathered the tray and proceeded to throw its contents out the window. She downed the water, though. Water was the only substance that was desirable here. Or anywhere, for that matter. Actually, Evelyn no longer found anything desirable. She wasn't sure she would anytime soon either. Her life had been one big Shakespearean tragedy, starting from the day her mother found Evelyn kneeling in front of the altar with a knife pointed at herself with one hand and the Holy Book in the other. She had tried explaining to her mother that it was for the best she be gone, that it was for the best that no one remember. After all, a child like Evelyn needed special care and protection. People whispered about her, called her a witch; and men ran from her, their eyes wandering until Evelyn had felt every ounce of self-respect and dignity fall away. A glint of light caught her eye, making her turn to face the edge of the cot. She hurried to the edge and wiped aside dust that had collected through the years. It seemed as though something had been written on it:"

Please enjoy your stay at Jubilant County Hospital! "!A sick laugh blew from Evelyn’s mouth, slowly turning to hysteria as the sheer mirth and absurdity of the line hit her. Soon she was coughing and the guards came in the Tower and stabbed the needle in her back. The red substance took effect and started flowing through her veins, letting it calm her until she fell to the floor and drifted into a beautiful dream. "!A girl ran through what seemed to be a wedding chapel. She was certainly dressed for the occasion- a flowing white dress with a single blood-red rose pinned in her hair. She passed the altar and came to a fork in the path. In one corner lay a single feather pen and parchment, the ink contaminating the paper. On the other side stands an ebony black table. A dagger was placed on it, the shadows casting a red glow on the knife. "!"Which do you favor?" a voice asks, its sound reverberating through the chamber."!Evelyn grabbed the dagger. "

POV  Assignment:  Original    Wait  a  LiGle  

 “BE  QUIET,  YOU  MEANIE!  WE.  ARE  NOT.  WEIRD!!!!!!!”  yelled  Shruthi.      I  frown  at  the  girl  being  assaulted  by  my  dear  cousin  and  put  a  protec=ve  arm  around  her.  Partly  to  assure  her  and  partly  to  make  sure  that  she  won’t  punch  Rachael.    Rachael  being  the  annoying  girl  across  the  street  who  just  has  to  comment  on  everything.  So  what  if  we’re  modeling  on  the  roof  of  the  car?  Mind  your  own  business,  girl.      “Whatever,”  says  Rachael,  strulng  away  back  to  her  perfect  liTle  house  across  the  street.  You  beTer  walk  away,  you  meanie!    “Come  on,  Shruthi.  Don’t  listen  to  her.  Let’s  get  back  to  modeling.”  I  offer.    She  nods,  a  scowl  s=ll  present  on  her  liTle  face.  I  jump  back  up  on  top  of  the  car  and  wait  for  her  to  climb  up.  She  puts  her  hand  on  the  hood  and  shimmies  up,  using  her  feet  to  get  hold  of  the  slope.      “Okay.  How  about  this?”      I  pose  with  my  leh  hand  on  my  hip  and  my  right  hand  up  in  the  air,  blowing  a  kiss  to  the  sky.      “No.  That’s  silly.”  She  says,  turning  to  face  me.  “It’s  more  like  this.”    With  that  she  put  both  hand  on  her  hips  and  smiled  up  at  the  sky,  her  liTle  features  twis=ng  up  in  a  grin.      I  roll  my  eyes  at  her.  She  may  have  the  “innocent”  look  down,  but  I’m  older,  so  obviously  I’ve  been  there,  I  know  all  her  liTle  tricks.      “Awwww,  you  look  so  cute!”  I  say,  throwing  an  arm  around  her.      “Hey!  You’re  only  two  years  older  than  me!”  She  argues,  crossing  her  arms  across  her  white-­‐  frocked  chest  and  pou=ng.      I  sigh,  and  tug  at  her  hand  to  make  her  get  off  the  car.      “Come  on.  Let’s  go  inside.”    “Wait  a  liTle.”      She  slides  down  the  windshield  to  the  hood  and  sits  there,  in  her  white  frock  and  =ny  face,  and  looks  up  at  me,  wai=ng  for  me  to  join  her,  and  to  con=nue  to  spoil  the  heck  out  of  her.      I  slide  down  and  join  her,  wai=ng  to  see  what  happens  next.    When  I  get  there,  everything  is  s;ll  for  a  minute.  The  tree’s  leaves  stop  shaking,  the  cars  stop  coming,  and  Shruthi  is  s;ll,  completely  s;ll  for  a  minute.  It’s  picturesque  for  a  minute,  for  a  second,  for  a  ;ny  millisecond.      And  then  the  world  decides  to  hit  play  and  Shruthi  is  off  the  car  in  a  blur  and  running  into  the  house,  saying  something  about  Barbie  and  TV.      I  jog  aher  her,  making  sure  not  to  trip  on  the  tricycle.      “WAIT!  Don’t  lock  me  out  again!”  

POV  Assignment:  Revision                Wait  a  LiGle    There  is  a  photograph  in  my  scrapbook.  Shruthi  stands  with  her  fists  folded  over  her  chest,  heavily  frowning  at  a  short-­‐haired  girl.  I  stand  with  my  arm  over  Shruthi’s  shoulders,  protec;ng  her  and  holding  her  back  at  the  same  ;me.  I  smile  at  the  picture…we  were  so  young.  It  was  taken  back  in  the  good  old  days  of  princesses  and  princes  and  happily-­‐ever-­‐aFers-­‐  when  anything  and  everything  was  possible.  We  were  kings  and  queens  one  day,  models  the  next,  and  grown-­‐up  make  believes  in  our  own  world.  But  when  we  did  grow  up,  it  never  took  away  our  childhood.  We  stayed  as  one  through  and  through-­‐  telling  secrets,  keeping  promises,  and  geIng  beJer  together.  Shruthi  is  special  to  me.  Maybe  more  so  than  her  sister  at  ;mes,  for  I  knew  her  first;  and  first  crushes,  first  loves  and  first  sisters  hold  dear  places  in  our  hearts.  My  first  sister  sits  with  me  now,  tapping  her  foot  or  finger,  trying  (and  failing)  to  stay  s;ll  and  actually  listen  to  me  for  once.  But,  hey,  that’s  what  you  get  with  and  ADHD  cousin.  She’s  been  more  s;ll  than  she  was  back  then,  more  idle  than  the  excitable  six-­‐year-­‐old  in  the  picture.  I  sigh,  recalling  the  day  and  its  wonders.      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~    “BE  QUIET,  YOU  MEANIE!  WE.  ARE  NOT.  WEIRD!!!!!!!”  yelled  Shruthi.      I  frown  at  the  girl  being  assaulted  by  my  dear  cousin  and  put  a  protec=ve  arm  around  her.  Partly  to  assure  her  and  partly  to  make  sure  that  she  won’t  punch  Rachael.    Rachael  being  the  annoying  girl  across  the  street  who  just  has  to  comment  on  everything.  So  what  if  we’re  modeling  on  the  roof  of  the  car?  Mind  your  own  business,  girl.      “Whatever,”  says  Rachael,  strulng  away  back  to  her  perfect  liTle  house  across  the  street.  You  beTer  walk  away,  you  meanie!    “Come  on,  Shruthi.  Don’t  listen  to  her.  Let’s  get  back  to  modeling.”  I  offer.    She  nods,  a  scowl  s=ll  present  on  her  liTle  face.  I  jump  back  up  on  top  of  the  car  and  wait  for  her  to  climb  up.  She  puts  her  hand  on  the  hood  and  shimmies  up,  using  her  feet  to  get  hold  of  the  slope.      “Okay.  How  about  this?”      I  pose  with  my  leh  hand  on  my  hip  and  my  right  hand  up  in  the  air,  blowing  a  kiss  to  the  sky.      “No.  That’s  silly.”  She  says,  turning  to  face  me.  “It’s  more  like  this.”    With  that  she  put  both  hand  on  her  hips  and  smiled  up  at  the  sky,  her  liTle  features  twis=ng  up  in  a  grin.      I  roll  my  eyes  at  her.  She  may  have  the  “innocent”  look  down,  but  I’m  older,  so  obviously  I’ve  been  there,  I  know  all  her  liTle  tricks.      “Awwww,  you  look  so  cute!”  I  say,  throwing  an  arm  around  her.      “Hey!  You’re  only  two  years  older  than  me!”  She  argues,  crossing  her  arms  across  her  white-­‐  frocked  chest  and  pou=ng.      I  sigh,  and  tug  at  her  hand  to  make  her  get  off  the  car.      “Come  on.  Let’s  go  inside.”    “Wait  a  liTle.”      She  slides  down  the  windshield  to  the  hood  and  sits  there,  in  her  white  frock  and  =ny  face,  and  looks  up  at  me,  wai=ng  for  me  to  join  her,  and  to  con=nue  to  spoil  the  heck  out  of  her.      I  slide  down,  wai=ng  to  see  what  happens  next  in  the  spontaneous  and  fidgety  life  of  Shruthi  Rao.    When  I  get  there,  everything  is  s;ll  for  a  minute.  The  tree’s  leaves  stop  shaking,  the  cars  stop  coming,  and  Shruthi  is  s;ll,  completely  s;ll  for  a  minute.  It’s  picturesque  for  a  minute,  for  a  second,  for  a  ;ny  millisecond.      And  then  the  world  decides  to  hit  play  again  and  Shruthi  is  off  the  car  in  a  blur  and  running  into  the  house,  saying  something  about  Barbie  and  TV.      I  jog  aher  her,  making  sure  not  to  trip  on  the  tricycle.      “WAIT!  Don’t  lock  me  out  again!”  

Character  Descrip=on:  Original  

           Rise  of  the  ForgoGen  

       Stories,  everyone  has  a  story.  No  maTer  whom  they  are  or  where  they’re  from.  My  story  is  one  that  reaches  so  deep  into  my  soul,  that  it  reaps  the  very  existence  of  my  being.  It  is  one  of  misery,  anger,  worry,  pain,  and  heartache.  But  to  understand  my  story  you  must  understand  rebirth.  Everyone  is  born  for  a  purpose,  a  reason,  with  a  task  they  are  des=ned  to  complete.  But  does  rebirth  really  explain  my  story?    +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++          Breathing  hard,  the  woman  ran  through  the  colorful  crowd,  pushing  her  way  past  the  townspeople,  who  simply  stumbled  as  though  a  strong  wind  had  knocked  them  over.  No  one  no=ced  the  nervous  woman  running;  occasionally  glancing  over  her  shoulder,  making  sure  her  speed  was  ahead  of  her  pursuers.  It  was  almost  as  though  she  didn’t  exist.    “I  must  escape,”  she  kept  muTering  to  herself.            She  ran  through  an  ally,  searching  for  a  door  or  some  exit  from  the  dead  end,  when  a  red  scarf  was  thrown  out  of  a  doorway.  Smiling,  she  ran  into  the  house.  She  couldn’t  see  much  through  the  dim  light,  but  her  intui=on  told  her  that  she  was  in  some  sort  of  cavern,  with  scarves  and  colorful  cloths  draped  over  the  sides.  Lanterns  hung  from  the  walls,  giving  dim  light  to  the  room.  In  front  of  her  stood  four  doors,  all  of  which  lead  into  different  direc=ons.    Mist  encircled  three  of  the  four  doors.  The  fourth  door  had  a  bright  glow  around  it,  as  though  Enlightenment  lay  beyond;  but  the  woman  knew  beTer.  It  was  a  trick  she  herself  had  set  up-­‐  with  the  help  of  her  fellow  Gods  and  Goddesses.  It  was  designed  to  lure  the  weak-­‐minded  into  an  environment  in  which  they  belonged.  She  knew  what  lay  beyond  each  door,  she  knew  everything,  but  what  she  chose  would  decide  the  fate  of  the  world.  No,  it  would  design  the  fate  of  the  Universe,  the  fate  of  Time  itself.            She  breathed  in,  her  sa=n  robes  moving  like  liquid  in  a  vile.  When  she  looked  up  again,  she  looked  imperial,  the  look  of  a  Queen.  Everything  was  below  her  Power  and  Might.  She  knew  this,  the  other  Gods  knew  this,  and  Eternity  knew  this.  Humanity  need  not  remember  this  era,  she  decided.  This  era  held  too  many  Divine  Beings;  it  held  the  secrets  to  the  Universe’s  dreams.  This  era  had  so  much  happiness,  so  much  hope,  so  much  prosperity,  and  yet  she  had  seen  in  the  Oracle  that  this  was  to  be  taken  away,  all  of  it-­‐  replaced  by  despair  and  desola=on.  She  nodded,  knowing  which  door  she  would  choose.  She  thought  hard  of  fire-­‐  the  flames  curling  around  her  body,  the  heat  smoldering  her  robes  of  silk,  the  embers  dancing  in  front  of  her  eyes,  and  the  Queen  of  Time  burnt  down  to  ashes.  

Character  descrip=on  Assignment:  Revision  

 Rise  of  the  ForgoGen                Stories,  everyone  has  a  story.  No  maTer  who  they  are  or  where  they’re  from.  My  story  is  one  that  reaches  so  deep  into  my  soul,  that  it  reaps  the  very  existence  of  my  being.  It  is  one  of  misery,  anger,  worry,  pain,  and  heartache.  But  to  understand  my  story  you  must  understand  rebirth.  Everyone  is  born  for  a  purpose,  a  reason,  with  a  task  they  are  des=ned  to  complete.  But  does  rebirth  really  explain  my  story?    +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++          Breathing  hard,  the  woman  ran  through  the  colorful  crowd,  pushing  her  way  past  the  townspeople,  who  simply  stumbled  as  though  a  strong  wind  had  knocked  them  over.  No  one  no=ced  the  nervous  woman  running;  occasionally  glancing  at  a  locket  on  her  neck          She  ran  through  an  ally,  searching  for  a  door  or  some  exit  from  the  dead  end,  when  a  red  scarf  was  thrown  out  of  a  doorway.  Smiling,  she  ran  into  the  house.  She  couldn’t  see  much,  but  her  intui=on  told  her  that  she  was  in  some  sort  of  cavern,  with  scarves  and  colorful  cloths  draped  over  the  sides.  Lanterns  hung  from  the  walls,  giving  dim  light  to  the  room.  In  front  of  her  stood  four  doors,  all  of  which  lead  into  different  direc=ons.    Mist  encircled  three  of  the  four  doors.  The  fourth  door  had  a  bright  glow  around  it,  as  though  Enlightenment  lay  beyond;  but  the  woman  knew  beTer.  It  was  a  trick  she  herself  had  set  up-­‐  with  the  help  of  her  fellow  Gods  and  Goddesses.  It  was  designed  to  lure  the  weak-­‐minded  into  an  environment  in  which  they  belonged.  She  knew  what  lay  beyond  each  door,  she  knew  everything,  but  what  she  chose  would  decide  the  fate  of  the  world.  No,  it  would  design  the  fate  of  the  Universe,  the  fate  of  everything.            She  breathed  in,  her  sa=n  robes  moving  like  liquid  in  a  vile.  When  she  looked  up  again,  she  looked  imperial,  the  look  of  a  Queen.  Everything  was  below  her  Power  and  Might.  She  knew  this,  the  other  Gods  knew  this,  and  Eternity  knew  this.  Her  power  had  grown  to  control  the  world  as  it  was  known,  it  decided  the  course  of  things.  Aetus  was  the  Goddess  of  Time,  and  her  decision  to  either  preserve  or  demolish  this  =me  period  would  decide  the  course  of  humanity.  She  had  seen  visions  in  the  oracle  that  showed  scenes  of  suffrage  and  destruc=on  in  the  near  future.  Humanity  need  not  remember  this  era,  she  decided.  This  era  held  too  many  Divine  Beings;  it  held  the  secrets  to  the  Universe’s  dreams.  This  era  had  so  much  happiness,  so  much  hope,  so  much  prosperity,  and  yet  she  had  seen  in  the  Oracle  that  this  was  to  be  taken  away,  all  of  it-­‐  replaced  by  despair  and  desola=on.  She  nodded,  knowing  which  door  she  would  choose.  She  thought  hard  of  fire-­‐  the  flames  curling  around  her  body,  the  heat  smoldering  her  robes  of  silk,  the  embers  dancing  in  front  of  her  eyes,  and  the  Queen  of  Time  burnt  down  to  ashes.  

Awkward/unusual  selng  assignment:  Original  

             Cloud  9    “So,  I  got  the  job?  Really?”      Margareta  Frost  had  not  expected  this  to  go  so  well.  In  fact,  she  was  surprised  when  the  editor  she  spoke  with  had  called  her  to  set  up  the  mee=ng  in  the  first  place.  Margareta  didn’t  have  nearly  as  much  experience  as  her  compe=tors;  her  photos  were  simple  and  stable,  something  her  Professor  had  given  her  a  hard  =me  about.  Professor  McKinley  thought  most  of  her  work  to  be  conserva=ve,  too  conven=onal,  too  ordinary  for  the  world  to  like.      Margareta  wished  her  dear  teacher  could  have  seen  her  now,  gelng  accepted  by  the  editor-­‐in-­‐chief  of  BeJer  Homes  and  Gardens  to  be  the  agency’s  top  media  consultant,  specializing  in  photography.      Oh,  yeah.  McKinley  would’ve  loved  that.    

 “You’ve  got  the  job,  Frost.  Remember,  you  start  next  week  at  10.”    With  a  firm  handshake  and  a  goodbye,  the  editor  leh  the  coffee  shop.            Smiling  to  herself,  Margareta  walked  home,  feeling  a  sense  of  accomplishment  and  euphoria  at  the  thought  of  wronging  her  once-­‐dreaded  professor.      Lately,  her  life  seemed  to  be  headed  in  such  a  posi=ve  direc=on  that  she  wondered  if  it  was  truly  happening.  Last  week,  in  front  of  the  Harbor,  a  place  she  ohen  visited  when  she  needed  to  think,  her  five-­‐year-­‐boyfriend  had  proposed.  She  s=ll  smiled  at  the  sight  of  the  emerald  ring  on  her  hand.      Now  she  had  a  job,  a  house,  an  amazing  fiancé,  it  was  like  she  was  on  cloud  9.      As  she  thought  this,  a  strange  sensa=on  overtook  her,  as  if  splilng  her  into  a  million  =ny  par=cles.  She  looked  down  and  saw  the  skyline  of  ManhaTan  and  the  busy  traffic  that  constantly  overtook  New  York.  Was  she  dreaming  or  was  New  York  gelng  smaller?    With  a  thump,  Margareta  landed  on  a  soh  cushioning  surface.  All  around  her  she  saw  blue.  Sky  blue…    She  looked  down  and  almost  fainted  in  disbelief.    A  woman  walked  in,  smiling  big  and  looking  completely  at  ease.      “Hello.  Welcome  to  Cloud  9.  Once  you  enter  happiness,  you  won’t  want  to  leave!”  

Awkward/  unusual  selng  assignment:  Revision  

 “So,  I  got  the  job?  Really?”      Margareta  Frost  had  not  expected  this  to  go  so  well.  In  fact,  she  was  surprised  when  the  editor  she  spoke  with  had  called  her  to  set  up  the  mee=ng  in  the  first  place.  Margareta  didn’t  have  nearly  as  much  experience  as  her  compe=tors;  her  photos  were  simple  and  stable,  something  her  Professor  had  given  her  a  hard  =me  about.  Professor  McKinley  thought  most  of  her  work  to  be  conserva=ve,  too  conven=onal,  too  ordinary  for  the  world  to  like.  How  could  someone  so  bland  get  a  job  like  this?  Not  that  she  was  complaining.    Margareta  wished  her  dear  teacher  could  have  seen  her  now,  gelng  accepted  by  the  editor-­‐in-­‐chief  of  BeJer  Homes  and  Gardens  to  be  the  agency’s  top  media  consultant,  specializing  in  photography.      Oh,  yeah.  McKinley  would’ve  loved  that.      “You’ve  got  the  job,  Frost.  Remember,  you  start  next  week  at  10.”    With  a  firm  handshake  and  a  goodbye,  the  editor  leh  the  coffee  shop.      Smiling  to  herself,  Margareta  walked  home,  feeling  a  sense  of  accomplishment  and  euphoria  at  the  thought  of  wronging  her  once-­‐dreaded  professor.      Lately,  her  life  seemed  to  be  headed  in  such  a  posi=ve  direc=on  that  she  wondered  if  it  was  truly  happening.  Last  week,  in  front  of  the  Harbor,  a  place  she  ohen  visited  when  she  needed  to  think,  her  five-­‐year-­‐boyfriend  had  proposed.  She  s=ll  smiled  at  the  sight  of  the  emerald  ring  on  her  hand.      Now  she  had  a  job,  a  house,  an  amazing  fiancé,  it  was  like  she  was  on  cloud  9.  But,  s=ll…something  felt  off  about  it.  Everything  seemed  too  perfect,  like  the  calm  before  a  storm.    She  shook  her  head  and  kept  walking,  ignoring  the  nagging  feeling  of  suspicion  and  enjoying  the  ups  in  her  life  for  once.      As  she  thought  this,  a  strange  sensa=on  overtook  her,  as  if  splilng  her  into  a  million  =ny  par=cles.  She  looked  down  and  saw  the  skyline  of  ManhaTan  and  the  busy  traffic  that  constantly  overtook  New  York.  Was  she  dreaming  or  was  New  York  gelng  smaller?    With  a  thump,  Margareta  landed  on  a  soh  cushioning  surface.  All  around  her  she  saw  blue.  Sky  blue…    She  seemed  to  be  in  some  sort  of  magnificent  castle.  Golden-­‐yellow  arches  and  marble  columns  emphasized  the  wealth  of  the  selng.  She  was  in  front  of  a  golden  fountain,  where  a  mermaid  spewed  water  into  the  drain.  Strange  inscrip=ons  were  wriTen  along  the  edges  of  the  fountain,  giving  it  an  ancient  look.    A  woman  walked  in,  wearing  a  golden…was  that  a  toga?    “Hello.  Welcome  to  your  very  own  Utopia.  Once  you  enter  happiness,  you  won’t  leave  it!”  

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