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Thank you for visiting this portfolio. Here lie the genius works of the worlds most prominent up and coming writer, Sophia Arrighi. I hope you will enjoy these works as much as everyone else does.Introduction
Table of Contents
Portfolio 1 works of the worlds most prominent up and coming writer, Sophia Arrighi. I hope you will enjoy these works as much as everyone else does.
Journal Entry 1
Journal Entry 2
Journal Entry 3
Journal Entry 4
Journal Entry 5
ReflectionsTable of Contents
I’m superficial. I’ll judge you, accuse you, inspect you, criticize you of your brand name shoes and last season’s hair cut and clichéd shirt.
I wont talk long if you’re wearing something ugly. I wont look you in the eye if it makes me want to puke. I wont date you if the thought of kissing your cracked and chapped bleeding lips is a revolting image.
A good commercial to remind you to inflate your ties would be like this:
Three ditzy blonde girls with their little dogs in their pink brand name purses stand on the side of the road giggling. A guy in a sports car pulls over and gets out. The girls walk over giggly and flirty. The guy smiles, pops off one of the heads of the blonde, hooks it up to his tire, and deflates her head. He puts the head back on the blonde, but now it’s like a deflated balloon. The two blonde girls left just look at each other, shrug, giggle, and jump into the back of his care. And they all drive off.
Asphalt soaked with rain
Leaves this suburbia silent
Smells of industry
Reminders of pollution
Nature isn’t natural.
Blanketing the earth
Hiding all imperfections
Beauty of the snow
Just for a minute
Forever in my mind
An image of perfection
Money, greed, jealousy, greed, green
Its opposite is just as mean
Stop, bleed, anger, red
The fatal two will leave you dead
Smile giggle flirt
Giggle flirt kiss
Flirt kiss date
Kiss date like
Date like love
Like love fight
Love fight dump
Fight dump hate
Dump hate forget
Hate forget smile
After the dreams die
And the memories fade
And the artist lie
The inspired inspire
Through these ears
Submerged, cheat heaving
From the glory I’ve been breathing
Soaking up the sun
My arrogance you’ve won
I eternally reside
Drowning, chin up high
In the sea
Of my own pride
I watch gourmet dog food
Followed by starving Africans
On my plasma TV.
It’s a real shame, if you really think about it. High school love. So many pheromones gone to waste. All these emotions, and for what? All these raging hormones and beating hearts and butterflies? For a silly memory and a jaded heart? Or is it that notch in your belt? Or, my favorite, it’s because you actually believe you’re going to find love. Ha. Makes me chuckle every time I hear it. There isn’t a diamond in rough. No soul mates in this hell hole. So why are they all taking it so seriously. Just accept that all we’re going to get is a few hickeys, emotional baggage, and for the really lucky ones, an STD.
Hush child works of the worlds most prominent up and coming writer, Sophia Arrighi. I hope you will enjoy these works as much as everyone else does.
Has history taught you nothing
No one wants to hear the truth
It makes us look bad
This is a time for
Scape goats and hyperboles
False happiness and glamour
National enquired and petty grudges
So shut your mouth
Shut your mind
Hear, don’t see
There’s nothing to find
Say what’s polite, only what’s expected
Take the face value
Nothing should go inspected
Nothing need depth
Insight isn’t right
Understanding is for the weak
Leave thought for the meekHush Child
Leave the rest of us bliss
Shrouded with lies
With bleached smiles
And superficial thought
We don’t need it
If it can’t be bought.
5.I think I’m good at taking a new and imaginative perspective on things.
6. I’ve realized that I really hate describing people’s appearances. I really love writing about their personality and why they are each way.
7. I think I need to continue everything. I’ve got a lot to develop in every way.
Wolf In Friends ClothingThe shadows mock me. They point and laughs and watch. They wait. Trip. Fall. Lie. Love. mistake. The beg. They plead. The beseech for something to say. And the world has always been a stage. And their eyes so accusing. Dont mess up. dont say the right thing.The walls dont just have ears. "What big ears you have." "The better to misinterpret you with." "What big eyes you have" "The better to judge you with." "What a nice voice you have" "The better to gossip with" "What nice intentions you have" "The better to taunt you with" "What big teeth you have "The better to eat you with."
I hate snow. And I’m not saying it in that “oh, everyone else likes snow so I want to be cool and different.” No, I hate snow.
We could start with all the obvious reasons, like it’s cold. And makes driving impossible, and gets in the way of all my plans. But it’s more than a nuisance.
It’s a show off. Like the kid in class who always feels the need to correct the teacher and is so sure of his or herself despite everyone, including the teacher, hates his or her guts. But snow is blinded by it’s own perfection it can’t bother to notice no one really wants it around.
It’s white. Not just white, but blinding bleached teeth white. People when sunglasses in the snow. That’s disgusting. But I don’t care that it’s white except for the effects of it being white. Like after a few hours of cars be able to drive again, you notice all the dirt being built up on the sides. Now, the dirt and pollution has always been there. But as a good American, I pride myself in not caring or noticing it. Snow, on the other hand, prides itself and say “oh, look at the dirt. You people are so dirty but I’m so nice and clean and now you’re getting me dirty and it’s all your fault and I hope you feel bad and disgusting.
It’s not just the color. It’s perfect. It’s perfectly unique. Each snow flake is different, an individual? Yet each manages to nicely compliment each other, be admired. Sure, humans are all unique, individual, no two are alike. But we definitely don’t compliment each other. That’s just snow, being its showoff-y self.
This time was different. I Stood by the phone for a few days, expecting you to call back. I kept your things in a zip lock bag, expecting to unpack them any day. I kept the little bracelet you gave me on my wrist, and then it moved to my dresser top. And slowly if found itself in the bag. I still waited.
I didn’t break out my journal. Not this time. And then, it happened. I think I was talking about Led Zeppelin and if they were really that great. Maybe it was hot air balloons. Or even the now epic battle of Ninjas and Dinosaurs, since we already determined the pirates don’t have a chance. That was the conversation. And as he heatedly explained how the herbivores would still be valuable to the fighting process, I picked up the bag. And I opened they green box. Right now it’s about a foot by foot box, I think that’s sufficient since I’m only 15. It’ll get bigger when I get older. All my notes, all my memories. All the boys.
I moved on quick enough. I think it’s been 3 weeks, I like this new boyfriend a lot. We’ve been together 4 days. It’s got the typical euphoric start. I wonder when things will fail. I wonder what exactly it’ll be. Maybe we’ll just run out of things to say. Maybe he’ll want more then I can offer. Maybe I should just be happy.
Well, there was one boy I got bored with. It wasn’t a big loss. We dated for one month, exactly. I didn’t know him well, but he had a cute face and a perverted personality, which over the summer I found extremely charming, despite my current contempt for the humor. I was happy at first. He accepted my boundaries like that all do. And he said all the nice things the rest of them said. And did everything you’re supposed to, I guess.
That’s why I was bored. I think I really like being ignored. I’m not often ignored. It makes me work harder for attention. But I’m amazingly opposed to being an attention whore. So I’ll spend days lying around thinking of way to get attention without looking like I’m try to get some. And then it doesn’t matter because eventually we’ll get tired of trying so hard. And we’ll both be convinced it was the other’s fault things failed.
Once I was abused. It was fascinating. He had a tragic drug addiction and abusive parents and the whole thing. And he’d throw fits daily because I wouldn’t have sex with him, and threatened to rape me and everything. And he’d push me around. I always wanted to see how far he’d go. The way he threatened me. I wanted to see if it was true, if he’d dare. He knew that to. It was a sick sense of humor, I know, but I was undeniably amused. We ended when he admited he was having sex with this girl the whole time. I think I already knew, but I didn’t want to accuse him, I knew he’d deny it.
This boyfriend hasn’t said anything mean, and we’ve got the same sick humor, and we click. I didn’t think people really clicked, I thought it was something you just heard about. Like in books and stuff because they don’t actually have a reason for the characters to be together, so they say they “click.” It’s nice.
I like songs where people sound like they’re about to cry. Not the emo pathetic here’s-my heart-kind. The kind where they’re angry. That’s the most interesting feeling to watch in other. Their face keeps changing. A mix of knocking heads off and nervous breakdown and utter confusion and self pity. It’s stunning. And tears roll down people faces but they don’t withdraw, the polite thing to do when you’re upset. They ignore the polite thing. The courtesies. They selfish.
Selfish is beautiful. I think I like being around selfish people most because I always know what they’ll do, what they’ll want. I want to be spontaneous, I need everyone else to be predictable. That way I know who to take where, who to be around depending on my mood.
And I always want to be around people when they’re angry on the verge of tears. That’s not when they want a hug and a shoulder to cry on. That’s when they scream. When self control is outdated. They’re pure. Sans reality. Sans
They say I’m really paranoid. I personify everything. Everything has emotions, everything has motives, everything has hate.
It’s true. Not everything can love, but everything can hate. And I think they use the same part of the brain. I think they’re almost the same emotion. It’s just you choose if you’re a hater or a lover. You either choose to love, or you choose to hate. And once you decide to hate something you can never ever love. And vise versa. Both are curses.
I’m positive everything hates me. My backpack, my door, my computer, my neighbor, my sewing machine, my grass, my trampoline, my car, my journals, my pens, and this very keyboard. And I can feel it judging me. I can feel everything judging me.
People all judge the same. Objects don’t. They can see something everyone else can. They see you as an object, like you see them. They objectify you. That’s when I personify them. It’s only fair. Treat things like you want to be treated. Treat nouns like you want to be treated.
That’s it. Every noun can have a verb. Language explains everything. Language is everything.
It starts with the request. The grand pleading of the damsel in distress. I moved my chivalrous self of the couch. A peril in itself, to remove yourself from a see of cotton denim and fluffed pillows. The grand 6-foot couch became a huge sea, and there you are, in the middle of a current.
It grabs and drags and heaves until you’re submerged in its cloud-like depths, begging to Neptune there will be mercy on your gluttonous soul. Gluttonous because you can’t bare to part with the comfort of the self warmed seats, the miles of fleece covering like the cloud, and you, the helpless ship, caught in the depths of throw pillows and stuffing.
But soon you’re spat out, onto a carpeted hard floor, reminding you of reality. But the world isn’t kind in reality. Legos thrown about like land mines, ready to get you were it hurts. Shoes are proven to be a gazillion times more likely to trip you when detached from the foot. The kid’s meal toys waiting to pounce, the dust bunnies ready to suffocate, or at least gross you out. And some smashed cracker mocks you, with its inimical tone. And the usual agility and speed and obvious skill once had has been sucked away by that damn couch laughing inches away.
Step. Shoe. Step. Lego. Step. Trip. Fall. Attack! Dust bunnies get their chance. They’d waited all to long, and boom, running out from every crack and crevice, under every couch, here they are. And the change! Lincolns rolling full speed ahead to bring you to your monetary doom.
“What are you doing on the floor?” Aw, yes, sweet words of encouragement from the damsel herself. A jolt of energy and bam. Those once threats are now silly minions. But there are bigger fish to fry.
The day’s contents are stacked on the table. Newspapers, homework, mail, and things left out from breakfast. A massive pile of paper cuts waiting to happen. Each edge just waiting to dig into your innocent skin with its razor sharp edges. Death lurks on each corner. Suddenly those funnies aren’t so funny, are they? Trying to separate junk from the good stuff, trying to multi task reading all the headlines while protecting your skin from being scoured with blood clots. And finally the life-threatening task is done, all junk lies in the recycling bin awaiting it’s eco-friendly grave.
The cleared table becomes an artist’s canvas. For now it looks so friendly, with it’s nice plaid cotton tablecloth and those innocent chairs. Innocent for now. But there’s more to do before focusing on that. The silverware. If I were a werewolf, I’d be dead meat. Those shining rows and rows of silver, pointed at the end, just waiting to make you meet your maker.
Sticking your hand into that organize drawer of terror is pure suicide, but Danger is my middle name. Grab for the handle. One. Two. Three. Four. Forks. The spoons might not seems dangerous, but they’re the worse. Every carved out a pumpkin? Yea. Just replace that pumpkin with you and then imagine how things go. But my brave little fingers know no bounds. One. Two. Three. Four. Spoons.
Phew. That was close. Now for the knives. Yes. Every horror movie’s best friend. Every secret agent’s ally. And every table setter’s arch nemesis. One knife. All eyes in tact. Two knives. No missing fingers, yet. Three knives. All limbs where they were, for now. Four knives. Mission accomplished, but barely.
And now that table. That massive chunk of wood just waiting to cover you with splinters. Napkins here are your only defense against the dark forces. Don’t be fooled by it’s cool design. It’s round edges. It’s quaint appeal. It’s laden with cruel intentions. Spoon. Fork Knife. The table has yet to fling itself at me. Spoon. Fork. Knife. No reenacting of House of Flying Daggers. Spoon. Fork. Knife. So close, yet so far away. Spoon. Calm before the storm. Fork. Dust bunnies are eyeing. Knife. Flee!
That was a close one. Just wait for dinner.
Pick a face
Be a doll
It doesn’t matter
You’ll still fall
It’ll take a lot
To change our mind
And when you do
You’ll hate to find
It doesn’t matter
What you say
We’ll still hate you
who do you think you are
Just rising from the dead
Just showing up
when I finally got you
Out of my head.
You’re out of my mind.
You were, I swear
And then you show up
Just standing there.
Like I miss you
Like I care
Well I don’t
And this isn’t fair.
This year I believe I’ve really found my voice. I think it’s starting to be more clear my style of writing and poetry. I definitely don’t use the skills from this class in any other class. I don’t take English, so pretty much this is just helping me write notes to kids. They enjoy the notes, so I guess that’s good. I bet my teachers don’t appreciate it that much. I really like my historical fiction, I put a lot of time into that. I think that’s clear by it’s length. I think I did a good job with the rising action, climax, falling action, and resolution. And I’m starting to develop foreshadowing.
I haven’t had challenges writing this semester. In fact, I’m always writing anyway and I tend to just find a piece I wrote a week ago that fits the assignment and I’ll turn that in. I guess it’s a pretty convenient way to get honest feedback on my writing.
I think my strengths are in voice and grammar. I’m pretty big on grammar, so I tend not to make that many fo those little mistakes. Or I can at least catch them on my own. But I really need to develop the resolution to my stories. I’m great at rambling, but not so much at actually writing a story with a climax and logical resolution.
I felt the water engulf me and flow sweetly as a ravenous boogieman. I pushed off the bottom and escaped the clutches of the chlorinated monster. And just as I reached the warm, welcoming, waiting air above me, I saw him. I saw the goddamn hillbilly good for nothing piece of #$@^ jump right off the stupid diving board and land right on yours truly! That’s all I remember, what happened after that is just what I hear and my beautiful mind conjured up. I was put into a coma, drowned, and nearly escaped the ravenous clutches of the Lakeside Pool boogieman. I woke up in a hospital, full of a tiny vase, full of one measly flower, and one sincere apology note, saying “Sorry. –Bob” What kind of name is Bob? I’ll tell you what kind! Bob is the name of my boneheaded stepbrother from Alabama. He’s a good for nothing redneck, just like his good for nothing mom.
And you’ll never guess how I became blessed with having such a piece of #!$% for a step brother and step mom. They met in the hospital room where I rest after the tragic, obvious homicide attempt. And from how they were acting after my therapy that day, two years ago, that’s the same room where my stupid little inbred half brother was conceived. I don’t know why those stupid hillbillies had to come up to this nice suburban town, but here they are. Swimming in my Lakeside pool and I’m stuck playing in this stupid kiddy pool with my stupid half hillbilly half brother, navigating through the treacherous gallons of baby pee and chemical with a stupid little half hillbilly half brother screaming “Roller coaster! Roller coaster!” on my back.
Feast upon the Living dead“No!” the little boy said assuming cooked meant the vegetable’s dead “It’s nasty and gross I’d eat none at the most” That night the child went unfed
The same happened the very next night “Shut up” it said, & caused quite a fright “Who goes there?” child asked with a stare Beans stared back “that’s right”
“Every night it’s exactly the same, you go unfed and we’re to blame Well, no more!” And they rolled out the door And dinner was never the same.
There’s not a lot
To be said for thought
In this modern age
When the world’s obsession
Is material possession
But it’s all I’ve got
“the ink of the scholar is more sacred then the blood of the martyr”
Wisdom. Some old man with a cane? Prophets rambling about the would-be, could-be, should-be? Metaphors that take you a lifetime to decipher? Or maybe a little girl spinning wildly under a big maple tree as it pours its dry rain in a stunning show of color. Of reds and oranges and browns and greens and a pastel yellow dress twirling through it all. Which of these is wisdom?
Clara Dishman. Everyone knew she was peculiar. You could just look at her and know that. She seemed to have a complete disregard of what the rest of us thought. She seemed to not care about a thing in the world. She seemed about as bright as a five year old. She seemed silent and simple. She seemed. So she seemed. But maybe the wisdom is knowing things are never as they seem.
I stepped last onto the bus, staring around fearfully at the seat, filled to overflowing with 3 kids per seat, each and every one of them. People spilled into the aisles and it was a jungle of kids trapped in a giant yellow cage. Yet, third row from the front, in long flowing pastel yellow dress, staring out the window, sat, all alone, Clara Dishman. What could be the harm? She won’t even notice me, right?
Wrong. Every kid on that bus was well aware of my strange decision. The bus grew silent for a moment, and then a slow hum of whispers. A slow hum turned to a steady growl. A steady growl turned into quickened chitchat. And alas, the bus restored itself back to yells and hollering and screaming of “animals. Animals in a cage.” She noticed me.
“Yea.” I really tried to make my voice sound like I didn’t care. Who in their right mind would want to talk to the social outcast? The weird of the weird? The Clara Dishman? The girl that in a cage full of kids finds the only empty spot. She seemed like a curse, no one wanting to touch her. The leper of my elementary school.
“It’d be a lot easier if everyone hushed a bit and sat down. We could all converse easier. And when someone needed to move, it’d be less of a jungle and more of a simple feet moving from point A to point B.” Converse? Who says that? She spoke with a certain glow though. I could not help but to be reeled in to her every word, as much as my reputation told me to back away slowly and run for your life.
“I guess.” I had to reply. Like a curse, her questions begged for an answer. So maybe my response wasn’t as lengthy and verbose, but at least I acknowledged her? At least I graced the little weird kid with my awesome presence. Besides, after that she had no reply. I’d stumped her! Or maybe just given her no material to continue a conversation off of. She looked back out the window with a hint of disappointment on her face.
“I thought you were at least a little different.” It was under her breath, but just loud enough to know she wanted me to hear that. Her curly brown hair in relaxed locks, flowing off her shoulders and complimenting her pale skin, matched her dark brown eyes and gave such a peculiar face. Peculiar like she’d had the lowest expectations but the highest hope for you. A sense of disappointment, like when a baby messes up. You can’t blame them, because they don’t know any better. That’s the look she gave. I’d never seen someone stare like that. Like they knew exactly who you were and what you were like. She wasn’t stupid. She knew exactly how I was going to respond to her. But a certain hope made her try anyways.
“It was like a jungle getting to this seat. Too bad I didn’t have my machete.” I tried to keep my eyes straightforward on the profanity carved into the seat in front, but I knew she had at least a little smile on her face. There, I did it. I engaged her. Social Suicide. She’d better make it worthwhile.
“Well, you could just be me. Like a skunk. Everyone jumps out of my way in fear I’ll do something terrible… or something,” she said it like a joke, but I guess the funny part was supposed to be that it was true. I giggled, but in the back of my mind I couldn’t help but to feel guilty. She was turning out not to be as bad as she seemed. Damnit.
The bus came to a halt and the doors opened, contents flooding out. The kids were like liquid, cramming into every crack and crevice to get out. I considered crowd surfing, and then I noticed Clara didn’t even flinch from her seat. “Are you coming to school?”
“What’s the point of getting stuck in that mess when I could wait sixty seconds and walk off, no trouble? It’s not like I’m so eager to get to school I can’t wait a minute.” Her logic was too true, and I could feel the slow stabs of rumors by the passerby’s as I sat back down. Most weird kids are weird because of the way they talk. They know too much, and don’t know anything about the social rules. She was different. She wasn’t inept. She wasn’t unaware. She just had something better to say and no one better to say it to. The guilt sunk in again, and a sudden urge to be impressive and say something logical and witty and profound.
I hate that show.” That was my best shot. A television reference. I could’ve smacked myself, but I didn’t need her to think I was retarded and self-abusive.
“Uhm. Sixty seconds. It’s a little television clip. It’s just a little news report in between shows. It’s, uh, sixty seconds long.” Anyone else I would’ve said “my soaps” but I had a feeling knowing I watch television at all couldn’t impress her.
“Oh.” Oh. She was completely disinterested. And the aisle began to clear up. I walked off and spent the rest of the day hoping that by the end I’d have something interesting to say.
I exited school and saw a pastel yellow dress walking into the path through the woods. . “What are you doing?” Why would she walk? We lived five or six miles away it’d take a couple of hours to comfortably walk back. My shows! I’d miss my shows. Oh those stupid shows, they weren’t impressive anyways. I ran over to her. “Why do you walk?”
“It’s pretty and peaceful.” For the first time I looked around. Leaves, of every color and type, carpeted the ground, and the trees lay like a web above us. The sun seeped through lazily and suddenly I think I said the right thing.
“Let’s play.” I grabbed some leaves and threw them up in the air, making my own dry rain. Clara laughed and grabbed some more, throwing it up and twirling in it as it fell like poetry all around her. She was just a kid like a rest of us. But she seemed more then a kid. She was more then a kid. She had wisdom. She was wisdom. She was a little girl spinning wildly under a big maple tree as it pours its dry rain in a stunning show of color. Of reds and oranges and browns and greens and a pastel yellow dress twirling through it all.
My name is Mary
And this is my son
The rest have died
Starved, every one
My name is Mary
Without a dime
An economic depression
With my son
As my only possesion
Someone grab a doctor!
Someone grab a nurse!
Get this man some blood
And a hurse.
The most challenging assignment was my additional piece, because it wasn’t a structures assignment. It was just a broad prompt. And the requirement was to make it a 3 page story. (for English class)
I’m most proud of my character sketch, because I got the most compliments on it.
I’m not including my autobiography because it’s not a good representation of my work.
I felt the water engulf me and flow sweetly as a ravenous boogieman.
I like this sentence because of the contradiction. You wouldn’t associate sweet and ravenous. And it’s meant to be sarcastic, which tends to be a very hard thing to relay to readers.
People spilled into the aisles and it was a jungle of kids trapped in a giant yellow cage.
I like this one because it shows how wonderful I am at giving imagery.