About Me!!!

Why hello there! I’m Claire, and this is the blog I created for my Creative Writing class. It is full of awesomeness and rainbows and sunshine. Well, not really the rainbows and sunshine. But the awesomeness—yes.

I don’t really consider myself a writer or poet. I am well aware that my works are not the best, but overall the experience of writing all these different types of works has been fun. In my heart, though, I will always be a math and science person—yay calculus!

Anywhoo, I have lived in the San Francisco Bay Area my entire life, and I love the culture and fun stuff available there. I am currently a senior in high school, and next year I will be continuing my education in the Bay Area—at Cal! Ahh, I’m so excited!

Well, for some more info about me, I love the Harry Potter series. So much. So much that I reread all of them in one week every summer. I also enjoy other books too, but these are the ones that I know I will always enjoy.

As for music, I am obsessed with Ok Go (in the best possible way). Here’s a link to their newest music video which is super-awesomeàhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MejbOFk7H6c .  I also like the Rolling Stones, the Beatles, and numerous others whose names evade me at the moment.

Well, this is starting to sound like an online dating profile, so I guess I’ll catch you on the flip side. Hope you like my blog!

p.s.—I enjoy long walks on the beach.

The Superhero's Confession

This short scene was created for an in class writing assignment, in which we had to write a short conversation between any two people we wanted. My partner, Wesley, and I chose Batman and Superman (the obvious choices). In this short scene, these two superheroes sitting at a table in a bustling café. We also read this aloud to our class, and succeeded in getting a few laughs.

*BATMAN’S voice should be read in a deep, gruff, Christian Bale voice.

BATMAN: How's it going, man?
SUPERMAN: Oh, you know. Just flew around the world so fast I reversed time itself. Aaand...just did it again. Have you had the fries here?
BATMAN: Yeah, they're pretty good. (beat) You just did it again, didn't you.
SUPERMAN: Sorry, left my iPhone at the International Space Station. I got it now.
BATMAN: Dude, do you realize that everyone else has to wait, frozen in time, every time you do that? Not cool, bro.
SUPERMAN: Whatever, man.
BATMAN: You need to take responsibility for your actions, bro. You're a public figure. What sort of message do you think you're sending to your fans?
SUPERMAN: Woah, man. At least I have fans.
BATMAN: Dude. I'm the caped crusader. I'm the dark knight. I don't need fans--I'm a legend, man. Plus I'm totally rich and everybody loves me.
SUPERMAN: Yeah, but only because you're parents were millionaires and you found a tax loophole for masked vigilantism. You're the 1%, man. I was raised on a farm.
BATMAN: You think my childhood was fun? I grew up in an empty mansion. I was raised by my butler.
SUPERMAN: And what, you felt lonely? My whole planet blew up. It sucked.
BATMAN: Shit. I'm...I'm sorry, bro. Sometimes I forget. Just cause you're so...strong and powerful and stuff, you know? It's just that...I mean, I really look up to you, man.
SUPERMAN: C'mere, man. Let's hug it out, bro.
They totally hug it out.

SCENE

Disappointment

The following story is a vignette I wrote for class. A vignette is a type of memoir that delves into a particular moment in your life. For mine, I chose Christmas morning when I was around eight or so. Hope you like it.

                I raced into the living room, eagerly scanning the piles of presents underneath our Christmas tree. Despite our best intentions, the tree was decorated somewhat haphazardly thanks to my sister, brother, and I. As my eyes glanced over the tree, I spotted my special ornaments—my wooden Santa riding a giraffe and my bunny angel. But even those ornaments barely registered compared to the piles and piles of presents. Presents, presents, presents.

                After everyone arranged themselves on the couch, in the armchairs, or just standing, my sister and I began passing out the presents. Minute by minute the little piles next to everyone’s feet were slowly growing. So was mine. In it was a huge, colorfully wrapped box. I couldn’t wait to open it.

                I hurriedly distributed the rest of the presents I had in my arms. Then I ran over to my pile, eagerly eyeing the enormous box in front of me. And because I was only eight or so, and therefore still had yet to acquire the concept of saving the best for last, I started tearing at the wrapping paper, enjoying the crinkling sound it made, wondering what was hiding behind that colorful exterior.

                I soon found out.

                Barbies. And not just any Barbies. This package had the traditional, blond Barbie, but also teen Barbie, and little kid Barbie. I think one of them was named Kelly. And they had scooters. Yes, I got scootering Barbies for Christmas.

I probably should mention that I was a huge tomboy at this point. I mean huge. I refused to wear a particular shirt after I noticed it had a little pink on it. I was that bad.

Therefore, I was beyond disappointed in this present. How could something so big and colorful contain something so bad? But I still went up to my grandma and gave her a hug along with a quiet “thank you”.

Xavier's Dance

This story is based on a certain genre of music, and a name. Our assignment was to create a story inspired from the music, but it had to include a specific name. In this case, the genre was R&B (but it sounded more like Funk to me) and the name was Xavier. Yes, the name doesn’t fit the music, but that’s kind of the point. I hope you like it.

                Xavier was bringing the 70’s back. As he looked in the mirror, he admired how nicely his fro was growing out. Granted, it was a Jew-fro, but a fro nonetheless. And his outfit—wow. Just wow, was all he could think. He was wearing nearly every color imaginable, and one would not be wrong to call him a walking, talking rainbow. With one last comb through and a glance at his reflection, Xavier was out the door and walking down the street. Bobbing his head slightly, he thought he was the coolest cat in town, and would definitely be the coolest one at his school’s 70’s themed dance.

                Ten minutes passed, and on Xavier walked. He was not going to miss this dance for anything, even though the school was two miles away. As he passed people on the street, he got a couple of double-takes, for his attire was out of its time.

                With all this mindless walking, Xavier’s mind soon drifted to the memory of his first dance. Or almost dance, he corrected. He was ten years old, and he was so excited he could barely handle it. He wanted to be at that dance. Now. But his mom was being as overbearing and demanding as she knew how. As he grew older, Xavier realized that she was just overreacting to his growing up—it was his first dance, after all. However, he did not understand that at the time. All he could think about was being at that dance, with his friends, but most of all, he just wanted to dance. He loved to dance.

                “Just come sit down and eat dinner!” his mom yelled up the stairs.

                “Fine!” Xavier replied, with as much angst and resentment as he could muster in his ten year old self.

                He stomped down the stairs and glumly took his seat at the table. His mom then placed a plate of food in front of him. The smell of lightly roasted chicken and hot, buttery green beans wafted up to his nose, and Xavier decided that he would eat his dinner, but eat it quickly, so he could get to the dance as soon as possible.

In three minutes, his plate was clean. However, his mother made him sit there until she finished her meal. Xavier was bursting with anger—why couldn’t she just let him go to the dance?! He could even walk there—it was only half a mile away, and he was ten years old, not a baby.

“Come on, Mom!” Xavier nearly shouted, about to jump out of his chair.

“Just give me a moment,” his mother replied.

A few minutes passed, yet his mother still had not finished. Xavier was out of patience.

“Fine!” he yelled. “I’ll just go myself!”

“No you will not! Now go to your room and stay there. There will be no dance for you tonight.”

After stomping loudly up the stairs and slamming his door as hard as he could, Xavier lay on his bed, exhausted and dejected. Although he didn’t want to, he soon fell asleep, dreaming that all his friends had fun at the dance; they even forgot he was supposed to be coming! Xavier glumly woke up the next morning, and decided that he would never speak to his mother again. But that didn’t last long.

Suddenly coming out of his reverie, Xavier realized he was just one block away from school. He vowed that this night would be much better than the one permanently engrained in his memory. He would have fun.

And with that, Xavier walked through the school’s doors, ready to have the best night of his life.

After I Died

For this short story, we had to write from the point of view of something that normally doesn’t get a voice, whether it’s inanimate (like a tree) or not (like a dog). I chose to write from the perspective of dinosaur bones buried deep in the earth, commenting on the rise and fall of civilizations and humanity. I actually kind of like my story, if only for the fact that it’s about dinosaurs. I like dinosaurs.

            I am old. So old. I have seen civilizations come and go, wars fought, and cities born. I have seen it all from where I lay, in my home of earth. It surrounds me, always. Since the moment I died and began my new life—if you can call it that—I have lain in this very spot, never moving.

            Before this new existence, I was the fiercest of all creatures, I was the best, I was the alpha. I was a Tyrannosaurus Rex. I guess I still am, without skin and muscle, just bones.

            I used to have friends. Many friends. Now I am just me, alone. Forever. All my friends died. New creatures came to take their place. First they were furry, and gradually, they lost their hair, and built over my resting place. I have seen men evolve. I have seen a new species born. I have seen it all.

            Before I came to rest here, I was alive. So alive. I was running through the forests with my family. My brother, my mother, my father. How I miss them. I do not know where they lay now. I hope it is somewhere nice. I hope they are happy. We used to run, run so fast. I would race my brother. He was faster, but he never showed off. Sometimes he let me win. I liked that.

            One time, we chased a pterodactyl. It was just for fun. We weren’t hungry. We already ate. He kept hiding in the treetops. But we were tall. So tall. We could see the leaves move when he beat his wings.

            “I found him!” I shouted.

            “Be quiet!” my brother hissed. “It will know we’re here now.”

            Sure enough, the pterodactyl swooped out of the tree. It scraped the top of my brother’s head. Then it flew away, back to its own family.

            “Owww!” my brother shrieked. He was loud enough to make all the small creatures scurry back into their burrows and shelter from this incredible, hulking monster.

            “Hold still! I need to look at it,” I told him. He calmed down. I examined it. It wasn’t very deep. He was being a baby. But I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to fix it.

            I washed the cut off and cared for it. Soon, we were ready to go home, back to my mother and father. All my brother said was a quiet thank you. But I knew he meant more. I think he knew it too. He knew that I would always be there for him.

            But now I am not, and it is killing me all over again.

            That day seems eons away from this moment. I want to go back to it. I want to see my family. I want to be alive again. But I can’t. I am dead. Dead and buried. I am stuck here, made to relive my memories over and over yet again.

 I am no longer the mighty Tyrannosaurus Rex. I am just a pile of bones, deep underground. I will see your civilization come and go, and more after it. And through it all, I will remain here. Forever.

The Rolling Stones

This poem is called a Clerihew, which consists of two rhymed couplets that have a well-known subject, with whimsical humor rather than satiric. Obviously, I chose the Rolling Stones for my poem and referenced one of their more famous songs, which is one of my favorites, “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction”. I hope you enjoy it:

Oh, the Rolling Stones,

How you rock my bones.

I do yearn for perfection,

Though I know you can’t get no satisfaction.  

Ode to Matches

This is yet another poem I wrote for my Creative Writing class. We had to write this one in the style of Pablo Neruda, who wrote in a very distinct way. He used short lines, dividing the lines and stanzas however he felt. He tended to give human characteristics to objects, like calling an artichoke a warrior. For mine, I also compared matches to warriors.

A simple box,

Red top,

Small,

Holding

A secret

Inside.

Open it up,

Reach into its heart,

Pull out a

Flimsy little stick.

Red topped

Little warriors

Meet your

Fingertips,

Ready to help

In your

War

Against the

Darkness.

Warriors,

Every single one of them.

Wearing their

Red helmets,

Prepared to

Fight off your enemies,

Whether they be

The dark,

Thecold,

The winter.

Strike its head,

And it

Raises

Its weapons,

Angry,

Firey

Balls

Of light,

Eager to help

Its bigger,

Older

Bretheren—

The torch,

The fireplace—

In their

War

Against the

Dark.

The Only One

This is a poem I wrote for another assignment in my creative writing class. For this one, we had to make a poem of our choice (either one of ours or someone else’s) into something visual. For mine, I organized the words into the shape of a red balloon with a string against a blue sky. I don’t know how to upload that image onto this, so I’ll just give you the poem in all its lonesome:

One balloon floating alone in the cloudless sky.

Red against a blue background, meandering toward the heavens.

Few people notice; most walk right by, oblivious to the surrounding world.

But one sees the lonely red balloon—a young boy, about the age of five.

He watches it gradually ascend into nothingness,

Getting smaller and smaller until it is no longer visible.

Only then does the boy notice his mother pulling on his hand,

And with one last glance at the cloudless sky,

He follows.

The Seven Chairs

This short story is from another in class assignment, where we had to create a story based off a Harris Burdick image. Our story had to have the same title as the picture, and include the subheading somewhere in the story (it’s underlined). This started out as a really cool idea in my head, but I don’t think it transferred well to paper, and now I’m not sure if I even like it. Oh vell, here it is anyway:

                Shaking his head in confusion, Detective Wablowski slowly looked through the files again. He just couldn’t figure out these disappearances! Seven nuns. All gone. Seven disappearances in one week. The first two to vanish were never seen again. So was the fourth. Later, he found out that the sixth somehow appeared in Iceland, the third and seventh were found on the Great Wall of China, and the fifth one ended up in France. But he didn’t figure all this out until later. For now, he was stuck in a perpetual state of wonder and confusion.

                He reopened the first file—the possible scene of the crime. Where all seven were last seen. The grand Church of Monte Cristo. This was the home and place of worship and service for all seven nuns. Besides that, they all had nothing in common. Different ages, ethnicities, and origins. So this church must be the link. He had to visit it again.

                Half an hour later, the detective was walking through the front doors of the church of Monte Cristo. It was so big and grand. He saw a priest coming toward him with a welcoming smile.

                “Good morning,” he said.

                “Good morning to you too,” the detective replied. “I was hoping you could aid me in the investigation into the seven nuns that disappeared last week. As you may have heard, this is the last place all seven of them were seen.”

                “Yes, all of them worshipped and resided here. They are dearly missed.”

                “I am sure,” Wablowski replied. “I was wondering if you could show me exactly where in this church they were all seen.”

                “Surprisingly, they were all seen going into a room upstairs. It was converted into a store room some time ago. Before that, it belonged to another nun. Sadly, she too disappeared ten years ago. We never found out how.”

                “Thank you, and can you show me this mysterious room?” the detective asked.

                “Certainly,” the priest said. “This way.” He led the detective down a corridor, then up a dark, winding set of stairs. Soon, the priest stopped in front of a large wooden door, motioning Wablowski forward.

                The detective cautiously stepped up to the door, and an immediate sense of foreboding overwhelmed him. Shaking, his hand reached out toward the handle and clasped it gently. He slowly turned the doorknob and stepped inside this mysterious room.

                He walked merely five steps into the room and stopped, as if suddenly struck by lightning. Despite the strange and ominous foreboding that overtook him earlier, there was nothing in the room, just some dust in the corners and a large chandelier swinging from the ceiling.

                “Hmmm…That’s certainly strange,” the priest said nervously. “I swear the last time I was in here this room was full of old chairs. I guess all of them were removed recently.” He then started to anxiously run his fingers through his graying hair. Detective Wablowski took note.

                “And who saw all of the nuns enter this room?” he asked.

                “Well … I guess that would be me.” The priest answered hesitatingly.

                “And you thought that would not have helped if you mentioned that earlier?” the detective questioned. “I’m afraid I’ll have to take you back to the station for questioning.”

                “No! Don’t take me!” the priest shouted. “I’ll tell you everything!”

                “Alright then, let’s hear it.”

                “Well, it all started with the nun who lived in this very room, naught ten years ago. She was special, or should I say different. She said she could commune directly with God. All of us hope for that gift, but in her, it seemed fake. However, one day she brought a chair from this very room out into the center of the church, where the ceilings were highest, and told us to watch, watch as she made her ascent to God. Granted all of us there were men and women of faith, but this seemed preposterous even to us. Despite our disbelief, she sat calmly on the old chair, which immediately began to rise up. It wasn’t attached to any string, at least that I could see. And when she was about to hit the ceiling, we all heard a faint pop, and she was gone. We still don’t know where she ended up."

                “Well that sure is an interesting story, but how does it relate to the current disappearances?” Wablowski asked.

                “When we went up to her room after she disappeared, there were seven more chairs waiting. All exactly the same as the one she disappeared on. We kept them locked up here for a while, and through the years, more nuns came to join us. Eventually, we had seven nuns destined to join God’s side, and serve Him well, and we thought, ‘What better way to send them up to God than by these chairs?’ We tested it with the first nun; she disappeared too. The others were clamoring to be the next, so we sent them off to join Him as soon as they were ready. I know they are at His side now, and serve Him well. I know it.”

An Annoying Someone

This is a poem I wrote when I was in first grade (or sometime around then). It has been ingrained in my memory for all these years, though I don’t know why. I guess I thought it was the bomb diggity because I actually rhymed. But anywhoo, here it is:

An annoying someone always behind you.

An annoying someone always beside you.

An annoying someone everywhere you go.

If you don’t tell them, they’ll never ever know.

Chris and Pat Story

This short story is from an in class writing assignment for my creative writing class. The prompt was to create a story about two characters--Chris and Pat--who were arguing, but both end up being wrong. Chris and Pat were two somewhat androgynous characters from Saturday Night Live who never revealed their genders. I decided to keep this ambiguity in my story, and I told it through a first person point of view. I hope you like it.


                I could feel the heat emanating from their eyes—thankfully their glares were directed at each other, not me. Even though we’ve know each other since we were all in diapers, we all—that is, Chris, Pat, and I—fight constantly. I like to think of it as sibling rivalry. This time, however, the argument was getting out of hand.

                “I’m right, and you know it!” Chris shouted at Pat from across the table. Chris then reached for the closest sup of coffee on the table, sipping it slowly and waiting for Pat to respond. They were starting  to cause a scene in this small coffee shop, but luckily there were only a few people besides ourselves. We went here on my suggestion, hoping that a warm drink and a respite from the pouring rain would lead to calmer mood. Obviously, I was mistaken.

                “No, you’re not!” Pat finally shouted. “Superman is clearly the best superhero in existence!”

                Anddddddddd we’re off! I thought. This particular argument has survived throughout the years, hibernating for a bit but never truly dying down. Now, well into our twenties, our love of superheroes has never faded. Neither has this particular debate.

                “He has every power imaginable,” Pat continued, fingers anxiously tapping the table. “And he only has one weakness, which is found on another planet!”

                “But he’s not nearly as cool as Spiderman!” Chris retorted, close to jumping of the chair. “Spiderman is a normal guy with radioactive spider powers trying to save the day, not some freak from outer space!”

                At this, I gave an exasperated sigh—how utterly wrong they both were! I wasn’t going to get involved in this perpetual argument—someone has to have a cool head. But I was nearing my breaking point. A fifteen year argument is too long; I had to shut them up.

                “Enough!” I shouted. Chris and Pat both turned toward me, alarmed, for I very rarely raised my voice. “This has gone on for far too long, and both of you are utterly wrong! Superman and Spiderman both pale in comparison to the best superhero of all—Batman! He doesn’t need special powers from a radioactive spider or another planet—he fights crime with his wit and talent. He is the true superhero!”

                Chris and Pat stared at me, and then slowly turned toward each other. First they looked aghast, but soon a dawning realization crossed their faces. Finally, this argument would come to an end! But I wasn’t so naïve as to think another one wouldn’t take its place—we could never get along perfectly. I know we will overcome it, though, for nothing can break the true bond of sisterhood.

The Chair Speaks

And now, here is yet another poem. Yay! This one is delving complex psyche of an ordinary table chair, describing its pain and suffering through a first person point of view. No one really thinks about the complicated feelings of inanimate objects, and I hope this poem leads you to do just that.
 Oh, the horror, the horror!
Not again, please, no!
I’m begging you, please,                                                  
Just listen to me.

I’m always here, day after day,
Waiting for you.
But I dread your return
Because then, I can no longer breathe,
For you sit on my face.

No, I am not just another table,
Here for your convenience.
I am a chair, and you are sitting on my face.

Yet despite my protests, here I stay,
For although I have legs,
I can’t move and run away.

I can’t take it anymore, I’m about to scream.
I am ready to tell you
All my pain, my suffering.
But alas, I cannot,
For I am nothing.
I am just a chair with no voice.
I have no way to tell you how I feel.

Anger

"Anger" is an emotional prose poem, in which I personalized Anger and gave it a gender. I further described his motivation and power. This poem was first in paragraph form, but I changed it to stanzas because I thought it worked better. And now, let me introduce you to Anger. He's a little angry.




Anger is quick and rash.

He can attack even the mildest of victims,
Overpowering their calculating rationality
And sometimes even fear.

He is a fiery red dragon,
Standing tall on his back legs,
Ready to break down the castle door.

We often try to ignore him or
Hide him behind calm expressions and little white lies.
But anger can never truly disappear.
He just lies in wait,
Preparing to break through all of your defenses
With a battering ram.

Anger can possess you and transform you,
Turning you into your worst nightmare.

To conquer him, you must look into his eyes and
ROAR.

Leave Your Red Roses

"Leave Your Red Roses" is a love poem I wrote for my Creative Writing class. I guess it could also be an anti-love poem. However you want to view it, I hope you like it as much as I do. I alluded to a few famous love poems throughout this, like Shakespeare's "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?", Amy Lowell's "A Lover", and ee cummings "i carry your heart with me". Enjoy.

Leave your red roses and blue violets at the door.
Forget your chocolates, I don’t want them anymore.
No sir, no bouquets of flowers for me,
Because I am, and will remain, free.

And no, please don’t compare me to a summer’s day,
For they are hot and humid and soon decay.
I want to be free, free from all this false love,
Free from those pet names that you think of.

I know this fleeting passion cannot stay,
I know that your eyes will soon stray.
You say you will give me the time,
But I am sure you’re just thinking of another rhyme.
Another rhyme, for me? I do not know.
Perhaps it’s for the young lady who just said hello.

Yes, I can see you looking at her,
And you think I cannot infer
Your prolonged stare of adoration?
Go, just go get her. She will give you an exclamation
Of her joy.

Perhaps when you have caught the green lantern of the firefly,
You can write me a letter to see by.
And then I will know that you truly carry my heart with you.
Maybe I will do the same. Just maybe.

10 Ways of Looking at a Hand

This poem is from another assignment in my Creative Writing class. For this one, we started with a normal, everyday object. I chose a hand. Then, we passed a paper around the room, having a different person write each stanza. After the final stanza was written, I edited little, for I thought it was already pretty good. There’s metaphors, similes, and imagery galore! Yay!

I.  Out of all the great minds of this world,
All the masterpieces, essays, and paintings,
A pair of hands is behind them all.

II.  The hand is like
A limitless tool
In the biggest workshop.

III.  3 fingers of the hand held high
Are all it takes
To light a babes mind
With the essence of knowledge.

IV.  I do not know which hand to chose,
The right one or the left.

V.  A mystery of evolution,
A perfectly sculpted tool.
The hand’s facts are ancient,
Ancient and deep.

VI.  Shaking, the hand approached the fruit.
With one movement
Came the creation of sin.

VII.  Without a hand,
He would be nothing.
A fish will never know
What it’s like to hold a hand.

VIII.  A hand:
The slayer, the weapon, the helper.
Having a weapon is a myth
When the real weapon is a piece of you.

IX.  A hand carries so many different meanings.
Some are as dainty as Snow White’s,
Some are as worn down as Cinderella’s.

X.  Hands can tell your future
In love, life, and happiness.
Hundreds of lines
Formed
To tell a story.

Cool Poem, Bro

My friend and I wrote this poem for an assignment where we had to define poetry. Naturally, we decided to have fun and relate everything to superheroes, especially Batman. Batman is awesome. We used multiple metaphors throughout to convey our definition and how cool our poem is. Chaaaaa braskies.

Poetry is Batman,

Gliding through the dark in a flowing cape,

Sneaking in alleyways, searching for meaning

(Or drug dealers,

Whichever comes first).

Poetry is Spiderman,

Swinging between skyscrapers,

Just trying to get to class on time,

And maybe save the city too.

Poetry is a nightmarish smile,

Scarily stretched across a joker’s face.

“Do you wanna know how I got these scars?”

Poetry is Aquaman,

Protector of the oceans,

Communicating with sea creatures

While breathing underwater.

Poetry is Magneto,

Wreaking havoc by throwing cars and s*@t.

WITH HIS MIND!

And that is a cool poem, bro.

Hey, You!

Hey, you! Yeah, you! Congratulations on discovering my fantabulous blog! It's pretty awesome, I know. Anywhoooo, my name is Claire, and as you can tell, this is my blog. I'm going to post awesome stuff on here, just for you! This awesome stuff will most likely consist of poems, short stories, and other works of mine, maybe someone else's works as well. I hope you enjoy it! Toodaloo!