My Mind, My Words, My Stories. “Creative Writing Portfolio”
Brittney Star Glover
Table of Contents Potato Story: Page 1-2 Picture Book: “A little Sparrow named Danny” Page 3-4 Fantasy Story: Page 5 External Change: Page 6 Historical Fiction: “A Story of the Revolutionary War” Page 7-14 Gothic Story: “The Banker’s Son” Page 15-16 Paint Me Like I Am Poem: Page 17 Short Story: Page 18 Reflection: Page 19
Potato Story Once upon a time there was a potato named Steve. Steve was no ordinary potato. He held a secret that if those around him knew, it would change his life forever. Steve was actually a kiwi. He had disguised himself as a potato after years of abuse and harassment from the other kiwis. He did this to accomplish two goals. The first was to escape this abuse, and the second was so he could fulfill his life goal to become mashed potatoes. As he began his new life in the potato fields, he noticed he was drawing many curious looks. This continued as he hopped along the rows, but no one said a thing. Finally, as he drew near to a vacancy that would serve well as a home to a new potato, a massive and imposing figure appeared “Ey! What’s a runt like you doing here? You’re not welcome here.” Steve had caught the attention of Bucky, the not-so-sweet sweet potato. Already potatoes were gathering around the pair to see who had been unlucky enough to gain the ire of Bucky, a well-known villain in the fields. “That’s enough Bucky. All are welcome here, and you know that.” Sabrina, a potato known for her kindness, addressed Bucky. “ I know, I was just giving the new guy a hard time. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it Sabrina,” said Bucky as he walked disconsolately away. Sabrina the turned to Steve, “Now tell us why you’re here,” she said with a smile. Steve no longer stunned by the events, answered in a small voice, “ I came here to accomplish my life’s goal of being part of mashed potatoes.” Muttering spread through the assembled crowd as each tried to figure out a reason as to why any potato in his right mind would want to throw his life away like that. Sabrina silenced the crowd with a glare that made many want to go back to their hole, then turned back to Steve and said, “Well, to each his own. That is easy enough to accomplish. When the Great Pinkie begins his rounds, instead of hiding just stand in the open. He will take you and mash you.”
Steve waited around the fields until that evening when he heard a cry go out, “ Everyone hide! The Great Pinkie is coming!” There was a flurry of activity as each potato dove into their hole. Steve stood alone on the paths of the fields as he watched the “ Great Pinkie” advance with great, lumbering strides. “What a nice looking potato. You’ll do nicely in a pot of mashed potatoes.” With that, Steve was placed in the basket with the other doomed spuds. The basket was brought into a cavernous room with raised paths encircling the room. On these paths were a variety of items, the purpose of which Steve couldn’t be certain. “Oh good, you’ve brought in some potatoes for dinner. I’ll peel them now, “ said the second Great Pinkie to the first. She began to select potatoes one by one from the basket and removing their skins. When at last she came to Steve, she peeled him and exclaimed, “This potato is green! It simply won't do.” After that he was thrown into a giant plastic container. The moral of the story is that you should not pretend to be what you are not, because you will not be able to actually accomplish anything.
A little Sparrow named Danny Once there was a little sparrow named Danny. *** And he had many bird friends. *** One of his friends was Luke, the eagle. He liked his friends but could never play with Luke because Luke was strong and could fly very high. *** Another friend of Danny’s was Molly, the road runner. He liked his friend but Molly was fast on her feet and always left Danny behind. *** And Danny’s last best friend was Ricky, the blue heron. He liked his friend but Danny was never noticed next to his friend Ricky. *** One day Danny’s mother found him crying in their cozy nest. *** “Why are you crying my little sparrow” she said, “All my friends are special, and I’m not” replied Danny. *** “I’m not strong, or fast on my feet, or big” said Danny. *** His mother took him under her wing and said “You may not be strong but your song is the most powerful in all the land” *** “You may not be fast on your feet but you’re fast on your wings.”
*** â€œAnd you may not be noticed for your size but you are noticed for your beauty.â€? *** And from that day on Danny was not bothered by his differences because he knew that they are what made him SPECIAL.
Fantasy Story As I rummaged through the boxes looking for the old picture of my dad and my mom, I came across an open safe. ‘I didn’t even know we had a safe’ I thought to myself; I reached over to the handle and pulled the door wide open. Taped to the walls of the inside where old newspaper clippings, titled with the words “Another girl found dead.” the words startled me, for even though every article was different, that all held similar titles. In the bottom of the safe was a cardboard box, I leaned down and opened the flaps. Lying on top of the other contents, was a white blood stained shirt in a plastic bag.
External Change I made my way up the stairs to the living area above the bar. When I walked into the den, everyone was already there conversing amongst each other. Although I knew everyone in the room,I felt out of place. Each person was linked either by friendship, love, or a combination of the two. Then there was me; I simply began this summer connected to Rebecca through secrets, and now I considered her a friend, maybe even a sister. The party wasn’t much of a party, it was really a group of friends and an open bar. We all sat in a circle around the coffee table, some with Rebecca’s homemade pizza in our hands, others with a beer or a glass full of bourbon. As I sat there awkwardly, feeling somewhat as an outsider to this well-established family. I couldn’t help but notice what I had seemed to overlook the whole summer, and that was the love Rebecca felt for Nick. How they both seemed completed when they were with each other. When this epiphany hit me, I was overcome with guilt. I continued over and over again to replay the harsh words I had barked multiple times through the summer to Rebecca about how she was selfish or how she was cruel to put the people she loved through so much. In that moment I realized that Rebecca wasn’t in the wrong, I was.
A Story of the Revolutionary War Kyle Hatley Brittney Glover From the Journal of Edmund Jones August 16, 1777 Anno Domini The day started like every other God forsaken day in the camp of General John Stark . It was hot but the spurts of rainfall cooled the ground. I was sitting around an ashy fire pit when a boy around the age of ten ran in through the camp slipping and sliding on the mud. “They’re almost here” the boy yelled, as his words hit the water covered ground, every man in the camp froze. We then saw General Stark emerge from his grand tent, he was calm and composed and stood as though there was no reason to panic. “Fetch the guns and horses” he boldly pronounced, “We will fight today, there will be NO retreat, we will hold the British here in Bennington. We have the element of surprise with us this time.” And then the rain started coming down harder. What had been a light drizzle turned into a torrent of rain. There was no way we could fight in these conditions, and the commanding officers of both sides knew it. The only thing we could do was glare at the enemy in open hatred and pull our cloaks against the rain.The boys all looked ready for a fight, minus the fact that we were all soaked to the bone. All of us are from around here, militia they call us. The British think that their trained soldiers are so much better than we are. But we’ll show em. This is our home and we’ll protect it with our very lives. Our numbers surpassed them by almost one thousand, and our spirit was far more than they had ever known or even faced. I walked with a group of men ranging from the ages of fifteen to forty-five, and even with the gap in age, each man had that same fire in his eyes. When we arrived at one of the many artillery tents, it was filled to the brim with patriots, a mass clump of men were all surrounding
the opening to the canvas. Finally, after a few pushes and shoves, I made it inside; I grabbed an extra belt of bullets and a musket before scurrying back out to head to my tent where my pistol and rifle were. The sheer frenzy throughout the camp was enough to make a man dizzy but I kept my head up until I reached my tent. As I entered the tent, I saw my good friend, Richard Barlow, slumped over with his face buried in his hands. I stepped forward and he looked up, his eyes were bloodshot and his pupils dilated to the point that he resembled an owl. “Richard, you need to get ready, the Red-Coats will be here in a few hours, as soon as the rain stops,” I sputtered as I slowly approached him. His appearance frightened me. Richard was a strong and brave man, he was about twenty-two and knew no fear. He was about six feet tall, with a build like a coach horse: muscular and slender. His dark black hair was thick and his face was scruffy from a lack of shaving. I had known Richard since we were children, his father was a former British officer, before this hell had begun. This is why his horrid look surprised me, because I had never seen him like this, “There is something wrong, Edmund,” Richard whispered as he stared blankly at the ground. “I’m starving even though I just ate, my skull feels like it is going to explode, I can’t focus, and all I want to do is kill a man!” he exclaimed as he stood up. The blankness in his eyes disappeared, replaced by a sudden primal rage. Although we were in a war, Richard had never said he had the urge to kill someone, some men became blood thirsty after they felt the adrenaline from the pulling of a trigger, but neither I nor Richard had ever found shooting anyone to be easy, not even the Redcoats. “You’re just exhausted, we don’t have time for this,” I said as I grabbed my guns and nodded towards Richard to do the same. Although I was worried about my friend, my first priority was the impending fight. However, there was no sign of the rain letting up. It was going to be a while before there was any fight at all. If anything, the rain
and wind were steadily getting worse. It came down now in sheets and waves. After just a few minutes of this downpour, the field was already beginning to flood. As Richard and I attempted to make our way out to the field, we received the order from Captain Phillip Henderson to hunker down in to our tents for the time being. We headed back to our quarters, drenched and cold which drew my worry back to Richard. It seemed that within the few minutes we had been out of the tent his condition had worsened, his skin grew pale, his lips chapped, and his usual perfect posture was slouched, as if he were in pain. He insisted that it was a simple case of bad pork from the night before, but the wait did comfort me. I hoped that his condition was just a mixture of food poisoning and nerves. After a time span of about four hours, a man I did not personally know but had run into a few times, poked his head into the opened flap of our tent.”Stark has ordered us to the field, they’ve seen Redcoats in action, it’s going to be a fight” he said quickly. He thought for a second and added, “Hurry.” With that, he was gone. I grabbed my guns then glanced over at Richard. He was lying on his cot, and was unresponsive. I approached him and tapped him with the butt of my gun, and he quickly sat up but something was definitely wrong. As he stood, I could tell his sense of balance was lacking, and a sickly glaze had formed over his eyes. “Richard, you look like death,” I said as I grabbed his arm, he firmly pulled away and shot a glance of anger towards me. He opened his mouth, as if to speak but the only sound that escaped his mouth was a short and guttural groan. He moved to take a step, but stumbled and collapsed to his knees. “Richard, are you alright?” I ventured cautiously. He looked up at me, but there was no recognition in his eyes. Only a vague emptiness, and something else. A rage maybe, or a hunger? I knew not. The rain was beginning to let up, I noticed. I ran from the tent to try and find the field doctor. As I ran into the medical tent, I heard the first shots. The battle had begun. “Great,” I
thought to myself, “Just when I needed a moment of peace to find help.” Within minutes, the wounded were already beginning to come in from the field. Though only about a dozen men came in to the medical tent, they were all the doctors could handle. When I realized how long it would take just to get one of the doctor’s attention, I walked out of the medical tent and took a moment to think. What could I do to help Richard? To be honest, there wasn’t much I thought I could do for him besides finding him a nice cot to sleep in. As I walked back to the tent where I had left Richard, I noticed something was amiss. This section of the camp, which had been a bustle of activity a few moments ago, was now as deserted and silent as a graveyard. A section this close to the battlefield should have been filled with men carrying bullets and water to those on the field, yet there was no one. Curious, I stuck my head into several of the nearby tents. The first few were empty. Even my tent where Richard should have been was empty. Then I saw them. A mob of eight or nine men was slowly ambling towards me. But there was something about the way they moved that was odd. It wasn’t a walking motion, or really even a limp. It was a sort of shamble, with feet being dragged along the ground instead of lifted as in a normal walk. I called out a simple greeting to the men, but there was no response. As they moved closer, I could get a more detailed view of them. Their skin was pale, a sickly gray in color. They had that same wild and primal look in their eyes that Richard had. The only quality that made them look even remotely human was their bodies, but even that was a stretch. As the mob moved along the pathway separating two rows of tents, more and more of the things, Shamblers I will now identify them as, joined the mob, though perhaps herd would be a better word for what it had become. As they continued to approach me, I began to notice many strange qualities about some of individuals in the herd. Many had bite marks on their arms, legs, or necks as though they had been savaged by a rabid animal. One had a jaw that
was swinging wildly, completely out of its socket as though it had been kicked there or hit in the face with a heavy and blunt objects. Nervously, I readied my rifle. Something was horribly, horribly wrong. What had been a herd of just Patriots in our ragtag uniforms had become a mixed mob. I could see the clothing of Redcoats and townspeople mixed in. “What were Redcoats doing in our camp, among our men?” I wondered. I had no clue what was happening, and I could feel the panic start to rise in my chest as my heart began to pound. “If any of you remain loyal to General George Washington and the Continental Congress, you will stop there and explain yourselves and why there are Redcoats among you,” I called out. There was no response, only the moaning originating from the mass approaching me. There were now what appeared to be hundreds of them. A fellow Patriot, who did not appear to be one of the Shamblers, materialized beside me. I recognized him as one of General Stark’s aides. “General Stark has ordered a muster of all surviving members of the army outside of the command tent. Something is wrong and nobody quite knows what is going on,” he said. “What about them?” I asked as I nodded towards the herd. “They’re not human anymore,” he said as he pulled a pistol from his belt. Before I could protest, he shot the lead Shambler in the chest. The Shambler was knocked back by the force of the bullet, but otherwise appeared to be unaffected. The wound began to bleed, as would be expected of an injury to the human body. Still, the Shambler showed no sign of slowing. “Run,” said the aid, “I’ll hold them here as long as I can.” With that, he drew his cavalry sabre and charged the mob. He cut down maybe a half dozen of them before they surrounded him. Then I saw something that I shall remember to my dying day. They literally began to tear him apart and eat him. It was the most revolting sight I have ever seen.
As I turned to run, another mob, much smaller than the first, came from my left. The lead Shambler was with arms reach of me and so, of course, it grabbed me. In surprise, I tried to pull away but only succeeded in tripping over a tent that I swear, to this moment, had not been there seconds before. As I fell, the Shambler clung still to my arm and fell to the ground with me. A swift and frenzied kick broke one of the Shambler’s elbows and allowed me to pull free of its vice-like grip. I pulled free and stumbled to my feet. To my astonishment, I looked down to see my best friend Richard looking back. “This can’t be happening,” I thought. I simply turned and ran from him, the horror of the realization sinking in. It was all I could do to keep from tearing up as I sprinted towards the command tent. Hopefully, there would be someone who could make sense of this mess.
When I reached my destination, I noticed that a palisade of sort had been set up around the tent. Everywhere, there were bodies of the Shamblers lying around with holes in their heads from musket fire. As I came closer, a large barrel poked through the wooden wall, I yelled in terror “No, I’m not one of them, stop please!”, the musket pulled back in and a voice sirened in a whisper “Around the back, I’ll open the gate”. I ran to the opposite side of the wall and shot my body in a slit, just large enough for me to slip through. “Have you been bitten?” I heard the voice of General Stark ask in a stern and somewhat concerned tone of voice. “No, no, not bitten, just shaken a little” I sputtered in between my heavy, terror stricken breaths. “I hope, you recover fast boy, because we’re leaving, NOW,” he then quickly motioned and around twelve men exited the tent, joining the six already outside. Every man was heavily armed, with more guns than fifty men would carry in any “normal” battle. “Hey” said a deep voice with an undertone of what I would imagine a man's voice would sound like if his whole family had just been hanged, I turned
and a short man with the build of an ox threw a rifle at me even though I was already armed with a revolver,and a rifle with a bayonet. Before I fully gathered my bearings, the group was positioned in a clump with every side prepared to fight in the mass. As I made my way into the clump, I found myself at the flank of General Stark, and although he was shouting out commands, all I could hear was the sounds of guns, screams of terror, and the terrible moaning that came from the creatures. Suddenly my attention was brought to the toppling of one of the walls of our makeshift wooden fortress. Within an instant, the group was moving, we moved in an unbreakable mass that was quick but united, our positions followed the General's movements perfectly. Then on the opposite side of the group from my place, I saw three men jump out of synchronization, then there was a scream. Everyones' attention fell on that side where, in horror, we all watched as the stout man, that had minutes ago handed me a gun, was on the ground pushing and pulling in an attempt to escape, as one of the Shamblers gnawed on his ankle. His screams for help sunk deep into my stomach when I realized that even if we did save him from being eaten alive, he was already infected. As we walked, each man was shooting, slicing, and beating our way through the grounds that were covered in the dead, the barely living, and the... living dead. General Stark then shouted out “To the woods”, I looked forward and, to my relief, saw a densely packed forest. But the relief was short lived, for between us and the treeline was a herd of about fifty Shamblers. And if nothing else that I had seen within the last few hours had enough drive to kill my soul, the creature that led the herd was Richard Barlow, my best friend, my comrade, my brother. Then, the most devastating command of all split my eardrums. “Shoot, shoot them all”, and with the last bit of strength that was left in my trembling hand, I raised my gun, aimed dead-center in the
middle of Richardâ€™s pale, blood covered forehead, pulled back the hammer, slid my finger on the trigger and pulled it back.
The Banker’s Son In a little town in Kentucky, there was a man by the name of James Lewis. James was a respectable young man, son to the town banker; he was a man of money and charm. Due to his family’s name and situation, James was one of the most sought after bachelors in all of Kentucky. Women awed over him; as he would pass by they would flutter their eyes and wave their fans a little faster. Although only thirty-five he was already a widow and had been since eighteen from one woman to the next. What caused these horrible loses for James was the terrible misfortune that fell upon him and his new brides. The first woman he married went by the name of Sarah Wilkins; she was a beautiful young woman and met James through her father’s work as a teller. Sarah fell deeply in love with James and after only a month of courting they became engaged. They were soon married and settled in old plantation house just outside of town. But shortly after their marriage, Sarah became ill; no doctor could explain her illness, she was pale and weak and no amount of medicine or food could save her. After three weeks of fighting a losing battle, Sarah Wilkins Lewis died. Once autopsied the coroner made a disturbing discovery that a majority of Sarah’s blood had been drained, but not wound or internal injury was found. After a year of grieving, James found himself married again, this time to Margret Tucker, the daughter of a business man from Tennessee. After a year of marriage Margret gave birth to a baby boy named Roger. Once Roger was born Margret became solitary to the outside world, she rarely left the confinement of the house and when she did she never stepped foot off of her and James’ estate. After four years of marriage Margret and her son, Roger, both became ill, with what seemed like the same illness as Sarah. Shortly after the arrival of the disease did they die.
The coroner found the same disturbing lack of blood in both Margret and Roger as he found in Sarah. James married two more times after the death of his son and wife. From each marriage he spawned two children and within five years of the start of his marriages his children and wives died of the same disturbing illness. The towns people began to speculate on the misfortune of James Lewis, some said he was cursed, others said he was infected, some even speculated if his wives and children were being assassinated, but all were wrong. One woman by the name of Julianne Martin became fascinated in the tales of the Lewis Curse, so she decided to find out for herself. Julianne charmed James Lewis and within weeks of their first meeting they were married. One night as Julianne lay in bed she had a dream that a dark creature was sucking the blood from her veins. Julianne told her husband and he said â€œSilly woman, you are just scared of this big house, no creature is killing you.â€? Julianne shrugged off the dream as just a nightmare but soon the dream returned, she was so frightened she began to sleep with a silver knife under her pillow from a dining set she received as a wedding present, but James would not let her use because of his allergy to the metal. Again the dream returned, the creature was sucking the life from her as it did in the other dreams, but this time Julianne reached under the pillow, where she found the silver knife. She soon realized that this nightmare was no figment of her imagination. Julianne quickly grabbed the knife and plunged it into the monsters heart; the creature cried out and then fell to the floor. As Julianne looked down to where the creature fell, she found her husband, James Lewis, lying in its place with silver steak knife protruding from his chestâ€Ś
Paint Me Like I Am My life is just a wave of and fantasy. If I’m not here, I’m there. Whether I’m playing guitar, acting on stage, or just thinking. I’m there. I only go there when I’m alone. Because when I’m alone is the only time I have complete focus. There, is my imagination.
Short Story The ceremony was magnificent; the bride and groom’s happiness and joy resonated through the large white tent. Why they chose an air force bomb testing facility was still in question, but overall it was beautiful. As the couple spoke their vows with love and promise, though out the crowd you could hear “aww”’s and the occasional sniffle. When the priest finally pronounced the two husband and wife, the expected cheers were silenced by the ominous sirens. The crowd ran out from under the tent just in time to see an out of control rocket, shoot into the sky. Everyones fear was paused by the thought that the rocket was up not down. Until the rockets imposing shadow was visible again, coming down much fast than it went into the sky. Shrieks of terror and cries of despair were heard as the wedding part dispersed in different directions. Within milliseconds a loud thump and then a crack was heard, surrounded by a cloud of dust. When the smoke finally cleared a few men approached the landing area, only to find a man sized hole impression in the concrete. That is until BOOM...
Through this class I’ve definitely improved as a writer. I’m no longer ashamed to share my work or embarrassed because now I’m proud of it. Being able to work side by side with other great writers that I truly believe one day will become very famous authors one day, is amazing. I also now know what kind of writer I am; I know that my forte is developing characters and plots. I also know that in this creative writing class I’ve written some of my favorite and best work. Although in my future I plan on writing scripts instead of books, I still am proud and confident in my literary writing.