January 22, 2020

Posts from "Portfolio"

  • Portfolio | Mar.21, 2013

    What’s in a Shadow?

    My best friend as a child was a little girl named Shadow. She was tiny and precocious, and I met her when she and her sister moved to my hometown from Timbuktu. She spent her days riding an elephant and earning pocket money tap dancing and playing the guitar in the park. I have long since outgrown my little imaginary friend, but her presence will never be forgotten. She taught me perhaps the most important lesson I have ever learned. She taught me to imagine. Shadow appeared during lazy days of boredom. At first, all she embodied was my own shadow, a darkened reflection upon my wall that I liked to talk to. Soon, though, her appearance and story became clear to me. She was pale and petite, complete with blue eyes and spunky pigtails. She didn’t have a mommy or a daddy, but sometimes her sister came to visit her. She slept on my floor, and sometimes, if I was feeling generous, I let her hold my security blanket, Mooky. The magic of Shadow was that she could be anything I wanted her to be. If I was sad, she was my comforter. If I was lonely, she was my friend. If I was angry, she was someone to escape to. My favorite thing about Shadow, though, was that she was mine. I could invent her past, present, and future. She was the little story I wrote in my brain, my varying invention. I could spend hours pondering all the people she had met and all the places she had seen.

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  • Poetry | Mar.14, 2013

    Irishman’s Luck

      He was not thinking about a letter On his way home from work. But it arrived in his mailbox In unforeseeable quirk.

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  • Features | Feb.28, 2013

    Tiffany & Earl: Dorm Dilemma

        Dear Tiffany and Earl, I’m a freshman, and I’m a bit of a loner and really shy. I currently live in

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  • Poetry | Feb.14, 2013

    Sonnet of a God-Fearing Man

      A luminescent moon, the night’s raiment, A crown more fitting for an angel’s head. Long nights together, restless yet content, Under the stars we made our lovers’ bed. I crowned you Queen of Eros, Cupid’s wife

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  • Portfolio | Oct.04, 2012

    Under The Stars

      We met by pure chance on a warm summer midnight. I, once again, couldn’t sleep and had gone to the park as I often did when insomnia hit. He was sitting on one of the swings. I’d never seen him there before. The first thing he said to me wasn’t “hello” or “what are you doing out here so late?”

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  • Portfolio | Oct.04, 2012

    A Twitch Upon the Thread

      We were born without vision. Our eyes never saw the New York Skyline Shining with bright hope from across the river. We never saw the great rise and fall

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  • Portfolio | Sep.06, 2012

    Silly Putty

     

    Far from the shore we’d glide over the ocean tides
    And kiss the salted lips of Grace,
    As her golden face lights up the sky.
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  • Portfolio | Sep.06, 2012

    A Moment of Teaching

    I am not the man my father wanted me to be, but this is not a desperate attempt to elicit your sympathy or pity; it is simply the truth. I first realized this at age six when I was diagnosed with dyslexia. My father had hoped for the best and the brightest, but instead got a son who had to work at what came naturally to everyone else. I’m 18 now, so I’ve adjusted to my role as the perpetually disappointing son.

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  • Portfolio | Apr.20, 2012

    Pilate’s License

    “Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?”

    -Macbeth, Act II Scene 2

      “And he said, ‘These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.'” -Revelation 7:14   The shadow of the tree cuts across me Dividing, decrying, vivifying. “Are you the King of the Jews?” The question rings in my ears. But the cries from far off Cavalry interrupt my concentration as Legion pound nails into His feet, into His hands The spear-pierced side leaks water, and blood and I wash my hands of it. It stains the Gol’gothan sands below; my hands remain sullied. I believe that I had power to free or to crucify. I cannot blame the people for Barrabas. My appeals were not enough for this. I can blame no one but Pilate. I am no one. So recently I decried those fearful Sanhedrin yet their pharasaical concern for cleanliness seems all the more real now: How can I eat what my wife prepares? Days later, with blood-soaked hands, I throw the dinner to the floor, and leave my dream-suffering wife, and wander the still-hot streets of Judea. I hear cries about a torn curtain as it begins to rain. The quakes had not yet come… These memories, after that day long ago. The shadow of a temple now cuts across me a temple to the Goddess of Love; I turn away. Your followers eat your body, drink your blood. I hear such rituals whispered in the darkness and I wish I to join them. To wash your blood from my hands with your blood, to wash the invisible with the visible, to have your blood wash my robes clean. I tell no one, and yet I fear: Is this my own idea, or did others talk to me about you? Why do I come

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  • Portfolio | Apr.13, 2012

    Wedding Bells

    Let us not mince words. Howie was emotional napalm.

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