High School Portfolio Website
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English IV - Language and Composition
I wrote some poems and showed them to my mentor who is a published author and who suggested some minor improvements and I started to experiment with writing short stories, that I share with my friends.
Don't miss my historic short story in the style of Abrose Bierce below!
Literature
- Khaled Hosseini - The kite runner
- Sebastian Barry - Days Without End
- analyses of the books read
Composition - Poetry
Sadly, our dog died a few weeks ago and I have tried to construct a poem on this subject in the style of Anne Bradstreet.
On the Death of our dear dog Furby, who died 14 years and 8 months old
In the hours where shadows creep,
A gentle soul has fallen deep.
Our faithful friend, our dog so true,
Has bid farewell, her journey through.
With wagging tail and joyful bark,
She brightened days and lit the dark.
Through fields and woods, she roamed with glee,
A loyal companion, following me.
Yet now she lies in peaceful rest,
Her weary body finally blessed.
No more her paws will patter near,
No more her joyful presence here.
But in our hearts, her spirit lingers,
A bond unbroken by death's fingers.
For though she's gone, she'll never part,
Her mem'ry etched in every heart.
So let us mourn, but not despair,
For love like hers is always there.
And in the quiet of the night,
We'll feel her presence, pure and bright.
Composition - Short story
Short story in the style of Ambrose Bierce:
A chilling discovery
In the gloomy hills of Appalachia, where mist clings to the trees like a shroud and whispers dance on the wind, there nestled a humble farmhouse. Its timbers creaked with age, and its windows were clouded by time's relentless passage. Within dwelled the Matthews family—Jonathan, his wife Sarah, their young son Timothy and grandma Bess.
One moonless night, as the family gathered around the hearth, a chill swept through the room, sending shivers down their spines. Sarah glanced uneasily at the window, where shadows seemed to dance in the darkness beyond. "Did you hear that, Jonathan?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Father's brow furrowed as he strained to listen. The night was silent save for the distant hoot of an owl. "It's nothing, Sarah," he reassured her, though a flicker of unease crossed his features.
But as the night wore on, a sense of foreboding settled over the farmhouse like a heavy fog. Timothy's laughter turned to nervous glances, and even the crackling fire seemed to dim in the face of an unseen threat.
Then, as the clock struck midnight, a faint tapping echoed through the house—a rhythmic, insistent sound that sent chills down their spines. Jonathan rose from his chair, his heart pounding in his chest, and crept toward the window. Peering through the glass, he saw a figure standing in the moonlit yard - a man, tall and gaunt, with eyes that gleamed like coals in the darkness. His face was shrouded in shadow, but his gaze bore into Jonathan's soul with an intensity that made his blood run cold.
"Who are you?" Jonathan called out, his voice trembling with fear. But the figure made no reply, only continued to stare with those piercing eyes. And then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he raised a hand and pressed it against the glass and disappeared.
A scream tore from Sarah's lips as she stumbled backward, her eyes wide with terror. Timothy clung to her skirts, his small frame trembling with fear. "What was that, Mama?" he whimpered, his voice barely more than a whisper.
But Sarah could only shake her head, her heart pounding in her chest. "I don't know, Timothy," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart. "I don't know." When father took up his gun and went to the window, to take a closer look he said it was just the lantern that had gone out. In the morning they ventured outside to find the yard empty, not even a footprint bearing witness of the occurrence of last evening.
They told themselves it was a trick of the mind, a figment of their imagination born from the shadows of the night. But grandma mumbled of a darker truth—that in the hills of Appalachia, where mist clings to the trees like a shroud and whispers dance on the wind, there are things that defy explanation, things that lurk in the darkness, waiting to be seen.
In the days that followed the chilling encounter, the Matthews family found themselves on edge, their nerves frayed by the memory of the mysterious figure at their window. Though they tried to carry on with their lives as usual, the specter of that night hung over them like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over their once peaceful home.
Timothy, seemed to sense the tension that hung in the air like a heavy fog. Though he tried to put on a brave face, there was a shadow in his eyes—a flicker of fear that belied his youthful innocence.
But one evening, just when it seemed that the darkness would consume them all, a glimmer of hope appeared on the horizon. One evening, as the family gathered around the hearth, there came a knock at the door—a timid, hesitant sound that echoed through the room like a beacon of light in the darkness.
Jonathan rose from his chair and crossed the room to answer it. And there, standing on the threshold, was a man—a stranger, to be sure, but with a warmth in his eyes that spoke of kindness and compassion.
"I hope I'm not intruding," the man said, his voice gentle and soothing. "But I couldn't help but notice the troubled look on your faces. Is there anything I can do to help?"
Jonathan blinked in surprise, taken aback by the stranger's unexpected arrival. But there was something about him—a sense of calm, a quiet strength—that set him at ease.
"Come in, come in," Jonathan said, gesturing for the man to enter.
And so, the stranger stepped into the warmth of the Matthews' home, bringing with him a glimmer of hope in the face of darkness. And though the mystery of the figure at the window remained unsolved, the family found solace in the presence of their newfound friend—a farm hand, who had traveled from afar to look for some work on the farms.
As the days passed, the stranger ingratiated himself into the Matthews' lives, offering a helping hand with chores around the farm and sharing stories by the fireside.
But sometimes, in moments where he felt that nobody was looking, his face took on a strange look. Beneath his genial features lurked an unsettling energy that would have sent shivers down Sarah's spine, if only she had been there to see. It seemed that the stranger carried with him a malevolent force masked by a veneer of friendliness.
One evening, as the family sat down to supper, the stranger's behavior took a sudden turn. His eyes, that had looked upon them warm and inviting, now gleamed with an intensity that made Jonathan's tighten his jacket around him. Without warning, the stranger rose from his seat and began to pace the room, his movements erratic and frenzied.
"Something's not right," Sarah whispered, her voice trembling with fear. "Go to neighbor Olsen and ask him to bring his dog, Timothy.”
Just as Timothy stood up to open the door, the stranger turned to them with a wild look in his eyes. "You can't leave," he spat, his voice low and menacing. "You are just where you belong. With me, all of you. We are having a swell time, aren't we?"
With a cry of alarm, Jonathan lunged for his gun, but the stranger was upon him in an instant, his grip like iron around his throat. Timothy watched in horror as his father struggled against the stranger's vice-like hold, his face turning purple as he fought for breath.
As the stranger's grip tightened around Jonathan's throat, Sarah's screams filled the air, and Timothy, fueled by fear and desperation, launched himself at the assailant with all the strength his young body could muster. But his blows were feeble against the stranger's relentless hold, and it seemed as if he was trying to break a steel lock with his bare hands.
As Jonathan's vision began to blur and darkness closed in around him, there was a short moment of silence. At that moment the kitchen door creaked and between the stranger's cold breaths, a small but determined voice could be heard: "In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, I command you to release him!”
Timothy stared at the door with the same terror as he felt when he saw the face in the window. In that same instant, Jonathan fell to the floor, gasping. The stranger staggered backward, his face contorted with fear.
"Grandma...?" Timothy stammered, his voice trembling.
But grandma Bess simply shook her head, her eyes gleaming with a quiet wisdom. "There are powers in this world, Timothy, that are far greater than we can imagine," she said softly. "And sometimes, when we are faced with darkness, all we can do is call upon the light."
And with that, she shuffled back into the shadows.
When Timothy turned around again, the stranger was gone. A cold gust of wind blew the door wide open. Jonathan scrambled to lock it and together they shoved the table in front of the door.
“And that was the story as my father told it to me,” my grandfather said. “And now I am telling it to you. Great-grandfather Timothy lived to be 97 and the stranger was never seen again," he said, looking content. And we cuddled a bit closer to him and felt safe as can be, near the fireplace and no-one but my cousin Maddy noticed the faint moving shadow behind the dark living room window. At least, that is what she told me after it was all over.
