Writing Portfolio
I began writing in high school just outside my history professor’s classroom. There, I started with jotting down scripts for comics I wanted to make. As my love of stories grew with my studies, little notes transformed into novels.
Summer Strings Short Story
The carriage wheels catch on a crack. Slamming me into my neighbor; a small yet robust lady with a yellow fan. To which she waves frustratedly as the carriage picks up again. Our other neighbors chuckle to each other.
“My apologies!” I say. To which she glares and bats her fan furiously. Her red lips scrunching together.
I can hear the symphony from as we grow closer to the estate. My heart pounding in my chest, or perhaps it is the rattle of the wheels. I can make out the long draws from the violins, with the ballad of a flute. A celebration indeed, but a frantic occasion for me. My hands tighten around the handkerchief in my pocket. The carriage stops.
We are escorted out of it with several others. I lend out my hand to help the lady next to me. She frowns again, but accepts my hand. As soon as she lets go, I take off to the entrance. Scanning the vast crowd for clues of her. Elegant gowns and lavishly dressed men crowd around me. All of us clinging together in the summer heat. Suddenly, the music begins to tame itself. The strings drawing out in a winter melancholy, as the flute sings by itself. Suddenly I am in a small ballroom. With only the slow draw of strings echoing in the halls. She is standing in font of me crying. However, that is not the case. The winter ballroom, with silver and red decorations are now bright and warm. I try and head to the parlor. Cursing myself not to get a letter in before the summer ball. Each room empty, save for one with gentlemen swirling wine and talking politics. To which I shut the door immediately. Frustrated, I sink to the couch in the parlor. I can only hear the long strokes of the violins echos. Heels click next to me, and I look up.
“Alone by yourself?” The woman with the yellow fan asks. “You were feverish in exiting the carriage. A lover perhaps?” She smiles.
“Yes.” I reply, exhausted from running.
“Get on the dance floor, she might be waiting for a dance.”
“She hates dancing.”
The woman laughs. “Ah, you’ve got yourself a problem there.”
I take out the handkerchief, frustratedly. She stops a moment……
