My Portfolio
Here you’ll find samples of my writing. Feel free to browse to learn about what I do.
Creative Writing
What the Tides Leaves Behind
The sunlight shatters on the water, golden shards scattered across a surface that is at once mine and not mine. My island holds me as a prisoner and queen, my domain infinite in its bounds but suffocating in its solitude. To the men who wash ashore, I am salvation wrapped in beauty, my voice oil for pained spirits.
But beneath my carefully woven exterior lies the truth they never linger long enough to see: I am as much a fragment of this island as the rocks they stumble over, as bound to its shores as the tides themselves. The wind carries the faint scent of salt and sun-baked earth as it brushes past me, tugging strands of my hair like a restless child. The air is thick with the sounds of waves lapping against the jagged rocks, their rhythm eternal and unyielding. Sometimes, I wonder if the island itself breathes, its pulse tied to the tides. If so, then I am its heartbeat—a constant presence, unseen yet inescapable. My isolation has made me a part of Ogygia, my essence interwoven with the vines that creep up the cliffs and the roots that twist deep beneath the earth. When Odysseus first stumbled into my world, a man carved from storms and sea spray, I felt the tether of fate pulling taut. He was not the first to arrive, certainly not the first to beg for solace, but there was his gaze—unyielding, defiant—that made the air shift. I watched him from the shadows of the cliffs, my heart quickening in a rhythm I could not explain. He was broken when I found him, his body battered by the wrath of Posiden, his mind frayed by years of wandering. Yet even in his ruin, he stood like a man untouched by the weight of the gods’ will, defiant against the forces that had broken him. His hands trembled as he gripped the rocks, hauling himself onto the shore, but there was a fire in his movements, an undeniable strength. I had seen men before, countless men, and none had burned as brightly as he did. His pain was palpable, written in the furrow of his brow and the ragged edges of his breath. He spoke of Ithaca, of his Penelope, her name slipping from his lips like a prayer. At that moment, I hated her—not for the love she held, but for the fact that she existed beyond these shores. Her presence was a possibility, a promise, while I was only ever a pause, an interlude in the song of his life. Still, I brought him into my world, offered him the fruits of my island and the warmth of my heart. He ate, he drank, and though his body softened under my care, his spirit did not yield. There was a distance in him, a quiet pull toward a horizon I could never give him. I told myself I could change that; I could soothe the storm within him, tie him to me with threads of comfort and care. Each night, I wove my voice around him like a spell, singing songs that softened the edges of the air itself. The stars seemed to lean closer as I sang as if the heavens themselves paused to listen. And when he took my hand, when he pulled me close, I believed—foolishly, desperately—that he might stay. For a time, he seemed mine, his laughter filling the empty spaces of my world. But even in our most intimate moments, I felt the weight of Ithaca pressing between us. I felt Penelope, her name unspoken but ever-present. His days became routine: wandering the shore, gazing out at the endless sea. I watched him from a distance, my heart aching with a longness that I could not name. I wanted to ask him what he saw in the waves and what promises they whispered to him that I could not fulfill. But I was afraid of the answer. Mortals are never content. They are always reaching, constantly yearning, driven by a restlessness that even the gods cannot tame. And then Hermes came, his golden sandals skimming the surface of the sea as he approached. His presence was sharp and unrelenting, a reminder of the power I had tried to forget. His voice was a blade cutting through the fragile web I had spun. “Release him,” he commanded, the words heavy with the weight of Olympus. “It is not his fate to stay.” I wanted to rage, to beg, to plead. How could they take him from me, after all the emptiness I endured? But even as the words formed in my mind, I knew they would be useless. The gods are not swayed by love or grief. They move the pieces of the world as they see fit, and I—a daughter of Titans, exiled and forgotten—am powerless against their will. That night, I stood in silence as Odysseus prepared his raft. His hands moved with a purpose I could not bear to watch, tying knots and securing provisions with a determination that left no room for hesitation. He thanked me, his voice low and steady, but he did not look at me as he spoke. I wondered if he was afraid that meeting my gaze might make him falter—or if, perhaps, he had already left me in his heart. The dawn came slowly, painting the sky in hues of gold and rose, and it came the moment I had been dreading. I stood at the edge of the shore, the waves lapping at my feet as I watched him push his raft into the water. He did not look back. The sunlight caught on the edges of his raft, making it glimmer like a beacon as it drifted farther and farther away. For a brief moment, he seemed like Icarus, sailing towards the sun with a boldness that bordered on arrogance. My chest ached at the sight, a tangle of pride and sorrow and something else I could not name. And then he was gone. The sea closed behind him, erasing the ripples of his departure as if he had never been here at all. The island resigned in its silence, its rhythm resuming as though nothing had changed, But I had changed. I stood there long after the sun had climbed high into the sky, my feet rooted in the sand, my heart sank heavy with the weight of his absence. I am Calypso, the keeper of men who do not stay. The lover who is always left behind. My beauty, my voice, my island–they are nothing more than illusions, fleeting comforts for those who are destined to leave. And as the waves sing their eternal song, I wonder if they, too, know the ache of holding on to something that can never be theirs. The sunlight shatters on the water once more, golden shards scattered across the surface. My island remains infinite and suffocating, as it always has been. The tide comes in, the tide goes out, and I–bound to this shore, bound to this fate—am left to watch.
The Eternal Price of Vanity
Mekamári’s beauty was nothing short of breathtaking, a vision that left men speechless and women envious. Her skin, smooth as polished ivory, seemed to glow with an ethereal light. Her hair, a cascade of midnight, fell in thick, lustrous waves down her back, shimmering with every subtle movement. Her eyes, a deep, hypnotic
green, shimmered like the irresistible allure of an emerald catching the light. To see Mekamári was to see beauty incarnate—graceful, effortless, and so captivating that strangers would stop in their tracks just to watch her pass. Her presence was like the bloom of a rare flower, impossible to forget, impossible to ignore. Yet, for all the admiration that swirled around her, Mekamári never saw herself as the world did. She found herself trapped in the quiet moments, staring too long at her reflection, haunted by the fear that her beauty, so praised yet resented, was not enough. For every compliment, there lingered a seed of doubt. A fear that time would one day strip away her allure. It was this insecurity hidden beneath her perfect exterior that slowly morphed into an obsession, then into arrogance, that would seal her fate. As her obsession deepened, so did the whispers in the town. At first, they spoke only of her beauty, but soon those murmurs turned sharper, tinged with suspicion. People remarked on how she lingered too long in front of every reflective surface, how she became defensive when looks were mentioned. What began as admiration now carried the weight of envy and judgment. Yet Mekamári, hearing these rumors, did not shy away from them. She embraced the attention, convinced that it was proof of her superiority. And so, on one fateful evening, surrounded by the women who had praised her, Mekamári’s insecurities exploded into pride. As they questioned her beauty with veiled comments and condescending smiles, she stood taller, her voice rising with the conceit she had long kept hidden. “I am more beautiful than even the goddess Aphrodite,” Mekamári declared, her voice dripping with the arrogance that had been plaguing her for so long. She stood taller as she spoke, her chin lifted defiantly. “Her beauty is divine, yes, but even the goddess must envy the perfection of a mortal like myself.” The room fell silent. Eyes widened in horror at her blasphemous words, but Mekamári was unshaken. She believed every word spilled out of her mouth, convinced that her beauty transcended even the divine. The whispers that followed were no longer soft but harsh, condemning her arrogance, and word of her claim quickly reached the heavens. Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty, watched from her celestial throne, her fury simmering beneath an eerily calm surface. The insult Mekamári had dared to voice echoed through the heavens like a taunt. Such defiance could not go unanswered. Yet Aphrodite’s wrath did not manifest in the crash of Zeus’ lightning or the tumultuous waves of Poseidon’s wrath. Instead, her vengeance took on an elegance as lethal as it was serene. She descended from Olympus, her presence slipping into the mortal realm like a shadow at dusk—subtle but terrifying in its inevitability. That evening, as Mekamári admired herself, lost in her own reflection, the change came. It was not dramatic at first; it unfurled gently, like the whispers of leaves before a storm. Once a source of so much distress, her skin smoothened before her eyes. Every flaw she had fixated on—gone. The fine lines she feared, erased. Her complexion glowed with a new radiance, an otherworldly glow that made her seem almost untouchable. Her lips plumped with a fullness that was just shy of divine, and her hair transformed into a river of silk, cascading over her shoulders in perfect waves. Every inch of her body felt more graceful, more ethereal until she was an embodiment of her own wildest dreams. For a moment in time, Mekamári felt invincible. She basked in the glow of her newfound perfection. Her beauty didn’t just match Aphrodite’s; it felt as though it eclipsed it as if she had surpassed the goddess herself. As she strode through life, glowing with an almost unnatural brilliance, her flawless beauty captivated every gaze. And for a brief, fleeting moment, Mekamári reveled in this illusion. Yet perfection, as with all illusions, is fragile. Beneath her flawless exterior, something sinister lurked. At first, it was a vague unease, an itch beneath her radiant skin—a deep, unsettling sensation she couldn’t ignore. She brushed it aside, dismissing it as a mere side effect of her newfound beauty, but the itch deepened, becoming an inescapable torment. One morning, as Mekamári dazzled a crowd of suitors with her laughter, a sharp, piercing pain erupted in her mouth, cutting through her joy like a dagger. Her heart raced as horror surged through her veins. She paused, her tongue darting nervously to explore the inside of her lips, only to encounter the petrifying sensation of a tooth shifting alarmingly beneath her touch. Before she could compose herself, a tooth dislodged and fell with a sickening thud onto the polished table before her, splattering crimson droplets across the pristine surface. Panic clawed at her throat as the metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth, hot and overwhelming. She clamped her jaw shut, desperately trying to hide the growing horror. One tooth slipped free, then another, each tumbling out like stones from a collapsing wall, crashing against the marble with a hollow finality. She pressed her trembling hands to her mouth, a futile attempt to stop the flow of blood that seeped through her fingers, her once-perfect smile unraveling before her eyes. The once-smooth surface of Mekamári's skin began to betray her soon after, transforming before her horrified gaze. It started as a dullness, creeping across her radiant complexion as if the light itself had been smothered out. Dark patches emerged, spreading across her cheek like inky tendrils, casting sinister shadows over the beauty that had captivated so many. Dread surged through her as she pressed her quivering fingers to her face, feeling the unsettling texture of her flesh as it began to rot. The velvety softness she had adored now surrendered to festering sores, their jagged edges raw, oozing a sickly liquid that stained her fingers crimson. In a frenzy of desperation, she scratched at the encroaching decay, her nails snagging the peeling layers and ripping away flesh to expose the horrifying sight of muscle and bone beneath. With every pass of her delicate fingers, the stark realization that beauty had become a fleeting memory sank in, heavy and suffocating. As Mekamári sat before her mirror, she desperately combed her hair, her last attempt at holding onto a semblance of humility. Each stroke felt like a futile prayer, but instead of the silken strands she remembered, brittle clumps fell away in chunks, cascading to the floor like shattered dreams. Utter despair washed over her as she clasped her hands around the few remaining pieces, pressing them to her chest. Tears streamed down her cheeks, each drop a reminder of the beauty she had lost, and with a shuddering breath, she wept not just for her hair but for the radiant woman she once was—now, a macabre caricature of her former self. The reality of her transformation crashed down on her, Mekamári fell to her knees, a desperate plea crawling at her throat. Her once-celebrated beauty disintegrated before her eyes, and now she repelled admiration, becoming a grotesque spectacle of horror. Blood and pus oozed from her pores, her flesh rotting from the inside out, each moment a cruel reminder of her curse. Clasping her hands together, tears streamed down her cheeks as she bowed her head in prayer, voice trembling with anguish. “Aphrodite, please! I’m begging you!” she cried, her voice cracking. “I can’t bear this torment any longer. Free me from this curse of vanity!” Her heart ached for the irresistible woman she once was, and she pleaded for the goddess to spare her from this torture. But with each sob, she felt the weight of her vanity suffocating her, a reminder of the arrogance that had led her here. In her darkest hour, she knelt alone, grappling with the horrifying truth that she had become her own worst nightmare, and all she could do was cry out for release from her self-inflicted prison. As quickly as the tears flowed, Mekamári’s life slipped away, mercy granted to her by the goddess whose beauty she had once dared to challenge. Her downfall was complete, an inescapable fate that left her body a grotesque reminder of all the radiance that had once captivated all. The brilliance she had cherished turned to decay, blood, and tears, her corpse a haunting vision of despair. The very essence of her former self lay in ruins, her breath shallow and rattling her chest, going to finality for demise. No longer the object of envy, she had become a macabre testament to the price of vanity, a tragic embodiment of the fleeting nature of beauty forever lost in the depths of her own hubris. Aphrodite descended once more, her presence enveloped in a profound silence that echoed with unspoken truth. She needed no words; the depth of her triumph was starkly evident in the grotesque rot that consumed Mekamári’s once-vibrant form. Kneeling beside the decaying remnants of a beauty that had captivated the world, the goddess dipped her finger into the dark, solidified blood that had once flowed with life. With an elegance that was both chilling and unfeeling, she smeared the crimson essence across her own lips, cheeks, and eyes, reclaiming the beauty that had been hers all along. In that haunting moment, she didn’t just restore her power; she made a devastating statement—a chilling reminder of the price of arrogance and the fragility of allure. The air thickened with the scent of decay, and with each stroke, Aphrodite transformed the remnants of Mekamári’s beauty into an unsetting testament to the perilous dance between admiration and arrogance, revealing the thin veneer of perfection that can crumble into ruin in an instant. The tale of Mekamári, once a symbol of fleeting perfection and subsequent horror, echoed across the lands, giving rise to humanity’s relentless obsession with beauty rituals and the desperate quest to preserve youth and fend off the inevitable. Her legacy endured but not in the memory of her beauty, but in the pervasive fear of its inevitable loss–a haunting reminder that even the most radiant can wither into ruin, igniting a collecting anxiety that fueled the lengths to which mortals would go to safeguard their fading youth.
Macabre Metamorphasis
In the nascent stages of a body’s decline, life’s fervent pulse relinquishes its grasp.
The corporeal vessel, once a sanctuary of vitality, assumes the fading pallet of twilight. The gentle hands of time inscribe their story upon its fragile, bleak parchment. Within, entropy’s subtle tendrils weave an intricate
tapestry of transformation. This inaugural phase unfolds in the quiet chambers of existence. The human form begins its implosion, surrendering to the frigid embrace of the inevitable. In the throes of rot, the body becomes a cavernous carnival for insatiable microbes. A gruesome feast of transmutation. It is as if a grotesque symphony unfolds, a macabre dance of devouring souls. The flesh, once a fortress of life’s grandeur, is now a battleground of decomposition. Like voracious vultures, microorganisms converge. Using the carcass as a cocoon, bringing life to carnivorous larvae. Breaking down flesh into the elemental, leaving behind an earthly residue. The body’s former glory fades into a shadowed memory as nature reclaims its borrowed elements. In the final stage, the body finds its fate as remains, a testament to time's inexorable passage. It becomes an ancient ruin, a relic of a forgotten era, where once-vibrant life has yielded to the relentless erosion of existence. Like whispers of a distant story, these skeletal remnants are silent echoes of a journey completed. The earthly form returns to the elements, and the soul's mundane vessel becomes an enigmatic relic of a transitory existence. In this stillness, the body's narrative merges with the earth's embrace, a final chapter in an ever-turning book.
Poetry
Things I've Collected (But Can't Hold)
A laugh caught mid-bloom,
split by a knock on the door —
not lost,
just suspended in the air like dust in the golden light.
Sometimes I still feel it,
the curl of joy half-spoken,
as if it’s waiting for me to finish it.
The way my name sounds in different mouths — lovingly, like a hymn hummed into my hair, angrily, like a match struck too close to skin.
For the Queen's Silence
Born to serve without a whisper,
Wings heavy with the knowledge
Of lines we will never name.
The hive hums with quiet devotion,
The pulse of a thousand bodies
Dancing in time to a song not heard She is a god with no gaze, A hollow throne we will fill with wax, Feeding her daughters, Her drones — The legacy of a line never known Carrying the air she breathes, Her scent, Her presence, But she remains untouched, Untouchable. Carrying the pollen I will never taste, Wings fraying with each circle, Tangled in the blur of flight Until my body becomes A whispered story in the dust. Absorbed in the hive’s heartbeat Still, we labor — Not for recognition, Not for praise — But for the quiet promise That in the weight of her silence, We are enough Even if she never knows, We will serve. Always.
Fortunes Borrowed Limb
A Rabbit claimed a Mortal’s Limb
A Relic, pale, and worn
She bound it with a Ribbon’s Hymn
And made it hers—forlorn
Each Leap she made—the Meadow bent
As if the Earth had known A Covenant, in Luck’s descent To bless a Borrowed Bone. The Clover bowed—the Stars aligned The Winds performed their Rite Yet something stirred—a Voice confined Beneath the Thread’s delight What Fortune crowned her humble brow What Path to Clover led? A rabbit, graced by Fate, somehow Bore Luck where Mortals bled A Rabbit’s Thread—a Human’s toll Entwined in Luck’s Unfold Her Triumph stole—through Night’s dark role And left the Stars to Gold
Journalistic Writing
Sonny Days Ahead
“He may bring you ‘more’ happiness!!” The 3-inch cherub Sonny Angel’s promise of joy has sparked a global craze. These tiny, collectible figurines, with their signature angel wings and whimsical hats, have captivated collectors worldwide, offering not only happiness but also an avenue of nostalgia, creativity and even a sense of community.
The 5-word promise has grown into more than a slogan—it reflects the emotional connection many people feel toward these little angels.
2024 Pop Culture Highlights
In a year that blurred the boundaries between the absurd and the brilliant, pop culture once again proved its unparalleled ability to unite, surprise and spark conversation. From viral animal sensations to trends that defined the zeitgeist, 2024 offered a kaleidoscope of moments that kept us entertained and glued to our screens.
These weren’t just fleeting distractions but threads that wove together a shared cultural narrative, bringing laughter, debate, and even a touch of nostalgia to our daily lives.
Backbone of Education
Backpacks slung over shoulders, hours hunched over desks and the pressure to perform academically — all these factors contribute to a growing yet often overlooked issue among students: back pain. While it might seem trivial at first, back pain can significantly impact a student’s daily life. Yet, the conversation surrounding this
issue remains largely unspoken. Hidden Causes One of the most common culprits behind student back pains is the muscle strain that comes from ca