Creative Writing Portfolio

The Music Studio

The camera follows Wallace from behind as he walks. The walls of the hallway are black with gold trim, the lighting is warm and dim, maroon carpet floods the floor. Wallace pushes the swinging door open to enter the music studio. There’s music equipment to the side and a dark wooden table with alcohol and mix in the center of the room. His coworkers, Dewayne and Harvey, are sitting in black sofa chairs. Dewayne is holding a drink and Harvey is scribbling ideas in his notebook. 

WALLACE: Ay fam – how’s you doin’? 

HARVEY: Not bad, just been bouncing some ideas around. Why’re you late? 

WALLACE: Had to run an errand – plus I was grabbin’ dooze and mary jane to get that creativity flowin’ [shakes drugs he pulled out of his pocket while smiling deviously]. But ya’ll gotta pitch a little, I ain’t no charity.  

DEWAYNE: Ahhhhh mane! You always got the good stuff – le’s get it going! We haven’t been able to think of shit. [Harvey looks visibly annoyed by Dewayne’s comments. Dewayne pulls $100 out of his wallet and puts it on the table. Wallace starts to cut lines, Dewayne starts to roll a joint.]

HARVEY: C’mon man. Why you always gotta be bringing that shit around? We can work on the next album without it. 

DEWAYNE [says seriously]: Don’t be talkin’ to Lace like dat Harvey – he the one who make the big bucks. Besides – you know we make better tracks when we bombed.

HARVEY: Alright, alright, relax.

WALLACE [says with intimidation]: You don’t gotta have none if you don’t want none. But, you know where the door is. [Wallace nods his head to the door behind him.]

HARVEY [agitated]: I said alright! [Harvey puts $100 on the table and Wallace pockets the $200.] Pass some over. 

DEWAYNE: Ha! Tha’s what I’m talkin’ about – let’s get crunk! Ay, Lace, you think we could get some ladies up in here?

 

Creative Writing Portfolio

Boundless White Sanctuary

Her snowshoes, a deafening crunch in the expansive silence. 

Heart racing, she enjoys the boundless white sanctuary. 

Accustomed to the blaring of traffic and idle metropolis racket, hush is a sound long forgotten. 

An abundance of coarse, crisp, crystalline snow encases the wavy ground. 

Broken boughs, rocks and trees poke out where the inescapable snow permits. 

The white blanket unwrinkled, aside from faint prints of lonesome animals and wads of fallen snow shrugged off by woody evergreens. 

Peculiar shaped peak holes within forest thick allow for peering at the pure, hardened body of water. 

Barren and icy branches are grotesquely demented next to coniferous feathers. 

Through a peak hole, a murky mist swallows the ebb and flow of black trees. 

Endless, ghostly clouds lace with the mist and barricade sunshine. 

Snowflakes lazily float down. 

Several fleks land on her cheeks and melt into fabricated tear drops. 

The polar pang soothes her puffy face. 

Hues of black and white are often thought to be macabre, but she feels the cosmic, intoxicating power of nature.

A chilling breeze whirls by, a shiver crawls down her spine. 

Trees answer back with weary moans and groans. 

After leisurely sways, trees come to a halt and the unfamiliar tranquility returns. 

She breathes in the sharp air and wiggles her toes – it’s time for the next step forward.