A Cumulation of Words

One: My Best Pieces

• 9/11, A Day I Can't Remember
• This piece was written after interviewing my parents about what they experienced on September 11th, 2001 when the World Trade Center in New York was attacked. I was just a baby, so I don't remember it at all.
• Rendition of Archie Smith, Boy Wonder
• When Harris Burdick disappeared, he left many unfinished pieces behind. I finished this one for him, or at least... added to it.
• Heads Spinning
• These are poems I wrote under the influence of impressionistic art by Rene Margritte.
• Madness
• My obsession with post-apocalyptic and dystopia fiction came out in this piece when I wrote about the end of the world. 
• Breaker of Chains
• This is a poem about trying to grow up under the oppression of overbearing parents who want you to stay a little girl forever.
• Nightmare
• If I didn't make it clear how much I love my sister before, perhaps I did with this piece.
• Cessna Moments
• Writing this piece was like doing twenty loopty-loops in a 2-seater Cessna airplane.

Two: Other's Writing

• Connor Rothschild's Blog
• I recently discovered a classmate's political blog and read through a lot of his opinion pieces.
• Audacious Adventures of MBE
• I read a lot of M'Kenna's pieces as she posted them, such as: Picture and Poems, Flee Market Stories, and Driving In The Country. She is a very talented writer and always speaks from the heart.
• DawgWithABlog
• Many of us laughed at Ben Lemon's comedic stories of Rico Sanchez, a talking Giraffe who has had many adventure at the end of Ben's pencil. Tears On My Spots was probably my favorite.

Three: Setting Up My Blog

• I loved the experience of setting up my blog. It was great that I was allowed to personalize it the way I wanted to and I have a lot of creative freedom. I choose "Sampling Feelings" because I liked the idea of combining a verb and a noun that don't typically go together. I was inspired by Mrs. Fraser's personal blog name, "Nesting Notions." I wish to continue writing on the blog. Although, my pieces will be less academic and more on topics that I feel like writing about.

Four: The Journey of Journaling

• The things I wrote in my journal were unpolished, unedited and not something I wish to share with others. I wrote down my thought and opinions and often when off on tangents with no direction. Journaling helped me get my thought together and was a way of planning out what I really wanted to say. I like the idea of having rough drafts, so I will continue writing down my thoughts that way even if it's not in a journal.

Five: Journal Piece, Uncovered

• In the summer of 1897, my brother Tom and I left our farms and families behind to seek Gold in the Klondike Valley. Men far and wide were dropping everything to seek their fortune in the dangerous Alaskan country. The journey was difficult, but actually finding gold was the really hard part. We had invested our life's savings in a gold-finder machine, but after three months of looking, but we still have nothing. Tom was beginning to lose hope, but I knew out luck was about to turn around to turn around. We ventured deeper and deeper into the uncharted Yukon territory, where no man had yet to venture. This brought more challenges, and many literal road blocks. We ended up leaving the machine behind as it was to difficult to transport. A few more days past, and even I was growing weary of our trek. We were about to forget the whole thing and turn around, when I saw it. The yellow nugget, our saving grace.

Six: Cessna Moments

When my mother was a little girl, she would skip church with her grandfather every Sunday and go flying in his blue and white, 2-seater Cessna airplane. The empty field behind her house doubled as a landing strip, so he would just cruise up to the house and pick her up. They would fly for hours at a time, and talk, and tell stories, and laugh. They would fly through the clouds, even though they weren’t supposed to. He would sometimes pass off the controls to her and let her fly the plane, placing a tremendous amount of trust in a little girl with no pilot’s license.

My mom was the first-born grandchild and the only granddaughter for many years, and therefore reserved the right as Granddaddy’s favorite, the Golden child.  In his eyes, she could do nothing wrong. When something bad happened, it was always everyone else’s fault, never hers. He almost never took any of his other four grandchildren up in the plane, instilling a sense of pride and superiority in my mom.

 My Granddaddy was the type of man that enjoyed hearing himself speak, but my mother liked the sound her own voice more. They made a good pair. When flying, they would discuss religion, politics, her future, and his past. He probably told her about the time he got shot in order to win her grandmother back, after she had broken up with him; or the time he entered a boxing competition and beat one of the future winners of the golden gloves; or how he had the highest IQ of anyone in Harrison, AR. I imagine my mom, a girl of seven or eight, learning how to voice her own thoughts and opinions with him for the first time, and he telling her why she was wrong and what she should think instead. She was very inquisitive, and asked him a lot of questions that he didn’t know the answer to, which was probably a rarity for him. As a child, she wanted to be exactly like Granddaddy. Strong, successful, powerful, and kind without others knowing he was kind.

Granddaddy purchased the Cessna when he retired, at the age of 50, after making his fortune and passing his business off to his eldest son, Mike. He firmly believed that anything worth doing, was worth doing to perfection. He was also a bragger. So when he aced his pilot’s license test, he told everyone how he'd received the highest score on the state of Arkansas, a 100%. Flying was one of the few things he really enjoyed in his life. But after his second heart attack, he was forced to give up his license; a bird without his wings.

Despite the sadness of never flying that Cessna again, Granddaddy helped shape my mother into the assertive, but caring, adventurous spirit that she is today.  Despite not having the ability to take our own flight, my mother and I have had plenty of our own “Cessna moments.”

Seven: Creative Writing and it's Place in My Life

• This class has challenged me to get out of my comfort zone and write things that I a) normally wouldn't write, and b) had never thought of writing. I learned a lot about myself as we worked through the various areas of study. I wrote some pieces that didn't really seem like me and I got a feel for what i actually do like writing about. This is different from other classes because of it's informality, full creative freedom, and broad topics. I will incorporate the lessons I've learned from this into all my writing in the future.

Eight: To My Fellow Writers

• If this class has taught me anything, it's that we have to constantly soak up the world around us. We have to live outside of our comfort zones and explore those parts of ourselves and others that we're afraid to see. If I could go back and change something, it would be to get to know more of you. Look around today, on our last day, I realized that I hadn't gotten to know all of you the way I would've like to. Each and every one of you offered new and unique perspective on life, love, loss, and so much more. Even if I didn't get to know all of you in person, I got to know you through your writing. Thank you for sharing.

Writing As A Gift

I wrote a letter to M'Kenna, but I can't share the contents of the letter as she has requested that I not divulge any information about it. She wants seal it shut and open it in a year when her altered book is returned to her. 
But rather than waste this perfectly great post on what I would've given as a gift, allow me to share the letter my twelve year old sister wrote for me. Thanks Sissy!

Revision #3

Stuffing balls, green bean casserole, pecan pie, turkey and ham, corn on the cob, sweet potato casseroles, real mashed potatoes and gravy, BBQ meatballs, deviled eggs, more stuffing balls, and a handful of other side dishes were what awaited us every year for Thanksgiving at Grandma Jeanette's house. It was my favorite holiday. It was the one time that that side of the family ever real came together. My cousins would play games in the living room; my Papa would tell jokes and teach everyone card tricks; the adults would spend most of the night standing in the doorway of the kitchen, sneaking food when they thought no one was looking. Nana would slave in the kitchen for days with me, the handy side kick, keeping her company. My job mainly consisted of doing the dishes and testing the food.

Of course, this was before her husband came down with a nasty case of Alzheimer's, and the flower shop closed, and her husband's children quit calling her family and showing up at her home for major holidays. Before she had to visit her dying husband in a nursing home every day, just like she'd had to do with her first husband. Before his disease had driven everyone but her away and she was left to take care of him, alone. Before he died and she moved to a sunny paradise in hopes of finding happiness again and improving her own health. Before Thanksgiving became a haphazardly planned congregation of random people, that I didn't even know.

A small turkey, canned corn, a store bought cheesecake, a few casseroles, and a bunch of foreign dishes brought by strangers. This is what our grand meal had been reduced to. It was no party. It was stuff and cold, and lacked familiarity. I felt like the pilgrims, sharing a meal with people who's customs were alien to me. It was no longer my favorite holiday, as no Thanksgiving was complete without my grandma.

This Thanksgiving dry-spell lasted three circulations of the earth, before my grandma began coming home for Thanksgiving and cooking with me again. Except this time, she put me in charge. She was now my side kick, tasting my food. Thanksgiving never returned to it's grandeur, but the warmth crept back into the holiday, and I realize the only thing I'd been missing was my Grandma.

I am so thankful for my Grandma, and the warmth she brings into my life. She makes me feel important and like I can do anything I set my mind to. She's been through a lot, but she still found her way back to me and our Thanksgiving tradition.

Revision #2

"I swear I have a coupon in here somewhere," Beth said as she dug around hurriedly through her giant, messy purse. She felt really bad, but her paycheck wouldn’t come through until Monday. She was living off nickels and dimes, and it was only Friday night.  The worst thing about being in college was not having any money, especially on a weekend. She was 19, and beautiful. She should've been having the time of her life, but, instead, she was struggling to find enough change to pay for her groceries. Beth, like your average college student, was broke. She hadn’t yet gotten the hang of managing her money and she liked going out with her friends too much to care. But now, it was catching up with her. She was shoulders deep in library fines, bills, and student loan debt, and had nowhere to run.

“Your total is $9.54, Miss.” The cashier was getting noticeably agitated as he gazed at the long line behind Beth. He’d probably had to deal with people like her all day, but that’s what he got for working so close to campus. 

“Ahhh ha!” She yanked out the stack of coupons she’d cut from the newspaper and sorted through them until she found the buy one-get one free she’d been looking for. She triumphantly handed over the paper, along with a handful of change. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” she said with a smile. The gathered her plastic bags in both arms and strode quickly out the automatic doors, trying not to think about how she would open her car door with full hands. She could barely see over the mountain she was holding.

Revision #1

The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. When I look at my past self, I see a stranger, reeking with the purity and ignorance of youth. She worried little, and laughed often. Her heart was fragile and her ego was huge. She exists still, but only in memory. 



She is a girl of sixteen, with bronze hair and tender brown eyes. She watches movies with her little sister and goes on dates with tall brunette boys with red cheeks. She sings in her car on the way home, and laughs at herself when she forgets the words. She is oblivious to the catastrophe that is about to turn her whole life upside-down.


When it happened, families abandoned their cars in the streets and ran for safety, when they still thought that there was one.


This world ended and a new one began. A world, in which purity, stupidity, and weakness got you killed. Or worse. This once happy-go-lucky, clueless girl was forced to open her eyes, and see the world that had been left to her.


First came the wave. It wiped out the power, and destroyed cities. People were whisked away in the blink of an eye, along with all evidence that they had existed.

Then came the drought. For two years, not a drop of rain fell on the earth. People fought over the water that remained. Once that was gone, we started losing all of our other resources. Many plants and animals died off because of dehydration, and many more were taken by the wild fires.

Food shortages made rationing necessary for the countries that were structured enough to enforce it. And for those that couldn’t, civil war, anarchy, and chaos followed. Hundreds of millions died all over the world.
What was left of Canada and the United States created the North American Alliance in an attempt to gather together what little strength we had left. While much of the world died, the NAA survived.

Then came the epidemic. A plague unlike anything we’d ever seen. It came quick and silent, taking thousands in the first night alone. It would start with a fever that would last a few hours. Then your veins would turn black, and blood would run from most of your orifices. By that point, it would only be a few minutes before the body shut down and you stopped breathing. Boarders shut down, and quarantine and curfews were enforced. I came to understand that people don’t like to be caged, even for aims of safety. Violence ensued as more and more people got sick.

By this point, in America, most government leaders had abandoned their posts and sought solitary refuge in their private underground bunkers. The military came in and essentially took control. They told us that the President was giving orders from a remote location, but no one actually knew if that was true. All we knew was that the world as we’d known it was dead.

Now, all I could do was close my eyes and think back to how simple my life had been before the madness. How, in the morning, I would wake up and eat breakfast with my sister and our parents, then go to school. I missed school. I missed my friends. I missed my car and my puppy and even Mrs. Paulson. Who knew what happened to her?

I closed my eyes, head dropping, like a person drunk for so long she no longer knows she's drunk, and then, drunk, awoke to the world which lay before me.

Giving Thanks

Stuffing balls, green bean casserole, pecan pie, turkey and ham, corn on the cob, sweet potato casseroles, real mashed potatoes and gravy, BBQ meatballs, deviled eggs, more stuffing balls, and a handful of other side dishes were what awaited us every year for Thanksgiving at Grandma Jeanette's house. It was my favorite holiday. It was the one time that that side of the family ever real came together. Nana would slave in the kitchen for days with me, the handy side kick, keeping her company. My job mainly consisted of doing the dishes and testing the food.

Of course, this was before her husband came down with a nasty case of Alzheimer's, and the flower shop closed, and her husband's children quit calling her family and showing up at her home for major holidays. Before she had to visit her dying husband in a nursing home every day, just like she'd had to do with her first husband. Before his disease had driven everyone but her away and she was left to take care of him, alone. Before he died and she moved to a sunny paradise in hopes of finding happiness again and improving her own health. Before Thanksgiving became a haphazardly planned congregation of random people, that I didn't even know.

A small turkey, canned corn, a store bought cheesecake, a few casseroles, and a bunch of foreign dishes brought by strangers. This is what our grand meal had been reduced to. It was no party. It was stuff and cold, and lacked familiarity. I felt like the pilgrims, sharing a meal with people who's customs were alien to me. It was no longer my favorite holiday, as no Thanksgiving was complete without my grandma.

This Thanksgiving dry-spell lasted three circulations of the earth, before my grandma began coming home for Thanksgiving and cooking with me again. Except this time, she put me in charge. She was now my side kick, tasting my food. Thanksgiving never returned to it's grandeur, but the warmth crept back into the holiday, and I realize the only thing I'd been missing was my Grandma.

Lost in the Past

Benjamin Alfred Wallace was an esteemed, well respected politician in the city of Brighton, England. He was only in his early twenties, but already had the support of many and was on the road to becoming a member of parliament. He was an ambitious man, and often put his career above all else.

Orae Mae Engler was the daughter of a rich textile manufacturer. She came from a long line of businessmen, and her father would one day marry her off to a man worthy of his inheritance. He had only one son, a handicapped boy of ten who rarely saw the light of day. He was kept out of sight, and few even knew he existed. He would never be able to fill his father's shoes.

Brighton was well known for it's parties and love for pretty things. New Year's Eve, the most important people in Brighton enjoyed a night of celebratory vices and dancing at the home of a Lord.

Orae and her sister, Winifred, were aloud to accompany their parents to these festivities. Orae was renown for her beauty and more than one married man at the party was caught gazing as she walked past. Noticing this, her father decided to use it to his advantage and began talking her up to the eligible bachelors. Before she knew it, she was being bombarded by men seeking dances and even some seeking more. Fat men, old men, young men, skinny men, shy men, proud men, and every other type of man crowded her until her was backed into a corner.

That's when the balcony door opened from behind her, and she fell into the arms of Benjamin. Quickly, they fled for the hedges and escaped the brigade. Benjamin knew how silly it was to avoid the party, but for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to leave her side. She was a whirlwind of surprises he knew would endanger his plans, but in his heart he knew that she was more important than any career ever could be.

Orae was enamored with the way he spoke about his passions. They spent the remainder of the night strolling the gardens and talking about their lives. She told him about her brother; he, about his ambitions. Their conversations seemed to require no effort; and when their hands found each other, it seemed like the world had fallen into place.

After the party, they conversed mainly through letters. They occasionally met in secret, but acted as if there was nothing between them in public. Orae's father would never have given her to a politician, and Benjamin couldn't endanger his reputation by associating himself with factory man, as rich as he may be. However, the wrongness of their secret relationship only made their hunger for each other stronger.

In 1978, Angus James Wallace was born, in secret. He was barely a week old, when he was stolen from his mother's arms and whisked away to distant relatives in Southwick. He took their last name, and Benjamin Wallace's name was never mentioned again. His childhood was a happy one, and he was very close with his adoptive parents and siblings. Orae often visited Angus, until she was married off to another rich business man who would inherit her father's company and moved hundreds of miles away.

Angus never knew who his father was, but Benjamin knew who he was. He kept tabs on the boy, and always felt a need to know that he was safe and happy, even into his adulthood. When Benjamin died, an unmarried man, he left his fortune to Angus.