Sophiascb

United States

i'm blonde but surely not dumb. ♥
i am the accumulation of my inspirations and everything i ever thought was cool.
est. january 10, 2k21
she/her

Message from Writer

trying to inspire ;)

i love shadowhunters, neal shusterman works, and am a ravenclaw

i dance and cheer

published in flare journal and burn magazine @ boston u

happy reading, my work, and the lovely brains of others ;)

Published Work

The Inanimate

Do you wash plastic utensils or do you trash them after a single use? Do jar lids stick and groan under your tired hands? Running them under hot water doesn't work, I know. Just have somebody else do it. Cookie tins from family Christmas are empty now, maybe they have sewing supplies, but who even sews anymore? Does the cheap plastic container crack and yell over your fingers, can the Earth hear you opening the chocolate-covered pineapple in the dead of night? Or are they asleep? Or just deaf- Do you use paper plates or do you clean your scraps off and rinse that resilient waxy covering to squeeze some life into something, anything? 
Call me a waste of space, stuff me in the back of the fridge until I’m spoiled beyond recognition. Bring me to a party and abandon me on some far-gone table you’ll never see again: you’re too drunk on the inanimate to care. 

gym class

sweat pools in the crevices of your skin,
your rivers cannot flow here,
no tears. 
pounding of my heart on the gym floor
your problems do not matter here,
no gum at school.

so how can i say that i love you and hate you and that i don't know you but wish that i do. how can i break my back more, more severely for your enjoyment?
did you notice my rivers and my tears? did you notice my contortion, my face in smiles and frowns when it was appropriate. i do my eyeliner only for it to fade into my skin. i curl my hair until the weight of it, accumulated, drags straight and mundane down my back- the one that i broke for you- i wish things were not temporary.
it is tempting to want to see myself in the mirror at 3am as i do at 3pm. i wish i could fall asleep in a blooming bed...

The most dangerous writing app- results!!

#1- His voice had never sounded so cold.
"I wasn't speaking to you."
He watched her wince and felt his own internal one match hers. He hated that his immediate reaction was to call on the personality of his old self. The one that had lived in mansions for all of his life and gone on glorious vacations to islands and old countries. He had been a pampered, self-obsessed, completely entitled brat.
It had all changed on the day of the murder.
He had been standing at the top of the staircase in their home, his hand wrapped tightly around a family heirloom- a silver candlestick with beautiful engravings and expert craftsmanship. He had heard the noise from the kitchen. Not just a 'noise' but a scream. He had recognized it as the scream of the lovely young cook. She had always eyed him, and his imagination had run wild about what was under her stained apron. But he had...

The King of Mixed Signals

You're the king of mixed signals
And twisted smiles
Did you mean to 
Put my heart in palpitations?
Did you intend for me to fall even 
Harder, drag me even lower,
In with you until I can't escape
You were the one falling
Once. 
I should've savored the taste of it
Because now there's just bitterness
In the place of my red heart
I have a black one gone dead with dread
I'm tied to you.
I want to be free but there's
Some magnetic force stretching my heart towards yours

Is this what you wanted?

Did you want me to be trapped
And bound to you?
There is nobody else for me.
Never will be. 
You couldn't trust that and 
You have no idea of your rebounding, drowning effect
You wish to believe that I am a pretty flower
To braid into a daisy crown until you want for a 
Golden one that shines even in the low lights ...

April Grab Bag

Closure

Write about the history of your home or school from its perspective. (by Writing4Life

For decades I have stood tall in beige cinderblock, watching and observing the souls who pass through my halls.
I see brilliant students who take joy in their growth. I see terrible kids who are only terrible because they think that they are. I see children who freeze up surrounded by so much body heat, so much breath, and so many voices. I see teachers that have boiling blood at the people in their rooms. I see administrators whose eyes light up at the sign of little humans learning, who smile at the thought that they will shape a life.
I have shaped life. Many lives. 
My vaulted cafeteria ceiling has overlooked food fights, crowds chanting, wins and losses, and plenty of bad but carefree dancing. My black and white bathrooms have seen quiet tears, candy tasting vapor, and messages that are cries for help inscribed into...

false confidence

you're my false confidence
pick me up then let me fall again
I love your love
but hate the way you do it
you're my false confidence
a smile is boiling with hatred
fingers drawing criticism
on my heart-torn skin
you're my false confidence
clean sweat clings waiting to be rid
footprints marked with all that 
optimism you walk in
you're my false confidence
a trait you'd trade without a single glance
even all your caring leaves me
with indifference

you're my false confidence
say you love me but
i know you
don't mean it. 

and you neglect the mourning sun rise

Sheer fabric drips from my
Hand. Wash my skeleton. 
Grave robbers are buried
alive in their own guilt
i miss you- dearly

We are all letting God drag us around
At this point, 
I'm digging my heels into mud
We misplaced our courage;
Forgot our conviction
can the fire be worse than this?
If I write letters of what I 
Remember, prayers being answered 
May our hearts heal in unison. 
Amen.
It will get better. 
Black and blue seeps to bones, white.
sunshine is not everlasting.
glowing skin will not mask your hollow promises.
what happened to grief?
what happened to tears?
has my body outgrown my

    mourning clothes? 

Anymore

Do you still see yourself crooked
in the looking glass?
Or has your perception of your reflection
    shifted
So you can see yourself through my eyes
You smile the same
but there is something guarding it.
I stand, silent as you're hurling
yourself off a cliff
because the people around you,
with their hollow laughs,
feel free.
But I see the rope at your belt.
Are you waiting for it to catch you?
Or have you forgotten it's there at all?
Will you trust in it?
Would you trust me?
Is your wish for me to grab it,
to heave you from your doom?
Or watch you fall?
   
    Or jump with you...    

Is that what your wink was?
Your jokes and
taunts and
obscure compliments and
casual glances?

"Jump with me."

"Fall with me."

"Be free with me."

With you?
Or with the little boy
still scared of his own reflection? 

I can't tell anymore. 

they bloom withered and weathered

I made a bouquet
out of dried flowers
string scraps bundle their
purple plumes together,
in an insistent/hungry
grasp for survival
they are dead but still striving
to be recognized as beautiful!
though, they forget,
blue ribbons stain purple petals
they were meant to 
give back to the earth
once the sun sapped the 
spring from them. they are
snowflakes, dusting my 
hardwood floor.
they warm my hands. 
I c̷a̷n̷'t̷ let go.
  won't.

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition: 2021

Home

Have you ever felt at home in a place you have never been?
Because I have.
I have never felt that warm Atlantic water
But my cheeks have been caressed by hot tears
And that is enough
I am connected to this place
That I walk, and then 
R    U    N
Freely
And happily
Through in all of my dreams
There is a house by the bluffs
Surrounded by seagrass waving with smiling fronds
Sunbaked beige stucco whispers of lives new and old
Summer vacations and Spring weekends long gone
A blue front door that is the color of the sky 
Inside, somebody I have never met sits at a small chair
Holding a muffin that he stole out of the picnic basket
And they lead me down the rocky path,
Danger and fire shooting from their creased palms
But safety is the last thing on my mind
For once
We sit on the sand far enough that the water...

My Stranger

Letter to your mailbox
But by the time it gets to you,
The ink has smudged and the brushstrokes have faded
Or maybe you never received it.
When I see you again,
Will i even know it is you?
Is it even you anymore?
Or will your body and smile be inhabited by some 
S t r a n g e r
Who laughs at me and my own strange nature
Who adopts the attitude of the sorry shells around him,
Losing the ability to reflect back the sea.

if you can hear me-

wouldn't it be a tragedy if you could hear my thoughts?
maybe my troubled brain could be the subject of your next poem-
can’t i be someone’s muse?
crystal tears melt in my cheekbones
so i shine when i smile
can’t you tell that a pretty half of my sm/i/les are for show?
no, because you can’t hear how my  thoughts  pound  skulls .
sometimes i wish you could hear them
then i wouldn’t be so alone.
        It would not be a tragedy!
for one day, it would be a miracle and a blessing to my 
beating mind that pulses alive more than my         stagnant    heart
        My thoughts can be a life source!
a precious metal that i pray, for once, i could wear on my sleeve
maybe if you would listen, closely and carefully,
you would notice the pain underneath all this flesh
could you feel it? raw and sharp and 
stabbing me in places 
i cannot...

Lost Things

A strip of plastic
Is a receipt for a life
Born anew from the stars
An unraveled string
Is a burn on the fingers, 
Redness weaved into feeble warmth
A chunk of wax
Is a little bit of childhood,
Because now they snap under this weight
A small stone
Is the promise of forever
On the slender, dark hand of loneliness
A fleck of glitter
Is the shining smile of a star on stage
Left behind to be showered in praise for the last time
A burnt match
Is the turning of an hourglass
On frail and forgotten bones
A slab of rock 
Is carved with the name 
Of a soul sleeping in the soil
A scrap of paper
Is the memory of some poet
Who is in love with lost things

and you neglect the mourning sun rise

Sheer fabric drips from my
Hand. Wash my skeleton. 
Grave robbers are buried
alive in their own guilt
i miss you- dearly

We are all letting God drag us around
At this point, 
I'm digging my heels into mud
We misplaced our courage;
Forgot our conviction
can the fire be worse than this?
If I write letters of what I 
Remember, prayers being answered 
May our hearts heal in unison. 
It will get better. 
Black and blue seeps to bones, white.
sunshine is not everlasting.
glowing skin will not mask your hollow promises.
what happened to grief?
what happened to tears?
has my body outgrown my

    mourning clothes? 

and you neglect the mourning sun rise

Sheer fabric drips from my
Hand. Wash my skeleton. 
Grave robbers are buried
alive in their own guilt
i miss you- dearly

We are all letting God drag us around
At this point, 
I'm dragging my heels through the mud
We misplaced our courage;
Forgot our conviction
can the fire be worse than this?
If I write letters of what I 
Remember, prayers being answered 
May our hearts heal in unison. 
It will get better. 
Black and blue seeps to bones, white.
sunshine is not everlasting.
glowing skin will not mask your hollow promises.
what happened to grief?
what happened to tears?
has my body outgrown my

    mourning clothes? 

April Grab Bag

Closure

Write about the history of your home or school from its perspective. (by Writing4Life

For decades I have stood tall in beige cinderblock, watching and observing the souls who pass through my halls.
I see brilliant students who take joy in their growth. I see terrible kids who are only terrible because they think that they are. I see children who freeze up surrounded by so much body heat, so much breath, and so many voices. I see teachers that have boiling blood at the people in their rooms. I see administrators whose eyes light up at the sign of little humans learning, who smile at the thought that they will shape a life.
I have shaped life. Many lives. 
My vaulted cafeteria ceiling has overlooked food fights, crowds chanting, wins and losses, and plenty of bad but carefree dancing. My black and white bathrooms have seen quiet tears, candy tasting vapor, and messages that are cries for help inscribed into...

~Emotions in Art~

Can I map out my pain?
Sketch drawings of hurt?
Can I fit all my problems into words?
Can I make it make sense,
Smiles and frowns, laughs and cries.

Can the human experience be compressed into something consumable so that you, reader, can join me in this sinking raft while we simultaneously admire the sea?

I can try. 

He is everything to us.

Jesus, He died for us
we refused Him and then...
He was tortured and hated
but His love still hung him
from the cross.  

Jesus, He rebuilds us
He takes this frail, perishable body,
and replaces it with an imperishable one
one that will carry us to eternity
on His shoulders

Jesus, He sees us
He sees what we are searching for
and chasing after tirelessly
and many times wishes it 
was Him.

Jesus, He fights for us
He calms storms and expels demons
and turned water into the richest wine
just for us to believe
so that he could take down monsters we cannot see

Jesus, He is everything to us
His is an everlasting, never-wavering love
that wraps us in promise
of a full and eternal life
by his side. 

Faeries Pt. 5 Read the other parts !!

When Callista awoke, she knew that she was in someone’s arms, but she was too drowsy to recognize her surroundings. Her eyes burned as she entered someplace bright, and she suddenly found herself sprawled in the grass. 
“I absolutely refuse to carry you the whole way. You’re a big girl.”
She rolled over and looked up into Alina’s face.
“What’s happening?” She asked, still totally disoriented. 
“What’s happening is, you slept all the way through the night, and now it’s morning, and I’m taking you to wash yourself. You smell like a wild animal.”
“Wow, thanks.”
“No problem!” Alina’s smile was vicious. “Now get up.”
Callista pulled her aching body off the grass, but once she was standing, she noticed how clear her head felt. How long had it been since she’d had a good night’s sleep?
Alina started walking and Callista followed.
“Did you guys just leave me outside all night?”
“No. You slept in headquarters.”
“Where’s headquarters?” Callista...

false confidence

you're my false confidence
pick me up then let me fall again
I love your love
but hate the way you do it
you're my false confidence
a smile is boiling with hatred
fingers drawing criticism
on my heart-torn skin
you're my false confidence
clean sweat clings waiting to be rid
footprints marked with all that 
optimism you walk in
you're my false confidence
a trait you'd trade without a single glance
even all your caring leaves me
bare with indifference

you're my false confidence
say you love me but i know you
don't mean it. 

Miracles in the form of passive aggressive faeries

She breathed slowly, quietly, in through the nose and out through the mouth. Her limbs trembled and her eyes darted back and forth across the trees, constantly searching the shadows for more information. For another warning. 
When nothing showed, the girl crept from her hiding place, her gown mangled and torn, covered in dirt and blood. Her dark hair was disheveled, leaves interwoven with knots. Her feet were barefoot and calloused from walking the forest floor for days on end. Her skin was coated with a layer of grime.
She darted through the tangle of ferns and bushes and trees and vines to get to the creek. Washing that very dirt from her body would rid her of a lot of camouflage, but she had never felt this terrible feeling, such absolute disgust, in her life. 
As the girl pulled away the vines that concealed the waterfall, she heard a noise and froze in her tracks. It was a soft...

Worse.

The way that your violin bow flows so softly
and then sharply over the strings
in a way I will never experience
how do you choose something you 
do not know the options of
why does the rain bring me more comfort
than the sun, is it the hug of the clouds
the gray reflective of my hidden soul?
the pieces I hide from everyone
because I am broken
soft and violent 
but beautiful on the outside
my brain never stops and I wish it would
but I never think about my heart stopping
stopping its movements
stilling in my chest
motionless
the blood trickling to a halt
in my little lovely veins
I don't think about it
I think about writing though,
and people
and dancing
and music
and love
and hatred
and all things
and nothing
all at once
how will I ever know peace? 
a notion that comes into my head
every day at midnight 
every morning?  ...

Faeries Pt. 4

Seeley chuckled as the girl fell into a slumber. 
Alina looked up with surprise at the faerie. 
“What, she’s a bright spark. But she can be annoying as-”
“I think she’s funny,” Azry intercepted with a smile.
“You think everything’s a joke,” said Alina.
“Not you. I think you’re just a rock who can sing.”
Seeley rolled her eyes and placed her palm on the tree trunk. She couldn’t trust Callista enough to show her how to enter headquarters, and had already risked enough showing the girl the entrance itself. 
The lines in the bark started to snap apart as a small passageway opened in response to the steady energy flowing from Seeley’s palm. Her gift from the High Guardians had been the ability to control nature. She was grateful for it. 
Azry ducked under the water and emerged with legs. Her long hair covered her back end and Alina tossed her a long grass skirt that was stowed in...

Faeries Pt 3 ;) Go Read The Other Parts!!

Callista had been gifted to her mother from the High Guardians, as all children were brought about in Laphalia. There had been somebody called a “king” that Callista had read about in the royal library. Callista spent much of her time there. 
When she had been discovered reading the dusty volume full of stories from older times in the kingdom, she had been smacked by her mother. The book had come from the dark corners of the library, towards the back where Callista was forbidden to go. Curiosity nearly killed the princess every time. 
Or at least got her beatings. 
When Callista collected blooming wildflowers that grew near the stables in the castle to press into books and drop into melting candle wax, her mother had scolded her and hit her over the head with a candle holder. Not incredibly hard, but not softly either. 
When Callista snuck into the guard’s barracks in the lower levels of the castle to...

Faeries pt. 2

They walked in silence through the trees, quiet seeming to form a bubble full of tension around them. Callista had been surrounded by the stifling silence of the forest for days now, and now that she was with people, she was itching to talk. 
The only person who she felt would actually listen was Azry, who was swimming along the river beside them. Callista looked to the mermaid, her eyes begging for help, and Azry’s face lit up with mischief. 
“Oh Alina,” she said, “Humor me, would you?” 
Alina turned, her eyes like sharpened daggers pointing from her stoic face, with none of the humor Azry had asked for.  
Seeley chose to ignore them while Callista hung on to every word. She hadn’t known the women for very long at all but she did know that this would end either hilariously or very badly.
“What do you like about me?”
Azry smiled devilishly at Callista. 
Alina was confused for a...

Miracles in the form of passive aggressive faeries

She breathed slowly, quietly, in through the nose and out through the mouth. Her limbs trembled and her eyes darted back and forth across the trees, constantly searching the shadows for more information. For another warning. 
When nothing showed, the girl crept from her hiding place, her gown mangled and torn, covered in dirt and blood. Her dark hair was disheveled, leaves interwoven with knots. Her feet were barefoot and calloused from walking the forest floor for days on end. Her skin was coated with a layer of grime.
She darted through the tangle of ferns and bushes and trees and vines to get to the creek. She was hoping to wash that very dirt from her body. It would rid her of a lot of camouflage, but she had never felt this terrible feeling, such absolute disgust, in her life. 
As the girl pulled away the vines that concealed the waterfall, she heard a voice and froze in her...

Start of a song- can you stay

It's been hard
Being around you 
Cause we're scarred
After that day,
How can we say
I love you? 

Ever again
You had my heart 
I ripped it out of your hand
Screamed in pain
There goes our life long plan
Together...

Red stains my lips 
Cause you asked me to go
It was the second hardest question
That you'll ever know

But then you catch my hand 
As I'm swinging the door closed
And you ask me the first one

Can you stay
Just for the night
Can you stay
Holding me tight
Can you stay 
Oh 
Can you stay

After that
You can go far
After that
Though it's breaking my heart
After that
Oh 
After that  

A Good Summer

inspired by @dmoral 

"Do you love me?"

...


"I said, do you love me?"

...


"I knew it. Let go of me."

"Cordelia-"

"Do you love me or not? Last chance, Jack."

...


"I'm leaving and you can't even say it."

"Cordelia! You know I love you!"

"It's too late now, you idiot."

"It doesn't have to be!"

"Yes, it does."

...

"You know, Jack, I used to think you were brave. I used to see courage in you and confidence in your eyes but now I can see that you're just weak and scared. And if it took the truth to show me that, I'll bear whatever pain it brings. Goodbye, Jack."

"Cordelia. Please."

"Nothing you can say now will ever change my mind."

"It was a good summer?"

"Yeah. It was." 

Year by Year

The sky watched me grow up

Year 1- i was born brick red, in the cold winds of the twilight January sky
Year 2- curly blonde hair and blue eyes, but a terrible temper
Year 3- i would put cutie oranges in my teal crocs, the start of my self-discovery through fashion, i think
Year 4- my goldfish died... i experienced death for the first time and it escaped my realm of understanding 
Year 5- moved out of my tiny house and into a bigger, empty one... my baby brother was born... i started kindergarten and loved to chase a boy named Sebastian, swinging my feather boa at him 
Year 6- first grade was when my competitive nature started to burn in me... i pushed a girl for taking my spot at recess and didn't feel guilty
Year 7- second grade i won the reading competition for the first time and beat my class to the comfy green bean bag every day after recess
Year 8-...

Cordelia's Cottage ❁

Nobody had lived in the cottage for years until Cordelia moved in. 
Green covered the windows and dust was sprinkled over every surface. It had been the place her mother had spent her summers as a child, picking strawberries in the morning and eating them with cream in the afternoon. The sun would set over the creek and her body would make beautiful silhouettes against it as she launched off the swing that hung from the tree. The beautiful oak tree that stretched over the water, its boughs perfect for sitting or laying or hanging on in the hot days. There were many grainy film photos of the place, back when it was a perfect mix of loving upkeep and wild beauty. Now it was overgrown.
Cordelia took it as a challenge. She chose a random record from her bundle and aligned the playing needle with its grooves. A light lively piano song started to grind out, and Cordelia got...

Welcome To New York Part 7

“Joe Avelyn Banking Corporation, how may I help you?”
Of course, my eighteen-year-old voice must be different from the three-year-old one he remembers, if he remembers at all.
All I have of him is cigar smoke, coffee, copy paper, and freshly ironed silk suits. And cold crisp air marking the absence of those things. 
“Hello, who is this?”
“Hi,” I croak. I really should have written down what I wanted to say.
“Hi,” he says, impatience creeping behind his words, “How can I help you?”
“Um… I need to speak to Joe.”
“If this is a prank call-”
“It’s not.”
“Then for the last time, who is this?”
“Victoria Avelyn.”
A static laugh cuts me deeply through the phone. “Sure, kid.”
“No! It really is me! I’m here, in New York.”
“If you think this is a funny joke, it’s not. Mr. Avelyn is very busy at the moment, as am I, and we can’t deal with this.”
I’m breaking,...

Welcome To New York Part 6

It’s 11 AM when I step into the fresh air, and my mind is instantly clearer. I take a taxi from JFK airport, and I’m thankful that the man in the driver's seat doesn’t try to start a conversation with me.
The East Coast is so different from the sprawling beaches and light trees that I grew up around. The carefully gardened landscaping of the Mission Beach area is no match for the soaring green trees that stretch over the highway into the city. 
The wide, nerve-racking ocean seems so distant now as I look out at the Hudson, shimmering in the morning light. We go through the burrows of the city that I know nothing about since my mind is always caught between moving rapidly and spending hours dwelling on one carving incident. My decision to move to New York was one of those impulsive decisions, that really cannot be considered a decision at all since my fingers bought...

in black ink

silver trays, cracked
tarnished copper pans
not weak
not fragile
not expendable,
human.
what will i do when she's gone?
stare into my mirror?
not weak
not fragile
not expendable,
changed.
i can place the gold ring on my finger
and watch the spark
cloudy skies, achy joints
mint tea, marigold mug
inhales, exhales, expand still
when that lovely, simple
human
presence washes over me again

My Broken Retainer Case

My broken retainer case
That holds hundreds of dollars
To keep me beautiful

I didn't pick out the blue swirls
Or the clear, cutting plastic
That presses my gums

I hate that single little wire
Dividing my ever-so-perfect smile
I labored for years!

Why do pictures of my past
Happiness with the crooked twist
Make me frown?

Yes,

Laugh at the train-track grins
And the metal-mouth beams
But you can't hide the fact

That the straightest teeth
Always leave the 
Ugliest bite marks

 

March Grab Bag

Lift- March Grab Bag

a 100 word story based on a randomly generated word - the story title should be the word that you generated (by alyanna)

My word- lift

Lift me high upon your shoulders, Father. Let me trace the clouds with my baby fingers, my other hand in yours. Your strength is mine, and it always has been. Always will be.
Even though you're gone, under the grass, your body held by the roots of the huge chestnut tree, I will remember my cries into your embrace. I will remember how you cheered for me at soccer games and always went out of your way to make my favorite meal when I was sad. 
It's cruel how the world plucks the brightest flowers.

But you still lift me. 

Op-Ed Competition 2021

Be a Feminist.

Feminism. It’s not hating men. It’s not prioritizing women. It’s pointing out the fact that women are not treated equally to men, and that needs to change. Whether you are a woman, man, or are non-binary, feminism is for you and it is important. 
By definition, “Feminism is a range of social movements, political movements, and ideologies that aim to define and establish the political, economic, personal, and social equality of the sexes.” Feminism is everybody on the Earth coming together to fix wrongs that have been embedded in society since the beginning of civilizations. Women couldn’t rule, women couldn’t vote, women couldn’t have an education, women couldn’t do anything except stay at home and keep their mouths shut. All this has changed now, women can do these things, so you may be asking, “Why do we still need feminism? Women can do all the things they wanted to, so why aren’t they equal?”
Women can’t wear revealing clothing without...

An Incredibly Accurate Representation Of My Mental Instability ;)

Why do authors make metaphors and comparisons to things that will never take a breath like we do once a second? Why is it that we find so much comfort in the nonliving, in an object? We are alive. But we still sympathize with nothing that is capable of showing sympathy. Is this compassion or stupidity? 
I guess we’ll never know. 


*This the number one champion sound*

Dream Big

My Dream.

Dream. 
Is a dream something that you think about every second of every day or is it the thing that pulls you towards your pillow, the thing that makes you want to close your eyes? 
In short, it's both of those things. 
If you want the long answer, it's a lot more complex than either. 
For me, like so many others in this community, that dream is writing. Being able to write about whatever I'm feeling and making it into an art. I dream to inspire. Inspire the people I know and don't know, and will never know after I'm dead. I want my writing to put a spark into someone's head. I want that spark to burn in their heart then, I want somebody to love reading after reading my book, or love writing after they see my writing. That is what I dream about.
I think about this all the time, in one way or another. I think...

Welcome to New York Part 5

Our noiseless giggles float around the room no matter how hard we try to stop them. They are little birds, ripping free of my chest, of their cage, slicing the air, and whirling around Grace and I, inviting even more laughter. 
Her dark face doesn’t show redness, but mine does, I know. I know that my cheeks are bright pink as the blood vessels revive as my heart pumps more and more blood as we laugh and laugh and laugh. 
Silent choking noises. Grace’s dry cheese cracker crumbs have tucked themselves into the back of her throat, making her gag and cough. It should be loud, but she is screwing up her face and choking even more as she tries to stay quiet in the back of the classroom. 
She looks so funny that I laugh harder, she sees my face, and joins in. She lets out a big cough to dislodge the crumbs and a few people turn back...

Welcome To New York Part Four

I don’t get much sleep. My sweaty sheets curl around me, the last time I’ll be in their grasp. I look up at the glow-in-the-dark solar system stickers that are peeling off of my ceiling, the desk covered in colorful fabric scraps and thread, my rich wooden bookshelf overflowing with the classics, beautiful custom leather covers on each one. It’s a shame I can’t take any of it with me, save my favorite strip of  vintage ruby red velvet.  
With my stuffed suitcase in hand, my curls tucked into a frizzy bun, an Uber takes me to Los Angeles International Airport, a quiet and droust two hour drive from my house. 
I don’t drive. Mother never taught me of course, and when Grace tried to, bad things happened. New York, the wild and vibrant city that it is, doesn’t allow many drivers. Just a sea of yellow taxis honking into the buzz. 
No, not a sea, a great stretch of...

Welcome To New York Part Three

When the clock strikes 10:00 pm, my suitcase is packed. A yellow dress, patterned with sky blue azaleas. A black puffer jacket, the plentiful down stealing its wide place. My best jeans, made of thick denim and yet worn in all the right places. A t-shirt with the logo of my high school on it. My old high school so far in the back of my mind and yet stuck in there in a burning seal. May left with flowers in my hair, from Grace of course, none from Mother. June, we fought like wet, territorial dogs. July, disaster struck, depending on how you look at it. Now it's the 31st. The end. 2 hours until a hot August blooms. And I will be tucked cozily into the sky as the sun rises.  
The Avelyn Fortune brought me so much pain, but for once it's granted me the happiness of a last minute first class ticket. My brain is swimming,...

Welcome To New York Part Two

What do you bring to a place you have never been, have only dreamt about, and never thought you would get to go to? Do you bring your best dress or your warmest coat or your shortest skirt?  
My phone is buzzing so violently and frequently that I think it will fall of my little bedside table, to join the terra-cotta pot that had split open on impact, spreading dirt and long-dead roots from my succulent. I loved that little succulent. It was a gift from Grace, my best friend.  
Grace always has courage and strength, but sadly it was enough to get her away from me. Her decision still cuts like a knife, sharp and golden with confidence. She was optimistic too, but not enough that she could ignore my beautiful plummeting spiral that wraps its arms around me in hugs I have never received.   
So, I let the succulent wither and die, but kept it by my bedside,...

Welcome To New York Part One

My stomach muscles clench in the cold, sore feet pattering on icy streets, but I know that they will want me because I am motivated. 
They must.  
Or my heart of dreams will freeze and crack into icy shards, never to recover.  

Two weeks ago 
The ground shimmers beneath my feet. It rolls in waves like my ocean outside and I feel that I am surfing again, though I know that's not what's happening.   
As I float peacefully, screams from my mother's dishes wash over me, like the pounding of gallons and gallons of water on my head but in sporadic cutting slaps. The roses painted on white ceramic tea cups splinter into the ugly thorns I could never mention to mother. I sure as hell won't now.  
Because she's dead.  
Deader than the fish impaled by cheap hooks on my pier that go to the grandest fine restaurants of town, and deader than the driftwood that washes up on...

Song Writing Competition 2021

Poison

Verse 1-
Think I know who you are
Yes I do
I see it in your heart
Within you
I watch it fall apart
But the question is…
For who?

Chorus 1-
But when the rain starts to pour
And you knock down the door
Used to holding your hand
Now I watch from the floor
Used to show me you loved me
We would always agree
But since I saw you with her
You watch me plea 
Attach something to the wall
It makes the paint fall off
Can’t let more people go
Maybe I’m just too soft
Say something one minute
Poison that you speak
I don’t understand this new you
And it's killing me
Me me me me me…

Verse 2-
You’re unraveling
Slip something in my glass
Heart is festering 
And now it’s harder than brass
Loved you more than anything
Would've died for you gladly
But your soul’s gone to trash
With your lips on...

false confidence

you're my false confidence
pick me up and put me down again
I love your love
but hate the way you do it
you're my false confidence
a smile is boiling with hatred
fingers drawing criticism
on my skin
you're my false confidence
clean sweat clings waiting to be rid
footprints marked with all that 
optimism you walk in
you're my false confidence
a trait you'd trade without a single glance
even all your caring leaves me
with indifference

a disappointed heart

When it storms on a Tuesday
And you weren't prepared
So your sneakers get soaked 
While the sky smiles grim and gray
Standing up out of a wheelchair
After years absent of steps
And collapsing in exhaustion
All your tedious hope left bare
An objection from the one you left behind
Cuts a wonderful and wild wedding cake
And the piercing pain of uncertainty 
That has never quite left your mind
They seem like extraordinary gifts at first
And then you trip over the universe
No end to any beginnings
Begging for a disappointed heart to burst 

a disappointed heart

When it rains on a Tuesday
And I wasn’t prepared
So my sneakers get soaked 
While the sky stays gray
Standing up out of a wheelchair
After years absent of steps
And collapsing in exhaustion
All hope left bare
An objection from the one you left behind
Cuts a wonderful and wild wedding cake
And the piercing pain of uncertainty 
That has never quite left your mind
They seem like extraordinary gifts at first
And then it falls down a rabbit hole
With no end to the beginning
Begging for a disappointed heart to burst 

Takis: The Devil Incarnate

Let me tell you about the idiotic thing I just did.
I was eating Takis, which are really delicious spicy chips if you don't know. I love Takis so much, they have a great lime flavor and a perfectly crunchy texture. The only issue is, I have the spice tolerance of a newborn baby. For some reason, I overlooked this fact and still ate about half a family sized bag of super spicy Takis. It was great while it lasted, but now is the time that I suffer. I'm pretty sure I've turned into a dragon of pure agony because there are flames coming out of my mouth and smoke from my nostrils. Oh wait- no that's not smoke. My nose is just running profusely. I drank a full glass of milk but it had no effect. Nothing can stand up to the spicy supremacy of Takis, and my own never-ending stupidity.

prompt- write an author blurb about yourself in exactly 50 words

Whaddup, I'm Sophia, I'm 15, and I never frickin learned how to read. Just kidding, that couldn't be further from the truth! I'm a nerd who practically only talks about books, books, and more books. I also talk about dance occasionally. I'm absolutely obnoxious, and my friends think so too. ;) 

I Can't Write Fast Enough

cClocks /
Are     / 
Ticking\
Brain/
Is    /
Picking\ 
The/
Cogs\
Are/
Sticking\ 
I’m/
Going\
Insane|
In/
San\
It/
Y|
San\
Itize\ 
Me/
From\ 
This/
Plague\
Of/
Thoughts\
Some/
Are/
Beautiful\
Most/
Are/
Parasitic  \
Pretentious\
Is/
My \
Mind\
Insipid\
No/
Not\
Void\
Full|
Overflowing\
I/
Can’t\ 
Write |
Fast /
Enough\
_

Why do I do this to myself? (edited, more added)

I have a habit of listening to songs until the words burrow nests and tunnels through my brain, hammering at my skull at all hours of the day until they grow so weary that they drop dead and sink down into the pits of my memories and the sound of them makes me want to cry at the insurmountable grief of love lost, I want to cry at the fact that I will never hear the same way again, each curve of a voice and wave of a music note, never again, never the first time. It will be years until I can smile to some songs again because of how fiercely I loved them, until I grew tired.

This is what I do. I love too hard. I love my songs, my books, my films, my people. Reckless and never-ending love that flows but never ebbs from each racking pump of my heart. I am tired of the shape...

25 Words

Welcome To New York

My stomach muscles clench in the cold, sore feet pattering on icy streets, but I know that they will want me because I am motivated. 

Why do I do this to myself? (edited, more added)

I have a habit of listening to songs until the words burrow nests and tunnels through my brain, hammering at my skull at all hours of the day until they grow so weary that they drop dead and sink down into the pits of my memories and the sound of them makes me want to cry at the insurmountable grief of lost love for that song, I want to cry at the fact that I will never hear it the same way again, the beauty of each curve of voice and wave of music notes, never again for the first time. I have a habit of listening to songs until they are not beautiful anymore, because I know every. Single. Thing about them, and each little detail will reside in my mind until the end of time. It will be years until I can smile to some songs again because of how fiercely I loved that song, until I grew...

Song Writing Competition 2021

Poison

Verse 1-
Think I know who you are
Yes I do
I see it in your heart
Within you
I watch it fall apart
But the question is…
For who?

Chorus 1-
But when the rain starts to pour
And you knock down the door
Used to holding your hand
Now I watch from the floor
Used to show me you loved me
We would always agree
But since I saw you with her
You watch me plea 
Attach something to the wall
It makes the paint fall off
Can’t let more people go
Maybe I’m just too soft
Say something one minute
Poison that you speak
I don’t understand this new you
And it's killing me
Me me me me me…

Verse 2-
You’re unraveling
Slip something in my glass
Heart is festering 
And now it’s harder than brass
Loved you more than anything
Would've died for you gladly
But your soul’s gone to trash
With your lips on...

Pandemonium (Based on prompt by Mahathi.S)

Prompt- write a 150-word story starting with the word “Pandemonium” (by Mahathi.S)

Pandemonium is my middle name. Well, actually it’s my first name. I am the direct descendant of chaos herself, but I’m even more angry. I’m so angry. I’m worse than a demon, I’m nightmares incarnate. I’m crazy. I'm cuckoo. I’m a furious cobra and I’ll strike to kill. But first I’ll dunk you in a river until you have water in your lungs and then I’ll crisp your skin over a raging bonfire that I can light with a little exhale.
And then I’ll wake up from my dream and see the doctors on either side of my bed, where they’re still watching my dreams projected on a screen. I see their horrified faces and laugh. They think it’s a “condition.” They don’t believe me when I say that I. Am. Pandemonium. Chaos and mayhem and havoc and madness and anarchy and uproar all bow down to...

Always

I’ll love you before the sun rises
And even after it sets.
More than the world
And all the darkness within it
Did you forget that after Midnight
It is morning again?

Lost Things

A strip of plastic
Is a receipt for a life
Born anew from the stars
An unraveled string
Is a burn on the fingers, 
Redness woven into feeble warmth
A chunk of wax
Is a little bit of childhood
Because now they snap under the weight of art
A small stone
Is the promise of forever
On the hand of a lonely lover
A fleck of glitter
Is the shining smile of a star on stage
Left behind to go shake hands for the last time
A burnt match
Is the turning of an hourglass
On frail and forgotten bones
A slab of rock 
Is carved with the name 
Of a soul sleeping in the soil
And a scrap of paper
Is the memory of a poet
Who is in love with lost things

?

once again I come around the sun
like phases of the moon
that last forever
I cry on this day every year
the important people forget
but on theirs they are turning heads
and earning all the love
I hoped I would be important
but I was mistaken
I sort of thought
someone would care
but it seems that only the Sun and the Moon
have noticed

Book Review Competition 2021

"Unwind" by Neal Shusterman Book Review

Pro-life or pro-choice? Black Lives Matter or All Lives Matter? Republican or Democrat? The book Unwind by Neal Shusterman, and the following books in the series are always asking the difficult questions that challenge your morals within the fictional future taking place while also being perfectly applicable to our world today. It is an extraordinary book that everyone should read at least once if they ever want to have an existential crisis but in a good way.   
Unwind takes place in a dystopian United States where a medical procedure called unwinding is performed on troubled or unwanted teens. After the war between the pro-life and pro-choice communities ended a compromise emerged: Children were untouchable after conception until they reached the age of thirteen. From then until their eighteenth birthday, parents could sign an unwind order. When somebody is unwound, every single part of their body can be used in organ transplants, from their brain to their toes. It is a...