Artist's statement

Hello, my name is Agatha the fish throwing cat. before you read my blog, read this.

In my portfolio, I managed to get across humor and entertainment to the other side of the spectrum, believing that in times of need, there is always literature to cheer one’s soul. Happiness is truly a magical thing. I hoped for my collection of hearty and rich short stories to achieve magic in the form of a smile, or even a small chuckle. My favorite piece in this collection would have to be “Turkey!!!” for its sense of humor and sweet, quirky plot. It truly brought a smile to my face. I remember The first draft, which was not as developed as it is now. I took that first draft, added more description of the food, and more figurative language, as well as edited, revised, and finished. I did this with several other pieces, for which I will make a post containing their first drafts. These pieces are important to me, they make me cheerful, they should make you cheerful too. That is also the so what: humor and happiness, the act of entertaining through, as I said before: my own style of magic.








Free verse first draft.

I remember when I was four, I moved into the house I live in today. At the time, I didn’t know what was going on. One day, as my mom picked me up from tennis just as usual, except that we didn’t go home. We came back to the place we had been in a few weeks ago, what I would now know as my house. I came in to see my brother, my dad,  and my uncle(dad’s cousin) sitting on the couch and talking. Wait. These couches are the ones from home. What is going on? We moved in more furniture into the house, and I finally realized what was going on… and I didn’t mind. This house was nice, not as small as our old one. This one also has a basement!  I fell asleep that night happy, and not the least bit homesick.

Extrordinary ordinary first draft

I stare at the sweater. The sweater stares at me. It's worn out, torn, dirty, and four sizes too small. I pick it up, walk over to the garbage can, and stop. Something isn’t right. Even with all my willpower and willingness, I cannot drop it into the trash can. Memories come flashing back. What was I wearing when I won the raffle with only a few tickets? What was I wearing when I aced that test? What was I wearing when Rebecca said hi to me? The sweater remains clutched in my hand as I try to release it, but I cannot. My lucky sweater had been with me for years. Back then, when my mom gave it to me, it still was red, and fit me perfectly. Now, a faded maroon sweater with several holes may have looked shabby, but was nonetheless special to me.

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TURKEY!!!!!

FOOD, Inst it great? This is the story of a colleague of mine, Mark was his name, who had a particularly small stomach. I remember him telling me this story.

The time had come.

Anticipation grew.

Most of us were hungry, but I was famished. Due to over- eating at earlier thanksgiving parties, I decided to not eat a thing the entire day so that I could enjoy this moment. What a fool I was. The horrible pang of hunger only became worse as my nose detected a beautiful, succulent smell filled with several hints of sweet and meaty. A voice was chanting in my head, one word, over and over. Turkey. Turkey. Turkey.
My heart leaped and my eyes widened to see the turkey, plump and toasted brown to perfection. I could not see burn marks anywhere. The succulent bird sat on a pile of stuffing that had fallen out of its innards, floating on a pool of cranberry sauce also occupied by assorted fruits. The tray on which the dish was served was carried by my dad, the primary chef on thanksgiving, and thanksgiving only. Following my father was my mom, my cousin, my aunt, and my brother each holding a side dish. They were placed on the table one by one. Creamy white mashed potatoes accompanied by a small but elegant gravy boat clanked on the glass table first. Then came the coated herring, a delicious Russian family dish made the best by my grandma. It was put down close to the center of the long table. Then my cousin followed and slowly bent down to put the delicate plate filled with a good amount of stuffing which she so carefully carried. At this point I was dying of the sheer amount of anticipation which was almost choking me to death. Could I breathe? Could I live? I needed that turkey, and I would stop at nothing to get it.

“Okay, everyone” cooed my mother. “if you all will just wait a moment, we still have a few dishes
to bring out”.

My eyes were red, I was sweating, maybe even crying. My hand was clenched on my fork so tight that I felt it bend to the curvature of my hand. Nothing mattered anymore except the turkey. Then, miraculously, the turkey stood up and turned to me, brushing off the delicious juices off its thighs. Oh my god, am I hallucinating?

“Come eat me, mark” the turkey said sweetly, yet somewhat demonically. “I’m as good as can
be, mark. I’m toasted to perfection, stuffed with goodness, and battered with wondrous, delicious sauce”. I had enough. This torture had to end. Without thinking, I climbed up onto the edge of the table, eying my prize. All the other family members Sat puzzled as to why I was standing on the table. It seemed as if all attention was on me, but I didn’t care. My eyes followed the scent of my primary target: a warm, brown, over-sized turkey filled with carrots, bread, plums, apples, potato and love, marinaded in teriaki sauce mixed with soy and barbecue sauce, a mix that surprisingly goes together amazingly. I started to run for the turkey, jumping into a dive, and somehow not breaking the glass as I flopped on the table. I slid towards the turkey, not caring how many plates and dishes I had broken or pushed off the table. I was so close. When I arrived to my final destination, I hugged the turkey, taking giant bites off the top of the juicy, delicious bird. People were frantic, screaming at me, but it was bliss. I felt so good that I began to cry sweet tears of joy upon the giant bites of turkey breast, toasted on the outside, but tender and nice on the inside. In each bite, I could taste teriyaki, cranberry, the tasteful influence of fruits, and most of all:

“DELICIOUS TASTY TURKEY!!!!!” I screamed.

Yup, best day ever.

PIE (Repetetive description)

You know whats fun? PIE

In this new entertaining genre, I will be describing and focusing on one thing: PIE!!!!!!!

Pie.   

Walking home, I pass by Mrs. Smith’s house, and smell the delicious scent of PIE. Pie is good, good pie is great. Pie is delicious, tasty, succulent. Pie is like all good in the universe crammed into a pie crust filled with pie filling, topped with a pie top. Pie is what all is. Pie is all that ever was. Now, Pie is everywhere, not just on Mrs smith’s windowsill, but everywhere. Every single place I look, i see pie, pie, pie, pie, PIE!!! Pie can solve many things. Hungry? Pie, pie pie pie pie. Need to throw something into another persons face? Pie, pie pie pie pie. Whats the area of a circle? r2  times pie, pie pie pie pie. Pie and mark, sitting in a tree. E-A-T-I-N-G E-A-C-H O-T-H-E-R.  If I eat the pie, would Mrs Smith scold me? pie. Would it be delicious? PIE. Worth it? PIEEEEEYYY!!!!!! Pie Pie Pie Pie. I think its safe to say that I am going insane, and all these pies flowing around me seem very hungry. Blueberry pies, apple pies, cream pies, chocolate pies,little pies, big pies, pies made out of pies, pies so big they are carried by legions of pies sitting on other floating PIIIIIEEEEESSSS. I look down at myself. Am i sane? Am i alive? The pies start attacking, taking large bites out of me. I fight back, endulging in their fruity goodness. but I am outnumbered, and the pies devour me.The irony of it! I wake up, face buried in Mrs. Smith’s pie. I look up to see her snarling face, and run away.

Extraordinary ordinary

Welcome back, it is good to see that you have not yet give up on me. anyway, have you ever had something you think isn't special, but is, in its own way? I present to you: a new genre: Extraordinary Ordinary. Enjoy. 


I stare at the sweater. The sweater stares at me. It's worn out, torn, dirty, and four sizes too
small. I pick it up, walk over to the garbage can, and stop. Something isn’t right. Even with all my
willpower and willingness, I cannot drop it into the trash can. My clutched hands are frozen. Memories come flashing back. What was I wearing when I won the raffle with only a few tickets? What was I wearing when I aced that test? What was I wearing when Rebeca said hi to me? The sweater remains clutched in my hand as I try to release it, but I cannot. My lucky sweater had been with me for years. Back then, when my mom gave it to me, it still was red, and fit me perfectly. I wore it almost every day. Now, a faded maroon sweater with several holes may have looked shabby, but was nonetheless special to me. I flop the sweater on my desk, where I take out a pair of scissors, and cut the thin fabric into one big square, then ask my mom to sow up the holes. As she handed the square back to me, I proceeded to washing the dirt and grime off of it. In the end, I have a brilliant red, lucky. Amazing.
Hankerchief

Toto, were not in northbrook anymore.

Good evening, my entertained slaves, Through the eighth wonder of the world which is my mind, I have once again constructed a masterpiece. this time: a narrative paragraph reformatted into an extremely long free verse poem.  


Enjoy 


OR ELSE



I remember
when I was four,
I moved
into the house
I live in today.
At the time,
I didn’t
understand
that a change
in my life
was imminent.
One day,
my mom picked me up
from my tennis lesson as usual,
except
that we didn’t go
home.
We came to the house
we had been in
a few weeks ago
for a reason I couldn't
understand.
We came
into this house,
not my home
Its nice
fuzzy
carpeted floors
comforting
my feet
and smells of lavender
which appealed to me,
lavender
being my favorite smell.
But why
were we
here?
I remember
the moment when
my brother Mike
and I
came into a room,
unaware that it would become my room.
As my brother,
sat down at a desk,
I grabbed
a glass of what
looked like
Pepsi,
but as soon as
I tipped it
to my mouth,
the blob
of jelly
(made to look
like soda),
plopped
on my face.
I remember it smelled
like rubber
and more lavender.
I burst out
laughing
and so
did mike.
Now, two weeks later,
I still pondered
why we were
in what
I would
now know as
my house.
I came in
to see mike,
my dad,  
and my roman
(dad’s cousin)
sitting
on the couch
and talking.
Wait.
These couches
were the ones from
home.
What was going on?
More familiar furniture
was brought in,
and I finally
realized
what was going on…
and I didn’t mind.
This house
was nice, not
as small
as our old one.
This one also
has a
basement!  
I fell
asleep
that night
happy, and
not the
least bit
homesick.

Post 3- Haiku

Hello my subjects, it is I, Agatha, bringing you a new post with a new genre: HAIKU!!!!. 
Enjoy.


The meadow sits
quiet and still 
peaceful and pleasant. 

Brave cicada 
answers the call. 
A new life begins. 

life blooms in the meadow. 
Every being, a happy soul 
while there is still light. 

A lonely night falls 
breeze turns bitter 
light will come once more.