Caitlin Rose Sockin
Creative Writing Samples
Novella, Short Stories, Plays, & Poetry
Novella
The Land of the Evil (2011)
This novella was my first success in following through on a huge task of writing a fantasy world into existence, from around ages nine to twelve. I worked with characterization, setting, and proper writing, among other book logistics like editing, cover design, and formatting. Although it is not very well-written, I believe this experience helped me learn patience and what to improve upon in my writing.
Short Stories
"Secret Codes & Squirrels" (2014)
I always wonder what I am doing living here. I still haven’t pinpointed it as I watch seasons change from my window. My sagging curtains frame the light outside, flickering as the sun dances between the patches of puffy, white clouds. I hear a distant squeal of a toddler and the yelling of kids playing soccer. A gray-haired couple on the sidewalk strolls past my window, chuckling, watching three squirrels scurry into the trees. Across the street, an older man wipes his brow in the blazing sun. His lawn mower gives a shout like the Greeks running into an epic battle, slicing through the tall, flowing grass. I guess you could smile approvingly at this setting. But that is simply your reaction.
The next neighborhood over, Cranbury, buzzes with the sounds of teenagers. I ride my bike over there every weekend to see my best friend, Katie. After speeding across the road to her neighborhood, I feel a sudden shift in mood. Hormones fill the air and smell like dirty socks and sweat. Video games echo behind closed doors in these houses, I can sense it. None of it bothers me in the slightest.
Sometimes I wish my parents bought a house in Cranbury. I dream about having a secret code system of communicating with Katie. Maybe something cool like having secret tunnels to an underground lab, or even a system of flashing Morse code from bedroom windows draped in satin. Anything would do.
It wouldn’t be too late to move now. Everyone else is doing it to get away from the construction. Why not hop on the bandwagon? I hope Mom and Dad think about it. The same goes for the three scurrying squirrels.
I’m not a big fan of the bushy-tailed folk because they tend to make themselves at home doing trapeze acts from our bird feeders. But today on my way back from Katie’s house, I couldn’t help but pause as one crossed my path. The squirrel glanced at me briefly, as if he were worried I would steal his precious nut, to scamper up a nearby tree in an off-road forest. I stood there and watched as he nibbled his nut as fast as an excited dog wags its tail. As I moved on from the scene, two other squirrels on the sidewalk took one quick look at me and darted for the trees. I shook my head. I wasn’t any danger to them. But as I neared home, coming across various house “for sale” signs opened my eyes. They did have something to worry about besides having enough nuts to last them the winter.
There is a nonexistent home for the squirrels on the way with this construction. They might scurry away in fear, only to come back to stumps and blade-shredded hope. As for the people, it’s hard to live with the sounds of machinery. Who is to buy the houses now? Not Katie. I’ve already tried to convince her with my idea of a new secret code we could use. Chances are more families will slip in with babies on the way or little life within them to spare instead. Maybe the cacophony will finally silence the shrieks of joy from my neighbors. Though I can’t help feeling guilty as I watch from my window with the blue, drooping curtains. Not for the people, but for the three squirrels. I should have warned them to get out, leave, take all their nutty friends with them and go where I can’t. To Cranbury. Vroom! Crack! Thunk! I listen to wonder from my window.
"Southern Belle" (Finalist, Raleigh Fine Arts Literary Contest, 2017, Excerpt)
April 1866
I’ave been told I’am lucky to be in my place. With the Civil War and all, my pa still managed to build the fastest steamboat the South ever seen! His money was able to git the finest materials and workers to make it truly amazin’: and now it cuts through the Mississippi faster than a belted kingfisher catchin’ its prey!
So of course everyone in New Orleans threw Pa a party for his success. What can I say? People are jus’ sweet as honey down here! It was at a huge hall in the middle of town and everyone dressed their nicests. As my ma pushed my brother Joey and I like the devil through doors big ’nough for the river itself to run though, I glew with pride. ’Gain, I thought to myself, I’am lucky to be in my place.
My white bowed dress could’ve knocked everyone out of their ways and I thought ’bout it for a second, but I knew Ma would send me a judged look and I would git it later. She already had her lips pursed in a thin line, shovin’ me along. She didn’t care much for crowds, as most would ignore her for easy Pa. I gis that’s why she didn’ bother to dress her best, wearin’ a black dress with wild hair to match her cold stare. Yet we needed to look nice; I’ll neva understand Ma in that way.
I saw Joey had already spotted the berry pie on the rectangular table stretchin’ the whole long ballroom. He was goin’ for it, but Ma yanked him away and told us over the fiddles: “Joey, Annabelle, go find your chairs.” And you don’t dare disobey Ma.
Pa understood we had orders when he spotted us. He had come earlier to see his pals he worked with on the boat. He tipped his beer glass toward Joey and I and winked before he went back ta laughin that deep belly laugh of his with his group o’ fellers. As I was finally able to sit down in my wired dress, I glanced at Ma. She’d turnt her back to whisper to a trio of wives that matched her with pursed lips, crossed arms, and wanderin’, uneasy eyes.
My gaze shifted back to my napkin and silver cutlery, and of course Joey had taken the moment when Ma’s back was turnt to scamper toward the food. Sigh. I rested my chin on the palm of my hand and fumbled with my decorative fork. The fiddled song ended and I clapped along with the hollerin’ crowd. I glanced back from Pa to Ma...but Ma was missing. Maybe it was my time to wander, too. If it weren’t for Joey, I woulda stayed but it weren’t like anyone would come and address James Hadley’s 12-year-old daughter, Annabelle. I frowned, bored; I would be better off if I had company. I find friends in my dolls, but Ma said bringin’ ’em would make a show.
I pushed out of my chair at the empty, round table when Ma jus’ swooped in like a hawk out of the blue and pushed me back down. Her eyes cut through me and wouldn’t let me move. I didn’ argue; like I said, you jus’ don’t disobey Ma.
A clanking sounded and the music stopped and everyone turned their heads to Mr. Burgess, whose wife was talkin’ to Ma before, standin’ on a table in the center of the room. He stumbled about, laughin’ and hitting his empty beer glass with a silver fork. Mr. Burgess pulled Pa up on top the table with no struggle, kicking plates out of the way to make room for standin’. “Attention!” Mr. Burgess called carefreely into the crowd.
“This ’ere is ma good frien’ James Hadley. He just built ’bout the finest ship in the South,” he hiccupped, “and probably the wide world!” What did I tell you? Pa was admired. I’am lucky to be in my place.
Ma clapped half-heartedly. Her head stayed facin’ Mr. Burgess as he went on and on about how great Pa was and the honor he’d given all of New Orleans, but her eyes brushed the ceiling. I followed her glance to the hangin’ crystal chandelier—teeterin’ right above Pa.
And only a moment too late did I see the chandelier swingin’ in slow motion before it took a clean snap and slipped from the ceiling. Pa was pointin’ at Joey, who was tryin’ to hide pie crumbs with his hand. I tried to do somethin’, but I was frozen in time. He then was pointin’ at me, and I faintly heard a camera snap. I tried to shout for Pa to duck or somethin’, but it was as if someone stole my lungs.
Then my world came crashin’ down. And just like that, Pa had turned into my own, crushed rag doll. And Ma didn’ even blink.
I’ave been told I was lucky to be sittin’ in my place. ’Times I wish folks would quit with their “luck”-talk. How can I ’ave sucha lucky life if it was written out for me?
High School Play Writing
Phantasmagorey-a (2015)
Phantasmagorey-a was a collective writing effort among a few cast members, including myself. Much of my writing is at the end of the play (38:50). I also had the privilege of playing Ortenzia Caviglia, the opera singer.
Poetry
"The Eagle" (Published by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, 2013)
Crystalized light
Captures an eagle’s flight,
Soaring past the skyscraping trees.
It is quite clear
He rides with no fear,
Gliding with the benevolent breeze.
He knows his reason,
No matter what season,
His sanguine spirit shows.
His purpose of time,
Through rain or shine,
Is to fly where the wise wind blows.
"Cleopatra" (Published in the Heliopolis Literary Magazine, 2014)
I sat sturdy upon my throne,
subjects’ eyes full of smiles.
I was Cleopatra,
last Queen of the Nile.
Guests held their breath for me
and with Neith’s wisdom I declared,
“If a snake should bite you,
first bite back, but soon beware…”
Soon Ra’s anger brought forth darkness,
much more than I could see.
My heart engulfed in Hathor’s ways,
Egypt forced to its knees.
I lie troubled in tangled sheets,
while rage now sweeps my land.
Battle soon to break down the doors,
a snake I grasp in hand.
Deadly venom then takes its hold,
ye gods, the pain so vile!
As I am Cleopatra—
past Queen of the Nile.
"In With the New" (2014)
To the child, the toy was appealing,
unaware that his interest was fleeting.
When the epiphany rolled into that night,
fallen rain enhanced his sight.
Why does the racecar no longer zoom,
without a push of a hand
and a shouted “vroom”?
Before night ever met day,
that toy had been carelessly tossed away.
There were plenty of others with which to play.
Now absorbed in new toys with objectives to find,
the old never briefly crosses his mind.
The new becomes old with a flip of a dime,
as if charmed by hypnotist, Father Time.
We all are this child, too quick to shed,
too full of ignorance to read the unread.
And as Father Time takes his toll,
you still wouldn’t know what was gone from
your soul.
"Laughter" (2015)
It brightens the world.
I breathe in the cotton candy air
on a Sunday drive.
My ear peaks past the window,
open to the voices in the breeze.
Laughter. It brightens the world.
Moving mutely past, I question:
Is this why
I watch the world flicker?
The gold chimes in the solid blue sky
with giggles from my elders,
the tinkling of bells over bridge.
Bright, sunny yellows sail through
palm trees, flashing
as peek-a-boo carries in a single
breath.
Silver bounces like a deep belly laugh
and a loose chuckle
from a pair of long-term friends.
The setting fills with chortles from dinner tables.
Laughter. It brightens the world
like a moon, floating in full sight.
The fact, tonight, you choose not to hide,
makes my world brighter.
Gold chimes,
yellow flies,
silver shines,
black hides,
Sunday rides.
Laughter.
It brightens up the world.
It tickles us all to death.
Is this why,
in my time,
I forgot to add mine?
"The Lonely Tree" (Published by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, Caitlin's Corner, 2016)
I was a mere sapling,
sprouts of glimmering tea green leaves
stretching from my fingertips.
I spread my stubby limbs toward the sky.
I strived to mimic my towering brothers,
who leaned over to whisper,
“Even through decay, remember your wooden support.”
I recalled this in my middle age, as
the visible horizon changed color.
Deep hews of crumpled crimson collapsed from the sky.
I dreamt the rumble of a twisted earthquake, the dying whispers of my family.
I might as well have been a stump in the ground,
looking down to my brothers.
I sobbed tears of yellow, orange, red, but mostly
those of a lifeless brown.
I am bare and chilled,
and decayed to the point of a breakdown.
I remember my wooden support,
but those of my people
are gone.
I now never see the forest for the trees.
There is no longer a forest.
There is only me.
I’m lucky if a bird passes to twitter a hello,
or lucky if a termite decides to
acknowledge my presence.
The emptiness grows, and I have been eaten out,
hollow.
With a final sharp breath and a deep moan,
I give way to my weak base.
They knew
when my family’s roots were unearthed,
mine would be, too.
"Waterproof Chalk" (2016)
I hope you hear my witty remarks,
standing in an fog of rainbow and sparks.
You reach for my hand and I reach for yours,
but your eyes only grace the colorful floors.
I wait for our embrace with an open mind;
through risky attempts we’ve stayed confined.
My heart drawn out on weak pavement,
ready for you to come claim it.
With every giggle that escapes,
the more and more I can’t take.
And with every number my feet kiss,
there’s more and more of you I miss.
I wonder who colored the sidewalk with chalk,
dust swirling, a gray cloud as we talk.
Lines separate our hearts into etched fragments
that we hop into with desperate intents.
Collapsing hard, I cave in
to feelings exposed with bloody skin.
But we aren’t children out at play
and life has no hug to save the day.
I wait for you to come to my aid,
to realize with this fantasy, you only fade.
I’m left with cuts and scrapes and choked-up pleas,
hoping one day you will answer me.
How did we end up all boxed in?
How in this game can anyone win?
Who brought us together to leave us on lock?
We colored the sidewalk with waterproof chalk.