2021

WRITING
PORTFOLIO

EVELYN CHEN
 STNETNOC
FO ELBAT
3 M Y O N E

2018 POEM
B E S T F R I E N D

4 I , N A R C I S S I S T

2018 SHORT STORY

7 M A N - M A D E

2019 POEM

8 R E D L I P S

2020 SHORT STORY

A L W A Y S L I E

13 T H E

2020 POEM
L O N E C A R Y A T I D

15 S A I L I N G

2021 POEM
O N T H E A E G E A N S E A

17 M A R A T H O N

2021 POEM

19 T H E

2021 POEM
K I S S
 MY ONE BEST FRIEND

I don’t have any friends

I spend my lunches alone
Embarrassed by my own solitude.

But every day at the end of school

I toss down my bags
And fling away my coat

A frisson of excitement invades my mind

My head is buzzing with anticipation

Oh, internet
Endless glittering of entertainment
The lure of a few hours of escapism

Oh, internet
My one best friend!

I am left with nothing

But the flicker
Of the computer screen.

A poem about escapism and loneliness

featured on Exposure's online magazine
Link:
Poem – My One Best Friend | Exposure
 I, NARCISSIST
I felt trapped in the deadly silence of the
hospital room. The taste of those pills lingered,
adding to my discomfort. The tabloid press
speculated that I took the antidepressants
because I wanted to commit suicide. Yet my
lifestyle was envied by millions across the world.

I was famous for being famous. My glamorous

social media accounts and pics chronicled an
existence of endless makeup, parties and
pristine swimming pools, all lacquered and shiny
with the promise of the perfect life.

My acne disappeared under a layer of

luminescent bronzer, with highlights creating
dramatic cheekbones. The bones poking out of
my back were Photoshopped away, so my body
always looked toned and tanned; the truth was
that I had not eaten solid foods for a month now.
This diet reduced my once lustrous hair into
thinning clumps, but Jan, my agent, ensured I
always had the best hair extensions.

Beep, beep, beep.

The phone buzzed in my hand, and Jan’s photo

popped up. When I first met Jan, she wore
threadbare clothes and had an air of
desperation. Now, after discovering me, she
wore nothing but the latest Prada and Versace.
Her appearance had thankfully improved, but she
had become a more demanding agent.
“What do you want?”

“Oh, honey! I’ve got a great idea to boost your

image. We can film you visiting an orphanage
tomorrow, giving all the poor kids presents…”

Abruptly, I hung up the phone. I was tired,

shaken and hurting and the first thing she asked
me about was a publicity stunt. Typical Jan.
For the rest of the day, my phone remained eerily
silent; I received not one call or text asking
about my health or wellbeing. My so-called
friends posted their concerns online but nobody
visited. My only companion was the low hum of a
daytime soap on the TV; at least there were no
paparazzi in sight wielding their intrusive
cameras, nor hordes of obsessive fans pounding
on the door.

Deep purple patches circled my eyes and my lips

were bloodless, like a corpse. My good looks had
totally vanished after the overdose but, instead
of being alarmed, I was strangely apathetic. I
felt a gnawing restlessness, a mix of boredom,
regret and longing for something deeper.

I should have been grateful for the plethora of

‘get well’ cards and fragrant flowers, from an
endless supply of so-called admirers — André,
Sandra, Timothy…

Yet where were they now?

We must have met at countless parties but they

were so similar they all blurred into nothing.
 The men were fake and the women faker, more
concerned with wearing the right shade of nail
polish than remembering each others’ names.

Despite my face appearing on the front cover for

every gossip magazine and having one of the
most popular social media accounts in the world,
I felt dissatisfied. Chasing for more likes and
followers, I could never fill the hole left by the
lack of authentic connection in my life.

Sometimes, I went through entire days without

having a single face-to-face conversation with
another person. Maybe that was why I overdosed
– to finally feel something real.

On Instagram, it seemed as if I had the perfect

lifestyle. Perfect body, perfect face, perfect
friends. Glued to the screen, like an addict, I am
slowly but surely wasting away. The screen is a
dark mirror into my innermost fantasies.

If I lean in too closely, I might lose myself

forever in the virtual world, whilst my real body
falls apart.

I am the Narcissus of modern times.

A short story about vanity and social media

featured on Exposure's online magazine
Link:
Short story about vanity, social media, and
loneliness: I, Narcissist | Exposure
 MAN-MADE
In the old river, broken bottles bob up
and down
Like the trout and salmon, which are all
long gone

Eerie silence permeates the broken land

Where sweet birdsong was heard at
every bend

The salty smell of the sea used to linger

here
Now the harsh fumes of diesel linger
year after year

Where are the bees buzzing through the

buds of spring?
Where are the swallows soaring over
unbroken skies?

Year after year, there remains nothing.

A poem about the environment which won a

university-wide competition on the topic of global
health
I later performed this poem at the launch a new
bookshop
 RED LIPS ALWAYS LIE

A short story exploring the femme fatale

archetype and crime thrillers, published in the
John Bryne Award for Creative Arts, 2019 Edition.

I’m not a bad person, I swear. But, oh, how a

murderer that makes me sound!

A trickle of dark brownish-red against my grey

cotton knickers. The first time I bled, I was
terrified. After insisting to my mother that I was
going to die, she loudly laughed and made me read
‘Puberty 101: A Guide for your Changing Bodies’,
a free pamphlet she printed off the NHS website.

The monthly cramps were not the only change I

started experiencing. People finally paid attention
to me now. The boys, who used to call me ‘Paki’
and flick spit wads at me, suddenly wanted to be
my friends.

The girls still refused to talk to me but now they

looked at me whenever I walked down the
hallways. Even my teachers started paying extra
attention to me; my grades shot up under this
preferential treatment and I actually started to
enjoy learning. Even my father smiled at me more
when he noticed my shirts getting tighter in the
chest.

My mother begrudgingly brought me bras from the

bargain store.
 Nevertheless, I was still poor and dressed like an
orphan from modern renditions of ‘Oliver Twist'.
Despite my boyish outfits, men (and some women!)
were smiling at me and telling me how wonderful I
am.

My first job was in London as a PA to one of the

senior managers at an investment fund. For the
first time in my life, I could afford finer things. I
swapped my garish hoop earrings for diamond
earrings, my cheap own brand makeup for Prada
and KFC’s milkshakes for cocktails at trendy bars.
I smiled when I brought my mother the first new
pair of shoes she wore for years. Life was looking
good. Red Siren Number 7.

The lipstick, fluorescent red and potent, twirled

out of its sleek black casing. It was the brightest
scarlet I had ever seen but somehow avoided being
too garish. In a smooth motion, I slid the lipstick
onto my mouth.

Previously a faint pink, my lips were poker red

against my caramel skin. Beautiful. I was
beautiful. The first time we did it was in the office
on the couch. I was staring at a photo of his wife
and children the whole time. They looked like the
perfect family from a Phillipe Patek commercial,
all bright white smiles and sunning-bed tanned
complexions. It didn’t hurt that he was rich either.

We were walking along the Thames one morning

when I casually commented that I liked the damask
dress on display in the window of the luxury
boutique. A few minutes later, I was walking out of
the shop with the new outfit in tow.
 This whole saga started with a big cliché. I, an
attractive twenty-something, had caught the
attention of my boss. It was only a matter of time
—he was a typical male, silver-haired with a
giant beer belly and dissatisfied with his middle-
aged wife.

He graduated from Oxford back in the 90s and

married his college girlfriend, a blonde beauty
from a wealthy family. Flash forward three
decades and her slender body sunk on itself like
a rotten pumpkin, ravaged by childbirth and the
relentless progression of time. Her compliant
smiles turned into nagging demands and their
once-active sex life devolved into sleeping in
separate bedrooms. I had even met her once, at
my boss’s birthday party. She looked at me in
disdain as we made small talk about the weather,
before strutting away to laugh at her husband’s
jokes.

She had come back early from her yoga class. The
wife had walked in on us in flagrante delicto.
There was a lot of shouting and the throwing of
valuables. In the middle of the drama, I put on a
bathrobe and crept out of the open door, before
driving his car to my flat. The next day, I
received a message from the boss.

You’re fired.

Now at this point, I could just find new work.

However, I had just been fired from my first ever
job, which greatly decreased my chances of
entering a well-paid profession.
 Now at this point, I could just find new work.
However, I had just been fired from my first ever
job, which greatly decreased my chances of
entering a well-paid profession.

With no decent job, I had no money. I couldn’t go

back to the poverty of my childhood, the greasy
microwave meals, the bargain shop cosmetics and
second-hand clothes. Besides, it was flattering to
know that I had caught the attention of such a
wealthy, powerful man; I felt disgusted at the
thought of my boss crawling back to his hideous
wife like some well-trained dog.

So, I waited for a week, before ambushing him on

his way home for work. We could run away
together, I said, like star-crossed lovers. You
could be young again and free from the
responsibilities of providing for an ungrateful wife
and spoiled children.

We could live in Spain as you’ve always wanted.

He lured her on a romantic camping trip for two in
the Lake District in an attempt to ‘strengthen their
marriage’.

They stayed in a cosy cabin on the edge of the

forest, two hours away from the nearest village. I
arrived after they took a drive around the village.
It was quiet and then the birds flew away all at
once after the gun went off. The blood squirted
out, a jet of deep crimson. She fell to the floor
with a solid thump.
 With my gloved hand, I checked her pulse and
nodding to my co-conspirator when I found none,
we carried her out of the house, through the forest
and into the grave I had dug hours earlier.

It was years later when we had established

ourselves in a charming ex-pat town in Alicante,
that the police found us. In the beginning, we
were both under suspicion but they could not pin
the murder on us, having never found the body.
But a property developer had wanted to build a
hotel in the area and his builders found the
remains.

The rest you know is recorded quite clearly in the

news. The story made headlines across the world—
it was a slow year for news—and overnight, I had
become a celebrity. My lover, weak and lily-
livered as he was, committed suicide whilst on
trial. I cried and cried when I found out and the
media lapped it up.

Please, I’m just an innocent young woman

enthralled by the allure of an older, more powerful
man. He took advantage of my youth and his
position to manipulate me into the murder. I am
deeply sorry for what I have done. Whilst in
Alicante, I lived quite comfortably. I drank fine
wines, ate seafood every day and took up surfing.
The strong sun made my skin glow like polished
mahogany and I developed a model-like physique
from all the time spent outdoors. Despite my age, I
was still attractive.

Now in jail, I smile at the guards and bide my

time. My lips are less full than they were a decade
ago but they are still red.
THE LONE CARYATID AT
THE BRITISH MUSEUM
Across all of Athens, we used to stand
Six sisters sculpted from alabastrine
marble
And tinged with gold
Bearing gifts to Artemis

To our West bloomed Athena’s favour

A tree drooping with olives
Next to the altars of Erechtheus’s kin
Where Athena’s snake roamed

Saltwater sprung where Poseidon’s

trident struck
Flanked by the bones of Athen’s founding
kings
And to the East stood Athena Polias
Tall and proud, protectress of all in the
city

Until strangers came upon our land

First the Christians with their Theotokos,
Who fell by the hands of the Franks
Then the Ottomans, staining the marble
red
 Rough hands prised me from my home
Under a veil of darkness, whilst my
sisters slept

And when I finally awoke from my restless

slumber
I was encased behind a sheet of glass
2000 miles away from all I love

How I yearn for the scent of oil burning

in Athena’s golden lamp!
How I yearn to feel the Greek sun shining
upon the temple from whence I came!
How I yearn to hear the ocean waves
meeting Athen’s shores once again!

For centuries now I stand alone

In a strange country where the rain goes
on and on

And 2000 miles away

My sisters mourn for me every night

This poem was written in response to seeing the

Caryatid on display at the British Museum and
reflecting on Greece's history
 SAILING ON THE AEGEAN
SEA
Sailing on the Aegean Sea
Where Achilles and 100,000 Acheans advanced
Troy-ward
Where sailors succumbed to the Siren’s seductive
song
Where the Minoans carried Egyptian art Crete-
bound
And the Mycenaeans first conjured forth the Gods

Through the straits of Greece and Salamis

Where the Athenian fleet crushed the Persians
into the rocks
Where Alexander the Great waged war against
them and won
Where Aristotle’s teachings spread across the
ancient world
And the Roman Empire rose to conquer the Seven
Seas

Past the mountain shrines of Samothrace

Where the Apostle Paul dwelled on his mission to
God
Where the Ottomans battled the Byzantines for
the waters
Where the Venetians traded Chioggian salts for
spices from India
And the Greeks surged against the Turks for their
freedom
Where fishing dinghies scoop nets full for squirming
fish
Where the bright hum of chatter and music drifted
across the waves
Where laughing tourists posed for pictures over the
empty ruins of Tory

And you lie on your ship, sailing on the Aegean Sea

Gazing at
the past and present

This was a poem I had written to explore the

timeless nature of physical places and the epic
scope of Greek history, past and present.
 MARATHON

Thump, thump, thump

My heart is going to tear
from my chest
The heat of the sun clings
to my skin
My nose in invaded by the
stench of my sweat

Like legends past, the

ground is soft and lush
With laced white fennels
springing up and down
As the light of the sun
shines upon the ancient
ruins
And the burial mounds of
the fallen dotting the plains
 A blur of faceless voices buzz
and babble as I approach
Through a daze of dust, I see
the finishing line
As if wearing Hermes’s winged
sandals
My feet throbbing as they pound
against the tarmac road
I fly towards my glory, to the
cheers of the crowd

I too want to be remembered

through history
Like the ancient warriors who
drove the Persians to the sea
And the swift messenger who
arrived in Athens, proclaiming
‘Our enemies are dead, victory,
victory!’

'Marathon is a poem I wrote imagining what it is

like to win a historic sporting event and
connecting the determination and skill needed
to win a sporting event with winning a battle.
 THE KISS

Our love is golden

Cemented in time
Wrapped in cloaks of light

Our love is holy

Preserved for all to see
like the old statues of
Christ

We may die tomorrow,

our youth dashed
our bodies decayed

But in this one moment

We will defy Death itself
And shine against the night

'The Kiss' is an ekphrastic poem I had written in

response to Klimt's iconic masterpiece 'The Kiss'.
My poem explosre the perfection of the moment
the lovers are sharing.
'The Kiss' by Gustav Klimt, 1908

With its jewel pigments combined with gold tiles,

dancing in countless ways depending on the light, this
artwork epitomised the religious piety of Christianity
and Klimt saw the opportunity to combine this
iconography with the way he portrayed feminine
pleasure.