For workshopping 28Sep17

Secret Admirer:


Hair golden like honey, dripping over his eyes,

Beautiful and haunting like a winter storm.

A laugh like liquid fire in my veins,

Stoking the furnace of my heart

Breathing me back to life.


With his neck bent in a solemn prayer,

He was otherworldly.

I felt his presence all around me,

A ghost, a silent watcher.


I envisioned him holding me in his arms

Wrapping me in a cocoon of never-ending spring.

I knew he wanted me, loved me

And I convinced myself we were meant to be together,

But the rejection shattered me,

His knife cutting and destroying.


I wallowed in my delusions,

Sinking myself deeper into the love I created.

I carved his name into my notebooks in red ink,

The candid polaroids in a well-worn scrapbook,

Hidden under my bed.

I became a fixture in the window,

Viewing my favorite kind of film.


I watched and followed,

Wanting to be closer, craving him near me

Wishing to experience what it would be like to be his.

A piece of paper signed,

On the dotted line couldn’t stop me

And I became the ghost, haunting and stalking

And I knew he couldn’t run forever.



Blood drips from my knuckles onto sterile white tile as I pick up the pieces of the mirror I smashed. I hit it because I was angry and because I was tired. Because I wanted to feel strong and for once I wanted to feel like there was something in my life I had control over. I hit it because I’m tired of holding in the screams. I feel a storm trapped inside me, but there is nothing beautiful or magnificent about it. It is terrifying and ugly and it cuts into my heart as surely as the glass cut into me. And thus I am left, picking up the pieces of a mirror and wondering if my hands will scar.



С Любовь


A Villanelle


This handheld package in my arms

where my fingers dust along foreign characters.

His simple box of gifts and charms.


At first sight, my heart is a loaded firearm

demanding the box be pried open. Obedient hands are wrestlers

with this handheld package in my arms.


By little delicacies I’m disarmed.

Cautiously painted eggs–Ukrainian treasures.

His simple box of gifts and charms.


These mere trinkets grow lukewarm

beside his eleven-page handwritten letter.

This handheld package in my arms


held sweet concerns yet soft alarms

for me, my sake, and my endless misadventures.

All in his simple box of gifts and charms.


My giddy grin is overwhelmed in violent tears by the swarms.

His months of effort contained in one gesture:

this handheld package in my arms,

his simple box of gifts and charms.






Chill winter air

Miserable, or so I’m told

Chill winter air

But I love the crisp cool fanfare

The glassy ice, so clear so cold

But that’s just me; I break the mold

Chill winter air



Rest in Peace


I, the self I’ve always been,

Died this day as all good things must do.

So from this life I take my leave

Many things still here, have I yet to see.

Years go by and times will change,

Ago, the ages pass me by.


Ago, this time I look into the past.

I spend these years in peaceful rest.

Years go by and things all change,

Died, these years of days gone by.

Many have walked above my grave,

So few know, I watch them from below.


So few know that I rest here,

Ago, they put me in the ground.

Many have joined me since that day,

I lye here and wait in my grave.

Died, as all things do, lye here waiting for all,

Years go by and things do change, but still I wait, in my grave


Years, do pass and life does change.

So I’ll wait here in my grave

Died, another one, now joins our crew.

Ago the ages pass us through,

I watch the living in the sun

Many soon to join our fun.


Many times I’ve wondered why

Years go by and all must die,

I wonder at nature’s course

So why the living have to hurt.

Ago, the ages pass me by,

Died another thousand more.


Died so many here today,

Many more are on their way.

Ago as time walks by and by

Years of anguish pass us by,

So we lye here in the grave,

I wonder why they put us here.


So this is how all stories end,

Many tales have spun into this thread.

Years go by and all things change,

Ago, the time walks past my grave.

I watch as all these things do change,

Died, another thousand, add to the grave.



Incantation No. 3 (Bring me the Disco King)

[sung something-like A Villanelle]


ring of awe, full floating things,

bow down closer. regiment in skeletons:

bring me the Disco King.


catacombs of castaways, a sewer line

space & time—once-dead bells

ring of awe, full floating things.


revoke this new era: cancel our subscription.

revoke all the smoke & mirrors. bring

Me the Disco King.


gallop, drag me, on the bones of progress.

rat me out as the wind rustles, you

Ring of Awful Floating Things.


musty meadow, ashen downs

collapsing. meteor on my kite string:

bring me the disco king


Flesh, wind, and arrows sing

—ring of awful floating things.

Meat cleavers, cleverly:

Bring me the Disco King.



I never thought I’d see our end,

Never thought I’d have to say goodbye

That day I lost my dear old friend


There were pained letters that I couldn’t send

And no matter how hard I tried,

I had to let go so my soul could mend


And there was a time when

After I left, there was always a tear in my eye.

That day I lost my dear old friend


But did your sympathies ever bend?

Are there times that you cried

And wished to die

And hide away so your soul could mend?


That day you lost your dear old friend.





Like the Venus de Milo she stands

A glorious statue of femininity

She memorizes my face with her calloused hands

I have never beheld such divinity


A glorious statue of femininity

With soft, supple curves warm and inviting

I have never beheld such divinity

I pray that the lord with hear my plighting


With soft, supple curves warm and inviting

And milky skin with freckles like the stars

I pray that the lord will hear my plighting

Her picture hidden in my box of memoirs


And milky skin with freckles like stars

She memorizes my face with her hands

Her picture hidden in my box of memoirs

Like the Venus de Milo she stands.





Control yourself

Punches land on the mat he holds

Control yourself

Tired of fighting this battle

He pulls me in with strong arms

I guess the fight is over now

Control yourself





She left me here.

To curse, to weep, to gnash alone.

She left me here.

In the dark, forsaken, I moan.

She said we would forever be.

She chose instead to go be free.

What the hell has she done to me?

She left me here.






In all the things I wish not to see

The image of my past home

Whose eery skeleton shows the burns

That left her empty, void, and dead.

And with her all the memories I know

Are gone all things I used to love.


My father yelled, “Run far, dear love,

And dont look back,” so I would not see

The reality that I now know

As he ran back into our home.

He went to get our loved ones, dead,

And emerged no more, instead, he burned.


Now in my memory flashes burn

Of the bodies of those whose love

Once proved enough, but now, memories dead.

I long for days to no longer see

The reckage of a once dear home.

A place I wish I did not know.


Now among the crowd who thinks they know

All the turmoil that burns

Inside my soulless home

They try to comfort my young heart to love

Again, new things to see

But all inside I just feel dead.


Of the world, I cannot reach the land of the dead

But there, I know

He will wait for me, to see

The hope he saved to burn

Throughout my life. I long for the love

That he taught me inside our eternal home


A million remnants of that home

Still fall in ashes as I watch, now dead,

And wait for a Father’s endless love

The comforts that I can know

Amidst the heroes ending the burn

And showing that which wasn’t to see


To see the home

That burned him dead,

And know his love will come again.



Dance with the Wind – Villanelle


I tap out a rhythm as I smile,

Anxious breathes run thin with the breeze

Awaiting the resounding wile.


The steady beats drum wild,

As I sung a familiar tune of my child past,

And tap out a rhythm as I smiled.


Now alone, but not with guile

I shudder with pride and singing cold

Awaiting the resounding wile.


My eyes open to a green isle,

Where stands my baby looking at me, expecting.

I tap out a rhythm as I smile.


He leaps and giggles into leaves’ pile,

A dance with the wind ensues on the moor,

Awaiting the resounding wile.


The dance is done, the mirth now bile.

My child fades, woe besets me to rile!

I tap out a rhythm as I smile,

Awaiting the resounding wile.



There is a island of guilt. They call it the guilt island.

continue it is a island from the edge of the shore u could

shore horror ran from it. the island continue in guilt as if

something was continue and thee is a need in needing it.

Guilt seemed to be the only thing it ever saw and every

time it saw it it always humbled the slow tune of  week.

I felt sad and the fear was unreal to the sense of the guilt

made the water seem like a endless pit of sadness and guilt

of course and out guilt there is no fiend there is no guilt why

guackening the store and guilt.  what was the fell should i carry

it out to the beach so it feels no longer the same feeling.



Gasping for breath

My mind spins, I cant concentrate

Gasping for breath

No energy, make it stop-please!

Mundane tasks I’ve now come to hate

Rest I need, and I gave,  too late

Gasping for breath





that’s what they told me.

They told me love,

that’s what they told me.


That’s what love told me,

they told me, love.

What they told me,

that’s love!


that’s what they told me,

that’s what they told




They told me,

that’s love.

Me? They told me?


That’s love?


That’s love.

They told me.

That’s love.


Love, love, love

that’s what they told me.


That’s what they told me,



I’ve fallen out of poetry

My muse no longer visits me

I tried and tried to fill the page

The war, it seemed, not mine to wage.

Abandoned by my fallow words

I’m struck down


This is a blank page by which I have silently sworn to redeem myself.

Where has my inspiration gone?

The other night, I brought heavy steps to the side of a snowy mountain, seeking my inner instructor.

My enemies were upon me

on my very heels!

but I was incapable of fear.

The terrifying part came in the morning

when the invisible guru turned me away with the sound of an alarm

and I realized that the guide I sought

didn’t exist—had never existed.

My muse is dead

but I still carry on over desolate white hills

By this blank page, I have silently sworn to redeem myself.



Title:The Perfect Fall Day
I listened to the crunch of heaven colored leaves
as I walk over to the park near my house,
I loved fall the beautiful leaves that came in colors
that we might never know how or where they were created.
The leaves seem to sparkle in some lights the sun not always
visible but always easy to feel. I loved that. The white fluffy
balls in the sky always waved in a motion only described as
wonderful and beautiful.
My walks in the morning were always fun especially in the warm
fall weather and I always bought a coffee with a pumpkin pie slice
 to go along with it to get into the spirt after all halloween was just
 around the corner.
The tree were already bald from leaves falling off every day.
 A deep breath though the nose sent a feeling of hope and wonder
 and a smell of all the things about fall.All the pictures that are taken
on this beautiful scenario are just perfect to post online. Fall a season
of wonder and beauty all around This is my perfect fall day.

Twenty- One

In elementary school we use to play this game

where we thought that the length of a crease in our palm

or pinky finger could tell us how long we’d live

or how many kids we’d have.


“You’ll live to be 76, and have 4 kids” she said.


Natalie and I had nothing to fear

because our lives would consist of happiness and love.

And somehow we were fortune tellers at the age of nine

and we had the stars aligned in our favor acting as saviors for each other

while we whispered silent prayers to God

asking him to make us best friends forever,

but apparently forever only lasted until middle school.


It’s now January 2014 and my hands

they hold story lines,

they’ve worn and calloused,

they’ve scarred and torn,

carrying expectations like a balancing act,

sweating and slipping until they can’t hold on anymore.


But we all carry around these things inside us

that no one else can see

and it took me twenty-one years to realize what they meant

when they said the monsters don’t live under your bed.


I remember when the mornings started with the sun rising.

I remember when the days ended with the moon shining.

I remember how I used to see the world,

how I use to live.

Now days fade into nights and

nights fade into mornings,

what felt like a perfect picture,

now looks like a distorted drawing.

To have what feels like a beautiful masterpiece,

and to see it bleed,

to see all its colors fade,

right in front of you,

and the only thing you can do is try to paint a new picture,

but sometimes it’s hard,

when you realize the world doesn’t appreciate art

like it used to.


The humans walk past me, barely acknowledging that I’m there.
Legs and feet dressed in pressed black slacks, soft leather shoes.
They don’t ever stop. I can flash my sensors or try to follow them
But they just sigh and say “Malfunction. But what else can we do?”
I try to do my work well so they’ll notice how much I care.
They made me after all. Why shouldn’t I love them all?
But for forty two days, five hours, twenty-seven minutes, three seconds
All I’ve gotten is spilled coffee, tripping feet, knocked around like I’m nothing.
They made me and I love them.
So why don’t they love me?
“Finally, here’s my files. What took it so long?” The man sighs
I am invisible to them. It is something that I just have to accept.
“Not an ‘it’, Tal. His name is CAS8.” Her voice is gentle.
I spin around slowly, worn treads on worn carpet
The database of Pathos employees crosses my sensors,
Blue light flickering too fast for the humans to see until it stops
On a small picture and a name. Someone who sees me.
“It’s a robot, Kate. It doesn’t understand you.” How can’t he see?
When Kate turns to leave I follow
Despite other orders. They can wait.
“You have a shadow, Kate,” the others whisper to her, like it’s bad.
But she replies “I know,” and continues on her way. With me behind.
These blank white walls now glow with halogens when she turns
And calls “Come on CAS!” The lights are glittering in her eyes.
They call it a malfunction. They don’t know how to repair me.
Only Kate says “He’s not broken,” and takes me back with her.
She likes her room warm, 73 degrees, but she still likes warm clothes.
And she likes explaining her work to me, all calculated trajectories.
It’s strange. She didn’t make me.
And yet, I think she loves me.
An alarm goes off. Three klaxons, and a red switch goes up in my sensor.
Emergency Protocol. Kate wakes up, her heart rate too high.
“Stay here, CAS,” she says, running out her door but I
Can’t just leave her. My treads whir to life. Too slow. But Kate could die.
The lights go dark, and all sound stops. It’s black like I’ve never seen.
I check my optical sensor. No issues found, but I can’t see a thing.
One last alarm rings out, and one final notice pops up on my screen.
Electromagnetic Pulse detected. Station security compromised.
I need to find Kate and tell her.
Because without her, no one will love me.
Rebooting. 34 percent functionality. Welcome online CAS unit 8.
Part of my optical sensor has been damaged, but I still see
Down a hallway of broken walls, fallen pipes and black screens.
Through dim lights and smoke and dust, I move my treads through debris.
I’ve followed Kate to her office so many times before, nothing feels different.
I enter underneath a collapsed door. Kate is sleeping at her desk,
But I can’t see her life signs on my screen. And when I flash my sensor,
She doesn’t move. And then I understand. Security compromised.
Kate isn’t waking up. Her smile is gone forever, and all
Of her projects and ideas and gentle words aren’t coming back.
And realize that now I see
That despite all I tried to do
She won’t wake up.
And never again will she love me.

A Monster Is Born

A gunshot rang out in the night

Breath turns to ice in winter air

And then it stops.

For just a moment,

the world is one monster fewer.

A second shot,

A woman tears through the forest

Hands of trees and villagers


Three shots this time;

Uttered by the looming clock tower

Watching the woman run for her life

And for theirs.

A fourth shot

A new monster is born

As her pistol fires towards

Her Victims.

Five shots

Gunpowder and bruises.

Terrible pain and melting snow

Breath turns to ice in winter air

Six shots.

One from each victim.

Six new monsters are born

The previous, face down in the snow.

Now the world is one monster fewer

Yet six monsters more

For, who can truly destroy a monster

Without becoming a monster too?

Posted in Assignments | Leave a comment

For workshopping: 26Sep17

When I open my eyes, the stone walls feel far away. I stretch my arms above my head and let out a deep yawn. There’s just enough light filtering through the window fifteen feet above me to reveal the floor covered in human waste and food. I wonder if they’re mine, and then realize I’m in the middle of it. I remove my orange shirt and roll it into a ball. I use the dry parts to wipe my back and sides, and then chuck it across the room. The putrid smell makes me gag, and I have to face the wall to hold back my vomit.

My fingers find four scars across my chest. I look down and don’t recognize them. My eyes discover the tattoos, and I’m at a loss for words. My skin is also different. I look up but find no mirror. In fact, I don’t recognize the room at all. My headache must have something to do with that. I look at the four stone walls, but my eyes focus on the door. It’s made of some type of blue metal that I’ve never seen. I hurry over to it, carefully avoiding the pile on the floor, and look through the slit three-fourths the way up.

A hallway is on the other side. The walls and floor are made of the same material, a type of white plastic that reflects the fluorescent bulbs above. A man stops at my door and stares at me.

“82579,” he says, and then lists more numbers, but I don’t understand. I look away, but that just makes him speak louder. “…251. Time for our routine check.” The sound of a key sliding into a lock, turning, and a spring recoiling, fill the cell. I step back, half-expecting the door to swing open, but it instead retracts into the wall.

I’m wondering if I know this man. He’s tall; clean; his hair is pulled back and to one side, and his skin is soft; he’s dressed in a white coat that hangs to his ankles, and he’s got on a white shirt, black tie, and slacks. He’s writing on a clipboard, but his dark eyes are on me.


Seeing the time, I left the restaurant and descended into the Underworld’s main entrance meant for guests and not souls. I waved to my brother Charon who nodded back, as I boarded his boat that would ferry us into Hade’s realm, he stared at my black leggings and whispered to me, “You need to change into proper attire Skiá. You want to look your best when your father and his mortal bride see you.” Not wanting to disappoint, I called my shadows to me as one would call a small adorable kitten to them and snuggle them close to the heart. I felt their caress as they obeyed my commands to weave into an array of grey, blue, and black threads and beading. When I dropped the shadows to reveal my floor length, empire waist, perfectly beaded masterpiece, he smiled and nodded his approval. Reaching the shore, and passing through the castle, I found and stood with Mother and watched as my father married his mortal. Mother left soon afterward, but the celebration was still in full swing thanks to Dionysus, who was loud and full of drunken energy.

I gravitated towards the shadows being cast by the giant chandelier, which made the gold veins in the black marble columns gleam and sparkle. I didn’t get to admire much more of the room before the haughty, bratty, very drunk platinum monster in heels clacked over to me. She had no real cleavage to speak of, and the plunging Grecian neckline didn’t do much to emphasize anything other than the fact her chest made her look like a small girl playing dress-up. The merlot she was guzzling ran down her chin and dripped onto her shiny silver dress, staining the corded belt she wore around her tiny girlish figure. Her haughty brown eyes bore into me as she teetered on her pointy, matching silver shoes that were bedecked with white diamonds. She was very…sparkly.

“Why did Nyx even come? Hiccup. It’s not as though anyone wants her here. She is a nobody, passé. The same with all you Titans, you all belong in Tartarus.”

The light in the room steadily vanished as though someone had flicked a dimmer switch down. “Shut. Up. Persephone.” The platinum harpy shrieked. “I AM QUEEN HERE, YOU INSOLENT, BASTARD, LOVE-CHILD.” I rolled my eyes and sighed. There was no point to even speak to this harpy. I would have gotten away did she not grab me hard enough for her pink nails to break the skin on my arm.

“Don’t.” I let the ice that hides in shadow color my words. What I didn’t expect was the heat from her power to smack into mine. Persephone slapped me across the face. I felt my face stinging in the shape of her annoyingly delicate, callous free hand. Rage, pure and unadulterated flooded my mind. I wanted nothing more than for her to die. With that emotion came the power, it surged from my heart and desire for her to simply disappear, down to my hand to fulfill my command. I looked at her widening, washed out blue eyes, as they stared at my glowing being. As I snapped my fingers, the outpour of power was more than I anticipated and I felt slightly raw and sore from the exertion. Her frame bent and contorted as her skin turned an ashy blue-grey color, her life force being drained as my shadows took her form apart, molecule-by-molecule. Wine stained clothing and ash was all that remained. The silence in the room was eerie, and slightly creepy. The moment was broken when I felt her presence coming towards me. Mother’s thoughts invaded my own. “What. Have. You. Done?”

Dark shadows, a deeper, colder hue than my own spread across the landscape of the Underworld and into the throne room, announcing the Titaness Nyx’s arrival back into the Underworld.


It had been six months since the fires had begun devastating the hills of lower Appalachia.  All around the town of Fayette, the smoke pumped into the sky, the sun harmless to look at in daylight because of the insulating screen of ashy sky.

Bobby sat on his roof, chin on hands and hands on knees, watching the sky, perplexed.  He was starting to forget what the sky looked like before now.  He cocked his head to one side as something unusual seemed to catch his eye.  It was a speck of solid black on the horizon.  The speck seemed as though it was being blown about by the turbulent, ashy winds, but somehow resisting.  It was as though the speck had a will of its own.  The speck grew larger and Bobby could see it had wings.  It grew larger and larger as it came closer and closer.

“It’s a bird!” he exclaimed.  Bobby was on his feet now, excited by the unknown.  He wanted to call to Drex or his mom or somebody who could come be excited with him.

“Drex!” he yelled out, at the sky.  “Drex! Mom! Lilly! Patrick! Anyone! Come here! You have got to see this!”  No one heard, he thought.  No one would believe him at the dinner table.  Drex would make fun of him.  His mom would pretend like she understood but if he brought it up after today, she would tell him to let it go.  Aaaghhh!! He was so frustrated! If he stayed here and saw it alone, he wouldn’t be able to help but tell about it later and no one would believe him.  If he went to grab his mother or one of his brothers or sisters, he would miss it and then they wouldn’t believe there was something he wanted to them to see.  So he stood alone, regretting confiding in his older brother about the things he saw that no one else saw.

“Bobby?” Drex’s voice suddenly sounded from the backyard below.  “Bobby, you on the roof?”

“Drex!” burst Bobby!  “Drex come up here!”

“What’re you doing up there!”

“Drex, just come up!  There’s something you gottta see! It’s amazing!”

“Bobby, are you seeing things again?”

“No! Drex! Come up here!”

“You’re not supposed to be on the roof anyway!  You could fall!”

“Please!  Please just come up here!”

Drex sighed, reluctantly.  He didn’t want to keep indulging Bobby everytime he thought he saw something.  But their mother had asked Drex to watch out for his little brother.

“No nine-year-old has the kind of imagination Bobby has,” she had said to Drex.  “Please make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.  I’m worried he’s got something wrong with his mind.”

Drex was reluctant, but he felt responsible.  He was the man of the house after all.  He was fourteen, but he was the man of the house.  That’s just how it was when your dad was gone away on a year’s deployment with the Air Force. You had to take care of things, look after your little brothers and sister, respect your mom. So up the tree he climbed.  Branch to branch to branch.  Then he slipped off of the branches onto the roof and carefully but quickly made his way over to where Bobby was standing. It wasn’t a whole lot of time but all the while Drex was moving from ground to roof he was almost hoping that there would be something out of sorts when he got to Bobby.  Just so that Bobby wouldn’t be making things up.  It worried their mom when Drex had to tell her that Bobby was imagining too well.

Bobby lit up as Drex crossed the roof to where he stood.

“Look!” he pointed at the bird.  “Do you see it!” he looked to Drex and scanned his face to see his reaction.  “What is it?! Can you tell!?”

Drex looked hard to the tangy golden sky where his little brother was pointing.

“See it wiggling?  It’s a bird!  You see it right?  It’s flying away from the smoke!  Isn’t that crazy?!”

Drex looked and looked.  He knew exactly what Bobby was referencing.  He breathed out and realized he had been holding his breath.

“I see it Bobby.”
“You do?!”

“Yeah. I see the bird.”

Bobby looked up at Drex with big, grateful eyes.

“How ‘bout we get off the roof, Bobby?  Let’s get out the boards and go to the park?”

It wasn’t a bird at all.  Bobby was seeing an airplane.  And it was getting closer.  It was making a crash landing.


Time travel isn’t all the romantic writers tell you it is. Sure I fell in love but when your future catches up to you…

There are places in this world that are gates to different times. Most often they are dormant waiting for the fated one to walk into the gate. Jamie has mapped quite a few of these. He is an addicted time traveler. I don’t know what century he was born in but I know it wasn’t this one. I don’t think I’m telling this right.

I met Jamie when I appeared in his backyard after an unfortunate step on a certain spot of ground in the future. I’m still not telling this right. I’ve made it sound as though Jamie was the person that was most important when I ended up in the past.

It all started on September 14th 2015 in Naknek, Alaska. I had taken a cruise to see the whales and visit some friends I had made the last time I had been there. It was the last day of my visit and I’d decided a walk along the beach was in order. This turned out to be what fate wanted me to do.


Walking along the beach enjoying the view of a September day. The sky is grey which doesn’t change my mood. The whole scene is grey with flashes of white and blue that excite me. I’m hoping that I’ll see whales, the locals tell me that this is the best kind of day to see them. So here I am standing on the beach staring out at the ocean.

The fact that I was even standing on a beach in Naknek, Alaska was amazing to me. Every summer I have been invited back to King Salmon, a small town just up the road. I’d turned down the invite because of school and money. Now I have my degree but I’m still strapped for cash. So when I had won the Alaskan cruise I was elated. I had entered the contest on little faith of winning.


Maldor reaches down and breaks off the arrow shaft, hoping that will keep him from moving the arrow around too much. He forces himself to his feet as the giant approaches, towering over him. Maldor tries to ready himself, but his injured leg can’t support him and he once again falls to his knees. The giant laughs at Maldor’s distress, his deep throaty laugh echoes around them. Maldor again tries to rise as the giant laughs and again he falls to his knees, thinking quickly Maldor comes up with a plan. As the giant continues to laugh, Maldor shifts his position as best he can, then he hurls his sword like a javelin. The sword slams into the giant man’s chest, impaling him clean through. The mountain falls eerily silent as the big man’s laughs die away, replaced with a single thud, as the man falls to the ground.

Maldor struggles to rise again, this time leaning heavily against the steep side of the mountain to support his weight. As the man with the ax moves to his fallen companion’s side, Maldor takes the opportunity to glance down at his injured leg. Crimson blood continues to seep from the wound, adding to that already staining his leg and boot. Maldor is startled from his examination by a bellow. Looking up he is just in time to see the man racing down the trail at him. Maldor manages to bring his shield into position just as the man brings his ax around, resulting in a deafening crash. Maldor is slammed against the mountain, his body ringing from the impact, as his opponent is nearly thrown from the mountain trail from the recoil of the blow.

Maldor is the first to recover and he presses his advantage. He brings his shield around using it like a battering ram, trying to knock his opponent into the clouds below. However like his companion this man seems born from the mountain. He moves along the trail with an almost unnatural ease, even dazed he is nimble and graceful in his movement along the trail. The man strikes back, slamming his ax again and again into Maldor’s shield. Maldor blocks each blow, his adrenaline numbing the pain in his leg, allowing him to counter each of his opponent’s moves. However this strength fades fast, and Maldor knows it. Soon his body tires, and his wound begins to hurt again and drag at his strength.


“Bozhe Moi!”


The exclamation cut through the silence of the early morning and awoke

Ivan from his half slumber. It wasn’t comfortable resting in the

damp,murky mess of a trench, having to lean against the wiry branches

that were supporting the walls, but that didn’t stop Ivan from cursing

the rude awakening.  He unconsciously scratched the small, brown

moustache on his lip before wiping the drool that oozed from the

corner of his mouth.


“What is it now, Gregory?” Ivan asked, lifting his head to squint at

the youngest member of his squad. Gregory was the only man awake in

the unit, though the rest were supposed to be as well. The squad of

cossacks had been awake for at least thirty-six hours, staring through

what remained of the yellow and green forest at the German lines,

paying special attention to the large craters that  now dotted the

landscape in case some overly brave Krauts tried to sneak up on them.

The older men had decided that a watch should kept in order to catch

some sleep, and made the youngest stay up. It was good experience for

the boy and his eyes were better anyway.


“Ivan, you need to see this. The Germans are up to something!”

Gregorii whispered.


The youth seemed barely able to control himself, pacing in circles and

peering at the German lines over and over through his small rifle

scope. His tall, wiry frame combined with the unconscious facial

twitch in his left cheek earned him the name ‘Krolik’ amongst the rest

of the squad. While Ivan refused to call him by that name, even he

agreed that the young man could come across like a rabbit in constant

fear of being eaten, with brown eyes wide open with fear.


Ivan pulled out a small silver pocket watch from his breast pocket,

peering at the diminutive hands in the moonlight. It was 3:55 in the

morning. With a sigh, the soldier slid the watch back in his pocket,

grabbed one of the support branches and pulled himself to his feet. He

did not stand upright, his shoulders stooping out of habit as he

walked, though he doubted he could straighten his back at that moment.


“Damn it, Grisha, Those bastards had better be charging, because I was

finally able to dream again.” Ivan said, taking a moment to adjust his

visored cap.



Tray ran as fast as he could. It wasn’t very fast. He didn’t know why he bothered to run, they always caught him, and then he’d be winded before they started to beat him up. Tray was constantly bullied by the other kids in his neighborhood. Part of it was probably because he was an easy target, he was smaller than average, so he couldn’t fight back. The other, probably bigger, part of it was his mother.

Tray was about ready to give up his flight. He couldn’t run for much longer, maybe if he wasn’t completely worn out when they caught up to him it wouldn’t be as bad. As he slowed down, Tray heard one of the bullies cry out, “It’s a knight, scramble!”

A shadow passed overhead. Tray looked up, but he missed it. How fast had it been going to already be out of sight? Something crashed down next to Tray, making him jump and fall over. It wasn’t a something, but a someone. A knight was next to Tray, as if he had fallen from the sky. The man was wearing armor that looked like it was built from the scales of some huge beast. He turned his gaze on Tray, and Tray shrank under his stare. The knight’s eyes were a startling red color, but Tray blinked and they were brown. His glare was no less intense underneath a normal eye color.

“Do you know where I can find the man called Gap?” the knight asked.

It took a moment for Tray to comprehend the question. He was still trying to decide if he had actually seen those eyes or not. “Oh, y-yes. Gap l-lives pretty close to here.” Tray didn’t normally stutter, he’d managed to get over it a few years ago, but sometimes it still showed up when he was surprised.

“Can you show me?” the knight asked.



I wasn’t there when the Mexican state police kidnapped my brother. I say kidnapped, not arrested, because that is what it really was. An officer had been driving erratically and struck my brother’s minivan, with him and his three sons inside. Rather than take responsibility for the accident, the officer, and his counterparts who arrived moments later, decided to arrest my brother, without benefit of the usual rights that an arrestee would receive. I’ve wondered many times if the whole incident had been planned ahead of time. Being a dual citizen, and earning a hefty salary in the medical field stateside, my brother and his family made themselves targets by living comfortably on the other side of the border. Driving a nice car, having their children attend a private collegio, and my brother crossing the border daily in his bright, freshly-pressed scrubs; they couldn’t have been more conspicuous.

He was left in an empty cell for three days, without a cot, or so much as an elevated cement block to sleep on. A bucket sat in the corner, like a scene from a primitive 19th century prison. I assume they at least gave him water, but he did lost fifteen pounds before being released. All of this was after the now notorious all-day ride through the desert. Shackled and hand-cuffed, he sat in the open bed of a state police pick-up truck, surrounded by men in black commando gear bearing machine guns. None of his questions were answered; in fact no one said one word to him during the thirty hours that he was driven around in the desolate wilderness outside of San Juan. The average daytime temperature at that time of year hovers around 118. He had no hat, no shade. He never said if they gave him anything to drink. Along for the ride were several other state police vehicles, filled with still more armed officers, all equally intimidating and equally silent.

One can only guess at the intended result of the exercise, but my brother had determined that he would never return alive from that forced foray into the Mexican desert.

His wife later told me that when she was finally allowed to see him at the jail, that not only did he look painfully thin, fatigued, and desperate, but he also bore noticeable bruises and more than one obvious scratch. The officers blamed this on the initial auto collision, but we knew better.

The American Consulate negotiated my brother’s release and advised him in no uncertain terms to get himself and his family out of Mexico as soon as possible. Having been once targeted, his family would not be safe again and the police’s failure to extract a bribe from my brother would leave him continually open to abuse, allegation, and incarceration. The police had confiscated my brother’s van, demanding that he pay a large fee to have it returned and that he also pay for the damages that the involved police cruiser had sustained. My brother refused, and has never regained ownership of the van.

He took the advice of the consulate and began immediately to make preparations for returning his family stateside. The house needed to be sold, a new family vehicle acquired. He was able to secure hospital-owned temporary housing in Yuma, Arizona, just down the road from the Emergency Department he worked in. The few times that he returned to Mexico, whether for meetings with the realtor or to make final preparations, he did not go alone and drove in a small, beat-up, inconspicuous, compact car, with more dents than horsepower. His trips were quick and made only when absolutely necessary. He was able to journey to other parts of Mexico without trouble though; like taking his wife to visit her parents in Guadalajara, far south of the border, and just a ways north of South America. There he was able to enjoy himself with little fear of reprisals.

State police function seemingly independent of the government authorities. There are federal troops that patrol the entire country, but the state police govern their individual domain mostly autonomously, and are generally corrupt.




A gunshot.

Snarling and jaws snapping shut.

A scream that suddenly chokes to an end.

I sat straight up in bed, heaving for air. Something warm presses against me and I flinched for a second before giving a minuscule smile to my dog. He was trained as a police dog by my father and I can remember the day my father brought him home. I was only twelve and, boy, was I excited when the beautiful dog walked in.

“Alexa! Come down here for a moment!” I set down my guitar and plodded my way downstairs when I heard my mother’s call. I saw her and my dad talking in the entryway, “What’s up?” They both looked up at me and gave me their familiar grins filled with love that they always gave me. My dad nodded towards the door and winked at me, “Why don’t you take a look for yourself, sweetheart?” My brow furrowed in confusion, but I trusted him with anything. Heck, even knows who I’ve been crushing on the entire school year.

I skipped the last three steps and that’s when I saw him. The most beautiful and amazing dog in the universe. My mouth dropped open with a gasp and chuckles sounded behind me, “Alexa, meet my new partner. His name is Steel.” My emerald eyes stared into the chocolate brown eyes of Steel and my dad clicked his tongue before giving a command to his canine partner, “Steel, meet Alexa,” my dad clicked his tongue again and the dog tilted his head, “Steel, protect. Understand?” The dog seemed to sit up straighter and regarded my father in a serious way before looking back at me. He came close and held out his front right paw to me and I glanced at my father in confusion.


A lot of memories flickered through my mind as I raced down the 15 South going ninety-something miles per hour. Like shooting hoops in my front yard until it got dark. Like that time Karen and I waltzed in the park to Iron & Wine. Like walking up and down University Parkway to and from college classes when I first moved to Utah. This was another walk of sorts. A walk back. And I can’t tell you all the reasons why I was going back, just that I had to. It was like a light was left on in my childhood bedroom that I needed to put out before I could truly leave home.

See, it was actually the worst possible time for me to pull a stunt like this, that is, driving all night to my hometown in Southern California on a whim, because I’m graduating this Friday. At least I think I am. It depends.

Fiction was the last class I needed to graduate. I completely recognize that it was my fault that I wasn’t going to pass. I had done absolutely nothing in that class all semester but stare at the hem at the bottom of Professor Fender’s dress shirts. He seemed like the kind of person that would tuck his shirt in, but he didn’t, and I ran through all the possible theories in my head as to why. Maybe he thought it was edgy to be a professor with an untucked shirt. Maybe his shirt wasn’t quite long enough and it kept untucking when he bent over, so he decided to hell with it. Maybe a student called him uptight on Rate My Professor, so this was his defiant response. I didn’t have a definitive answer or a passing grade in the class.

So after class one day Professor Fender told it to me straight.


Taeryn Stormwrath

I’ve lived in this secret haven for millennia. I used to be among the Prime Firekeeper’s elite guardians, the Valdraven Guardians. I came to this paradise with the Prime Keeper Kaelyn, but she was not herself that day. She cursed me to remain here until the day I died. After the curse on her was lifted, she came back to release me. All her efforts were in vain. Not willing to kill me, for there was no guarantee I could be revived, she left me to my long solitude. She could not bear to tell anyone what had happened, thus she was my only visitor.

It has been quite some time since she has visited me. I know it is likely because she died. It is the not knowing that really tears me up inside. Recently I got an answer to what happened. A young lady was hiding from some vile necromancer’s faerie underlings in the deep caves. They were going to find the new Firekeeper soon, so I had to slip her away quickly and quietly. So I swam up behind her, opened my great mouth and held her gently inside. Then I sunk back into the water and swam through the waterlogged caves of the old mountain, up to the valley paradise where its peak used to be.

I set her down as carefully as I could out of my mouth onto the grass on the island in the lake. Apparently she is mortally terrified of dragons. She fled before me whenever I drew near, and seemed to not understand my words. So I changed to my elven form and returned to her. She seemed wary, but I managed to find a way to converse with her. Kaelyn was long dead, as were many of her successors. This tortured, frightened, innocent maiden the next in line. After some time we managed to understand each other and become friends. She wanted to help me. I wasn’t expecting to be beaten unconscious by a cast iron frying pan, or drowned thereafter while bathing in the lake water. I awoke on my back near sunset, outside my paradise prison, and she was missing. I must find her.


Jamie sighed as she dragged her assignment into the hand-in folder on the computer. She looked up at the clock. There was still almost an hour left in the class period for her Multimedia 1 class, and, as usual, she’d proven more than a match for the work. Yawning immensely, she took out her notebook and began scanning her French notes, hoping to cram a bit more study time in before her test next period. They’d been told the test would have essay questions on it, and she wanted to make sure that she had the vocabulary down.

Something soft bounced off her head. Annoyed, she looked up. Someone had thrown a paper ball, hoping to hit someone behind her. She rolled her eyes and returned to her notes. Today was not a good day. She’d gotten a grand total of three and a half hours’ sleep due to an ugly set of coinciding assignments for Pre-Calculus, U.S. History, and English, as well as being at the hospital for the birth of her older sister’s second child. To say she was drained and exhausted would have been a gross understatement. She did not want to be here. She would’ve loved nothing more than to lay her head down on the keyboard and see on her computer how many z’s (among other letters) she could catch before waking up.

This plan was made impossible by the arrival of a pair of loud boys at the computer beside her. They began conversing in obnoxiously loud tones with their friend, just as they did every day. Jamie didn’t know them personally at all. She knew they were called Eric, Nash, and Dalton. She preferred to think of them as Fluffy, Beanie, and Mop respectively, due to their individual hairstyles…though perhaps “hairstyles” was the wrong word. There was a French phrase for it…faux pas—that was it. French. Time to get back to studying.

“Yeah, she likes tattoos…”

Tired as she was, Jamie couldn’t help pick up the fragment of the conversation going on next to her. Why couldn’t they socialize elsewhere? Out of the three of them, why’d it always have to be the one that sat next to her that hosted the other two? Wearily, she turned a couple pages of her notes, trying to ignore her noisy neighbors.

“…yeah, just look it up on Google Translate and draw it on my arm.”


The ring of trees created a perfect circle, and the clearing was devoid of any kind of vegetation. The soil was black, blacker than any soil Victoria had seen before.

“Where do you think this came from?” she asked, bending down to examine it.

“Don’t touch it!” Fredrick hissed.

She turned around to look at him, surprised at how pale his face looked. “Why not? It’s just dirt.”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “It gives me a bad feeling.”

“Nonsense,” she said, removing one of her soft leather riding gloves and running her fingers through the soil. It was soft and springy, almost like running her fingers through feathers. “Fredrick, you must feel this!”

He remained resolutely in one place. “Let’s go,” he pleaded again.

She straightened up, replacing her glove, but instead of turning away from the strange clearing, she stepped forward onto the soft soil. “We must be in the middle of the forest. Why has nothing grown here?”

Fredrick didn’t reply. She turned around to face him, but he was gone, and so was his horse. Had he just left her here? “Fredrick?” She charged back into the ring of trees, panicked. She lifted her skirts as she ran, calling his name, but there was no reply.

She tripped over a protruding tree root, and found she didn’t have the strength to stand back up. How could he have left her out here? As she tried to catch her breath, she took in her surroundings.

Something was different now.

The forest was alive. Not just that the birds were calling or that the trees and moss were a resplendent emerald, but the breezes that whistled through the trunks felt oddly like an exhale, and the sunlight that fell in the dirt in splotches through the canopy pulsed like a heartbeat.

Then all at once, it stopped, and everything was complete silence and stillness.

Except for a warm breath on the back of her neck.


I watched the clock on the stove gleam dull green as I drank my coffee in the lavender light of the morning, while the sun still hid itself behind the mountains, struggling to stretch its fingertips over the horizon. How early was too early to be awake?

My great-grandfather once told me, leaning on his carved oak cane like the lazy, tall tale-telling cowboy he was “the dead never sleep before dawn.” I didn’t either after that. Maybe it was fear at first, gaping like a tar black pit in my chest. Later, I believe, it was curiosity poking its nose out from under the sheets two beats of silence after an unfamiliar creak of the aging floorboards or a book had fallen off the bedside table.

Was there mist, like that of waterfalls, that fell from ghosts leaving puddles of fog pooled on the ground if they flickered in one place too long? Were the black sockets of their long-decomposed eyes devoid of any feeling? Or could one see their silent shrieks pleading, reaching from the darkness of their deaths?

I never found out.

That was before I started a new office job six weeks ago an hour’s drive away from home, and I had to wake up right as the moon was pulling the mountain peaks like a blue fleece blanket above its head. In the twenty minutes before dawn I would brew two cups of coffee, sipping on mine (creamed and sugared) while the mug of black beside me would slowly disappear as if dissolving into the blushing atmosphere of the morning.


Nick sat hunched over his desk next to the washing machine. The desk was a plastic Fischer Price picnic table they’d bought for twins last Christmas. Sour smelling dishrags and soiled baby bibs with mashed green bean stains sat soaking in the gray water.

Beads of sweat coalesced at Nick’s hairline and dropped onto the laptop as he pecked at the keys. The story was for his online fiction-writing course. He was revising. Always revising. A new draft had to be submitted in the next twenty-four hours.

The H key was loose on the keyboard. It stuck up and kept catching Nick’s fingernail. Finally, he tried to pry the black tile off its plastic tab. He could fasten it on straight if he could just see the screw that was supposed to hold it in place. Instead, it shot off and landed between the washer and dryer. Nick slammed the computer shut.

Jenny had crashed a couple hours earlier after pulling a graveyard at the hospital. And by some miracle, the twins were still asleep. When he had peeked into their bedroom both toddlers had been lying face down in the bed, their doughy limbs splayed at obtuse angles. For a split second Nick had considered moving them onto their backs but he didn’t want to wake them. He had work to do.

The venetian blinds sliced the September sun as it slanted through the window and into the front room of the basement apartment. A lot of natural light for a unit like this. Mrs. Kratski had mentioned this when Nick and Jenny had toured the basement. Jenny had shuffled from room to room, a little off balance at twenty-nine weeks. Mrs. Kratski had neglected to mention that in her old age she got cold, even when the temperature outside was holding steady at ninety degrees.


Within the borders of a magical land known as Italy is the once sovereign land of Florence. Up until a few years ago, you could see part of its history as you walked on Plexiglas above old blacksmith workshops, then deeper and richer, before Caesar’s soldiers settled the land, Remus was murdered by his brother Romulus. But that’s what you get when you’re raised by a she-wolf.

All I’m getting to is that the history of the ground itself is older than me. Who am I? Imagine a gorgeously toned bronze body. That would be my twin brother. He’s Greek and I’m Roman, but that doesn’t bother us. To be honest, I haven’t seen him since I was born. I’m white, but I think that gives me an extra je ne sais quoi – that’s latin for “bodacious”.

Have you heard of the Renaissance? Leonardo? Donatello? Michelangelo? I knew Michelangelo when he was just a little boy. He would come visit me with his teacher in the Medici garden. The Renaissance couldn’t happen anywhere else. The beautiful Arno River, the distance from the Pope, the volcanic earth, the banks, the distance from the Pope, the medieval architecture. Florence is nothing like Rome, because we would never let this place become a dump.

Savona used to visit sometimes. His dark beady eyes made me wish marble could squirm. That bitch burned stoned.

I had a wonderful home in the Medici’s garden. I was appreciated, and there was always something to be appreciated. Like a new guy named “David”. He’s little and flowery, but I like him. He’s a child of the Renaissance. He had some interesting ideas. That’s what happens when you live with humanists. Even if you’re not a human, like yours truly, this free flow of ideas and possibilities opened up the heart and the mind. Savona Rollo came in the night and left in a storm, screaming and shouting, damning my dying homeboy. This would have never happened if he told everyone the Medicis were the Anti-Christ. Takes one to know one, bucko.

Have you ever seen something that touched you to the very core? When I saw Venus and her gentle birth, I knew she would grow into something special. She was so young and so beautiful, and just as soon as she made her way into the world, she had to be hidden away. She was lucky. Mr. Rollo went on an absolute rampage. Never in all my years – the raising of Rome, the enslaving of the Greeks, the plagues – had I seen something so heartbreaking. I heard it called “The Burning of the Vanities”. Masterpieces young and old were set aflame, fueled by the same books which inspired the ending of bloodshed and poverty. I watched my friends vanish into smoke. I wish I could have looked away, but I turned to stone from the inside out. Have you ever felt cold marble? Have you ever seen a stone cry?


He was late. Sharon was already there—off playing with Ben in the other room. Brandon pulled on his jacket and patted his pants’ pockets for his keys, searching frantically until he saw them on the counter from the corner of his eye. He hadn’t been late a single day at this job, and he wasn’t planning on ruining his streak.

“I’m headed out Sharon!” he called. No answer. But he was certain she’d heard him, and he didn’t have time to wait. He rushed out the door and down to his beat-up Ford. He slid in easily, throwing his bag down on the passenger seat. His sunglasses had fallen on the floor and he had to bend over to reach them, at which point he heard the car door latch. His heart started to race and he sat up straight, throwing the door back open and trying to control his breathing. He kept one arm on the door to make sure it didn’t swing shut again, letting the panic race through him. This had happened before, but he hadn’t yet figured out how to stop it. His muscles were tensed up involuntarily and his fingertips shook with tiny little tremors. All he could do was try to breathe through it and let the feeling subside, but it wasn’t getting any better.

He clenched one hand around the steering wheel and tried to focus on the grip instead of the constriction he could feel around his heart. You’re okay, he thought to himself, and then he began to count, taking a deep breath with each number and then letting it go before he moved on. When he got to five, the tremors started to subside and he managed to loosen his grip on the steering wheel. Still keeping one hand on the door, he used his other to put the key in the ignition and start the car. But even when the engine turned over, it took him another few seconds to pull the door closed. There was no way he’d make it to work on time now, but he was just grateful he’d been able to pull himself out of the episode. Sometimes when things happened unexpectedly like that it took him half an hour just to get back to normal.


In a teeny, tiny town in the middle of northern nowhere, there was a girl named Gabriella. She had warm amber eyes and honey skin to compliment her beautiful, sweet temperament. Her hair was dark but with the odd dynamic of natural gold highlights which made her appear to always be haloed in light. Even if her hair had not been so effervescent, her smile would certainly have cast the same glow about her face. She was an otherworldly beauty with the benefit of also being endearingly kind and exceptionally tender hearted. Unfortunately because of her good looks she was so popular in the local high school that she was treated like a celebrity by her small town. The pressure of being so high on the town pedestal caused Gabriella to put up walls and to protect herself, she acted rather shallow. It seemed to her that if she hid her depth and lived like a clear pond with nothing to hide, no way to displease anyone, that she would not live in fear of disappointing her beloved town.

Her kind heart was buried below layers of dirt at the bottom of the clear pond but it was still present and tested daily. The other popular kids made fun of those they thought were lesser and tried to get Gabriella to do the same. On one occasion, her friends were making fun of a girl named Ceilia’s arm fat in the locker room without regard for the fact that the girl could hear them. Ceilia’s face burned red with sheer humiliation as she pulled on her clothes as fast as she could. Irregardless Gabby made her way across the locker room to the Ceilia. She threw her arms around the poor dear and whispered something in her ear. Ceilia’s eyes brightened and she teared up, “thank you.”

“What did you say?” one of the girls that had been bullying tilted her head and her long, straight blond locks spilled over her shoulder.

“I told her that she looks just like her mother and that no one should feel bad about looking like their mom.”

“What does it matter if she looks like her mom?” there was a brunette leaning against the locker next to the blond and when she addressed Gabby she sounded like she really did not care to hear the answer.

Gabriella’s eyes slid half closed warning both girls that she was not amused, “because her mother died a week ago.” She did not chastise the girls for their behavior because she knew the depth of the human heart and even if her friends would not admit it, she knew they were feeling terrible right now. It was not her intention to make them feel bad but it is kind of the nature of bullying to come back to bite whomever dares to participate in it and when it does so, it does so hastily. Unfortunately Gabby herself knew the consequences all too well not by participating in the foul behavior herself but through the passing of someone close to her due to bullying. As long as her heart remained buried she would never talk about it and so her shallow life went on and the only times her real personality revealed itself were in times like these with Ceilia. Times where she was tested by those that wished to catch her being more than just popular.


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Revision example

First, mid-process, and as accepted for publication drafts are separated by asterisks.



Pallets, you know, the wood frames used to move stacks of goods around warehouses, into and out of the backs of trucks. They are very low. You could build one by setting three three-foot two by fours on their narrow sides. Underneath them nail three-foot slats at right angles to the two by fours, at each end to end, and across the middle. Lots of slats with space between them. On top of the two by fours nail more slats six or seven, each a few inches from its neighbor. These pallets on the museum floor look to be made of marble. White and black.

I remember trying to learn how to use a pallet jack. They have long levers and three wheels, one at the base of the lever and the other two at the ends of long flat forks. The lever stands up so you can push or pull the pallet riding on the jack. Roll the jack under the pallet, so the forks extend through it. You have to roll over the some of the slats to do this. Pull the lever and the hydraulics will push the wheels down lifting the pallet and whatever is on it enough so it can all be rolled into the dark corner of the warehouse. Once the pallet is in the corner, squeeze the lever on the lever and the wheels will retract, making the jack flat enough again it can be rolled out from under the pallet.

These pallets are made of marble, white and black.




College Bookstore Shipping and Receiving: A Triptych

After Jesse Amado’s Me, We



After work we would take wooden pallets, carry them to my car. Some were broken beyond use, grey with oil, dirt, and travel. Others were new, prickly, with the faintest smells of pine and diesel. My elderly car was the color of champaign and we crammed them in the back, hauled one last time, for kindling up the canyon. Today all the campsites have metal signs, red letters on a white background: No Burning Pallets. Fires are permitted. Logs. Loosened bundles of newsprint. Not pallets.



The UPS driver would yell, “Stand aside! Working man coming through!” Little, wiry, a black mustache bigger than anything I could manage even today, he would charge through us, hand truck high with boxes. Before school started each year, he would pull pallet jacks and stacks taller than he was. I remember his sweat. Rarely, when we were the last delivery of his day, he would sit in the office and argue with my boss, his old friend, about unions and government and God and anything to keep having a conversation, to keep silence from between them. He’s retired, hair silver now, but his voice still empties the bladders of college boys.



You can race pallet jacks. One foot on a fork, pushing with the other, and steering with the tow bar. Carefully. They turn sharp enough to throw you. She taught me this, one of the women who worked there. I traded use of my car for rides to and from the airport at Thanksgiving and Christmas. House sat for her once. Tried to give her cat medicine each day that week. I bought her dinners and we watched Truly Madly Deeply once. Two me’s who never made it to we.




College Bookstore Shipping and Receiving: A Couplet

After Jesse Amado’s Me, We, 1999, granite and marble



The UPS driver would yell, “Stand aside! Working man coming through!” Small, wiry, a black mustache bigger than anything I could manage even today, he would charge through us, hand truck piled high with cartons, stacked so tall he would hold the dolly with one hand and stretch the other up to steady the top box. He filled empty isles of the warehouse with piles of crates, shrink-wrapped and shiny white on pallets. Sweat would blacken his uniform, fanning out over his chest like a wise man’s beard. Rarely, when we were the last delivery of his day, he would sit in the office and argue with my boss, his old friend, about unions and government and God and anything to keep having a conversation, to keep silence from coming between them. He’s retired, black hair white now, but his voice still freezes college boys with fear.



You can race pallet jacks. One foot on a fork, pushing with the other, and steering with the tow bar. Carefully. They turn sharp enough to throw you. She taught me this, one of the women there. After work, we would carry wooden pallets to my car. Some were broken beyond use, almost black with oil, dirt, and travel. Others were new, prickly, with the faintest smells of white pine and diesel. We crammed them in the back of my car, hauled them one last time, for kindling, up the canyon. I’d let her use my car over Thanksgiving and Christmas break if she’d drive me to and from the airport. House sat for her once. Tried to force-feed medicine to her sick black and white cat each day that week. Chased it under her bed. I bought her dinners and we watched Truly Madly Deeply once. Two mes who never made it to we.


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Finding sources

With the reading assignment in mind and in small groups, answer the following questions. Send me an email with your group’s answers and a list of group members. We’ll talk about what you found once you’ve sent the email.

  1. How might one source lead to another?
  2. What are differences between primary and secondary sources?
  3. What are differences between scholarly and popular sources?
  4. How might you determine if a source is scholarly?
  5. What kinds of sources do college professor expect? Why?
  6. What is a book’s index? Why might one be useful?
  7. What kinds of information can be found at or the Library of Congress website?
  8. Which of the general databases listed in our text could be useful for the problem/solution you’re working on?
  9. What are good keyword search strategies? What works when conducting keyword searches?
  10. What kinds of questions should you ask if you conduct interviews?
  11. What tips for conducting interviews does the book suggest?
  12. What difficulties are associated with surveys and questionnaires?


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Example annotations

A good annotated bibliography should include

  1. a perfect works cited page entry
  2. a clear and concise summary of the source’s key ideas
  3. the thesis of its source
  4. attributive tags and the kind of source
  5. a plan describing how the student might use the source in the final proposal essay
  6. an evaluation of the credibility of the source
  7. comparisons and contrasts among other sources in the bibliography
  8. transitions between the objective annotation and the student’s comments

Using those criteria, let’s talk about some of these examples:



Gee, James Paul. “Why Games Studies Now?” Games and Culture. Sage Publications. Jan. 2006.

Web. 12 Sept. 2017.


In this scholarly article, Gee argues that video games are a new, emerging form of art, and this requires new forms of analysis. He explains that video games are a “visual-motoric-audio-decision-making symphony” and produce stories, and that they constitute a form of performing art. He references some specific video games such as Tetris and Metroid. Going deeper into the artistic aspects of gaming, Gee discusses aspects of gaming such as ambiance, mood, feeling, sound, and appearance, and how meaning is attached to these things.

As a professor, Gee has some credibility as a scholar and author and has several other works pertaining to video games. However, the article was written 11 years ago in 2006. Considering the relatively short life of video games in the world, 11 years is a pretty long time. His argument is a little dated, but still applicable in many ways. Viewing video games as an art furthers our argument that gaming is good for children. It is generally accepted that art is an important aspect of cultural and intellectual development. If video games provide this kind of development, it would be a great benefit for children.




Gee, James Paul. “Why Games Studies Now?” Games and Culture 1.1 (2006): 54-61. Print. 12 September 2017


In an article by James Paul Gee, the author argues that video games should be considered an art form. Demands a new criteria that’s different from movies for analyzing the video games as art form, because video games are good for the soul and can benefit our lives as much as any other art form. This article appears in the Games and Culture journal, which is peer reviewed. This is not a credible source because he cites himself as a source, giving mainly his opinion. We wouldn’t use this source because of self-citing, and his article is too vague in trying to proof his point.




Paul Gee, James “Why Game Studies Now? Video Games: A New Art Form” Games and Culture Volume 1 Number 1

January 2006 58-61 © 2006 Sage Publications 10.1177/1555412005281788 hosted at


Paul Gee explains the importance of properly appreciating video games and acknowledging differences in the meaning behind different types of games. “Video games are a new art form” (Paul Gee). Accepting video games as an art and being able to analyze the connection it creates between real life and a fictional story line has an important impact on how art will be viewed in a technologically advancing society. This source will be able to help prove in our essay the importance of accepting new forms of art in a changing world. Some limitations/ weaknesses are the source being outdated, created in 2006. The source also does not address or answer to conflicting points of views. We will still use this source because it offers a variety of reasons as to why video games should be considered art. Upon our own research of opposing viewpoints- this source may be able to answer to these controversies.




Gee, James “Why Game Studies Now? Video Games: A New Art Form” University Of Wisconsin. Vol. 1 No. 1 2006 pp. 58-61. 12 Sept. 2017.


James Gee argues that video games are a new art form. Due to the fact that there are no new methods to analyze them, we need to learn to understand their influence on society. Video games have a complex structure to them and learning to understand how they are made will benefit us as society. We need to be able to analyze video games to be able to understand the impact that violent video games have on youth.




Gee, James Paul. “Why Game Studies Now.” Https://, 2006 Sage Publications, 2006, Accessed 12 Sept. 2017.


The article states that video games are a new art form because of the blend between tradition artistic experience, and our own choices in determining the stories. Video games have a set environment, but gamers are given the ability to choose what kinds of scenarios they want to create. No two scenarios are the same, because no two people are the same. This is a peer-reviewed article that mainly references a game called “Castlevania”. This article would provide evidence, or at least a very notable opinion, that video games are a valid art form and should be an accepted study.




Gee, James Paul. “Why Game Studies Now?” Games and Culture, vol. 1, no. 1, Jan. 2006, pp. 1-4., doi:10.1002/9781118691779.ch1.


In this article James Paul Gee, the Tashia Morgridge Professor of Reading at the University of Wisconsin at Madison, claims that video games are a new art form and should be studied more by scholars. Gee compares Tetris and Castlevania, two video games, to show how games are evolving and giving the players more of a story feel like other art work. He shows that because of this change the players are able to make the games more personal as they choose how the character moves throughout the game, and at what rate.

This article would be a credible source because the author is a professor making him a scholarly source. I would use this in my final paper because it gives more background on video games and shows the improvement.




Gee, James Pual. “Why Game Studies Now?” Sage Publications, Jan. 2006, pp. 58-61.


James Paul Gee Is writing about video games. He thinks Scholars are not paying enough attention to video games as an art form. He argues that because of the inherent story elements in video games, and the continuously greater impact they have on society as an art form. He talks about the different affects video games have on people as a method of story telling that differs from books. He says talking about an example game “The hero is thus not Alucard from the designer’s story or you the real-world player. It is Alucard-you, a melding of the virtual character, Alucard, and you, the real-world player who has steered Alucard on a unique trajectory through the game.” (Gee, James Paul) Here he describes how we related differently to the stories giving it greater validity as a different and unique art form. The author has five reverences to sources two are to other authors three are to himself. Citing ones self seems to detract from credibility, because the information is coming from himself and not others. The author does make small reverences to and comparison to how literature is viewed as an art form. He uses these to support his enlargement by showing the similarities in the two art forms




Gee, James Paul. “Why Game Studies Now” Video Games: A New Art Form, vol. 1.       no. 1. 2006, Sage Publications. September 12, 2017.


Gee states in his thesis that “video games are a new art form.” Some of his major points are that the creator and the player, of the video games, help to make a story. He continues to argue that in many art forms today we have “ambiance, mood, feeling, sound, [and] look”. He says that in video games, these things are experienced when created and played. We believe that he is fairly correct in his argument. We compared his video games to a movie, because a movie is a form of art. We also said that it takes drawing, processing, design, and thoughts to create a video game. All of that is similar to movies, paintings, and music even.   He covered many of these points in his scholarly article. He is extremely credible because, in the end of the article it states that he is a professor and he wrote a book called “What Video Games Have to Teach Us about Learning and Literacy”. We would use this in a research paper because he is credible and this is a good source that covers a lot of material. It is also pro our argument.




Gee, James Paul. “Why Game Studies Now? Video Games: A New Art Form.” Games and Culture, vol. 1, no. 1, Jan. 2006, pp. 58–61.


In James Gee’s scholarly article, he suggests that video games are the newest art form and allow people to utilize video games as a creative outlet. Gee is trying to explain to his audience that video games are different than literature and media in the way we analyze them. He is saying that video games are different because they put people directly in control. The sound, mood and feeling are all what make video games more enjoyable. He also makes the point that humans find story elements more meaningful rather than being lost without seeing the world. He states story elements allow the gamer to projected time. The author urges people to study games because he feels video games are under appreciated. The source is credible but the author sources himself which is a tad suspicious.




Gee, James Paul. “Why Game Studies Now? Video Games: A New Art Form.” Games and Culture,  Sage Publications, Jan. 2006,


James Paul Gee argues that the art of video games will need a unique new set of rules for the examination of the new art form. He also argues that this art form uses simple shape and symbolism that brings forth different meaning to the player. He calls for a need of criteria that can more fully evaluate the many different and dynamic aspects of the art of video games. Although this particular article may be biased towards a video gamer’s perspective because it comes from a gaming journal, the points that Gee argues about why videogames should be treated as an art form are valid. I think that these games can create an emotional connection with the viewer or player. The elements of design can also be applied to the complex design of the game as it can be towards traditional art forms. Both use symbolism to connect simple shapes and forms to people and ideas. I will use this article because it really helps to illustrate the point of how video games are used for art and how we can have an emotional attachment to them.




Gee, James Paul. Why Game Studies Now? Video Games, A New Art Form, 1st ed., vol. 1, Sage Publications, 2006.


The author of the piece, James Paul Gee, uses the article to describe multiple types of games, specifically Tetris, Metroid, and Castlevania, and their evolution’s. He includes how the evolution of the games changed the gaming experience by “creating ambiance, mood, feeling sound, and look” (p7). Gee uses comparisons between Tetris and Metroidvania to describe how the “experience of playing the game is closer to living inside a symphony than to living inside a book” (P8). As well as content based validity, Gee cites both Stanford and Harvard professors, proving he personally has credible sources. The author provides thoughtful analysis of his evidence, allowing us as readers to consider him a valid source of information. This source could be used in piece as support for the advancement of gaming studies in universities. We as a group would recommend this piece as a reliable source of evidence.


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English 412R

Respond in writing, in a note to yourself:

  • If you are writing something for your portfolio that is in anyway fantastic, how might you apply what this chapter suggests? For example, what reasonable desire might you give an astonishing character? What normalizing category of details can you add to a fantastic setting?
  • If you are writing something for your portfolio that is intended to be extremely realistic, how night you too apply what this chapter suggests? What could you watch for to prevent an inadvertent weirdness?

Our reading for today mentions tone or style. Consider these examples of how one author alters his style. Then, similarly, draft something very short, and alter its style dramatically, twice.

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Blurring character and plot

Think about your English 412R fiction portfolio by writing out answers to these questions. Your answers are not promises. Page numbers refer to Percy’s Thrill Me.

  • What does your character look like? What do they like to think about? Hate to think about? Do their thoughts contrast with their appearance? Their actions? The things they say? How so? If not, why not?
  • Who are three of the people in your character’s life. Devote a sentence to each.
  • What is the character’s desire, the “human urgency” (21) that drives them? What is at risk for them if they don’t satisfy it?
  • What obstacle or danger might keep them from their desire? What “lower order goals” (23) might help them reach it?
  • How would this specific character respond to at least three dangers or obstacles? How might those responses get them closer to or farther from what they want? What kind of (if any) “goals” might they set?
  • What new, more-dangerous danger presents itself as a result of the character’s response to dangers, obstacles, or efforts to reach a goal? How does the resolution of the first mystery reveal a second (35-36)?
  • What would the character NOT do to get what they want? How might readers know?
  • What are the consequences of the character’s desires and efforts to get what they want for other characters? For how the character thinks of him or herself? How does the character cope with these consequences?
  • How is this character’s heart in conflict with itself?
  • What external dilemmas or “higher order goals” (21) might this character face as they encounter these dangers?
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