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Hiroshima: Beyond the Numbers (Jennifer Butts)

2008-05-19T23:53:00.006-05:00

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Throughout my education, I have always heard about the bombing of Hiroshima. Nagasaki was also mentioned; how could it not be? But, the overwhelming majority of classroom discussions involving atomic bombs revolved around Hiroshima. After 12 years in the public school system, maybe 6 of them discussing the bombings in depth, I thought I had a pretty good idea of what happened to these cities.

Scientifically, I knew what happened. When these bombs were dropped, they basically turned small amounts of mass into relatively huge amounts of energy. The amount of energy can be found by using perhaps the most famous equation in all of scientific and mathematical history: E=mc2, where E is the energy produced, m is the amount of mass converted to energy, and c is the speed of light. We all know that light travels pretty fast, so when you square that number and multiply it by another number, even if it is small, it will produce a very large number. It was always quite easy to perform the calculations, and I have done them several times, once even this year in my physics class. However, the calculation can not tell you how much damage was done. Sure, our history books can tell us that the cities were leveled. They can tell us how many people died instantly in the blast as well as how many suffered and died from injuries related to the blast. But these are simply numbers. Numbers have no emotional significance. Math is known as being a very cut and dry discipline; answers are right or wrong, there is no in-between.

Unfortunately, life is not so simple. The decision to drop the bomb and release that much energy could not have been made lightly. Unfortunately, the impact of this single decision has been diminished from years of talking about the bombing as a purely academic problem.

Until this class, I had never even heard of Hiroshima, by John Hersey, let alone read it. Reading the stories of those six survivors really presented a brand new side of an event that I have heard about in school for several years. This book told the stories of six people who survived the bombing of Hiroshima. These people were civilians; they were not directly associated with the war. In school, we were always told that the bombing was necessary to end the war. It is true that after the two bombs were dropped, the war ended very quickly. It seems like our textbooks wanted us to believe that our country took the appropriate action at the time, perhaps so that we do not grow up thinking that our country is a heartless killer. What we never really learned was the extent of the damage to individuals. We were told that the victims suffered from severe burns and radiation. It was also mentioned that it was difficult to treat such injuries because they came into existence with the atomic bomb. So, not only were these people devastated by the loss of their city, they suffered from injuries that even the best doctors did not know how to treat. The stories of the people in this book really brought depth to an event that I had always thought of as cut and dry: the United States dropped the bombs, and Japan surrendered, which brought an end to the war. I had never really ever given much thought to what the people directly affected by the decision of a single person, the president of the United States.

All of the people whose stories are told in Hiroshima suffered a great deal, but one story stood out beyond the others for me: the story of Miss Toshiko Sasaki. She had gone to work just as on any other day. However, it would be a day that changed her life forever. The actual blast caused a bookcase to fall on top of her and severely broke her leg. She was trapped underneath the wreckage for several hours, and when she finally was pulled out, she was left for two days without food or water. After being sent to several different hospitals, her leg finally healed. Unfortunately, it was three inches shorter than her right leg. This is just one example of the hardships suffered by survivors of the bombing. People like Miss Sasaki are generally considered the lucky ones because they survived. However, it could be argued that the survivors were, in fact, the unlucky ones. Life is precious, of course, but how special is it when you suffer for years because of the events of a single day, events that you had no control over. Would you consider yourself lucky if your country discriminated you because you survived? Hiroshima reveals that the people of Japan did not want to associate with the survivors, primarily because they were prone to bouts of weakness and it was uncertain what all of the long-term effects of the bomb were. Maybe the lucky ones were the ones who died instantly. They may have seen a bright light, but was just about it. If they felt any pain, it was minimal. Although they lost their lives, perhaps they were better off than the survivors who suffered for years and faced discrimination in the place they called home.

As I said before, this was my first time reading this book, and it really opened up a new facet of the bombing of Hiroshima. It really made me think about the horrific events of that day, and how so many people suffered because of the actions of a few people in power. Perhaps every person who possesses any kind of power should read this book just to be reminded of the effects their actions can have. Although atomic bombs are an extreme case, the stories certainly remind people that our actions can have consequences that severely affect others.
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LIT160 Introduction to Literature--Spring 2008.

Posted with author's permission.

The Smile of Accomplishment (Jennifer Butts)

2008-04-22T19:43:00.009-05:00

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Night descends upon the city. The moon rises higher and higher as if trying to get a better look upon the city's inhabitants. As night creeps on, there are still people out and about. Men sneaking behind their wives' backs, even some women sleeping around being unfaithful to their husbands. None of this is new to the moon, for she has risen night after night. She has seen many a betrayal, and often the fights that ensue. She has seen mothers tending their children, who can't sleep because of nightmares. The moon is rising, watching over her domain. Nothing seems out of place; everything is as it should be. But then something catches her eye. It is a mother, wandering about her kitchen, seeming to fret over her children.

Intrigued, the moon focuses on this one house. The woman inside has prepared a pitcher of milk and a plate of food for her children. Nothing particularly strange, until the bottle of sleeping pills is seen beside the pitcher. The woman has a handful of them, debating whether or not to put them in the milk. Drawing closer, the woman can be heard muttering to herself, arguing with herself about what should be done with her children.

"Should I take them with me?" the woman says. "I deserve death, it is all I want from my life now. I simply want to be released of the burden that has become my existence. But my children? They are young, with many years ahead. Perhaps they will find joy in a world where I found only sadness. But will they? Without a mother, will they be able to grow up and function in society? Perhaps it would be better if I just ended it for them tonight. It wouldn't be difficult, just give them sleeping pills in their milk, and when they have fallen asleep, keep them by the oven, letting them breathe the gas that will claim their mother's life. No! I can't. I will leave that up to my children. I cannot kill them. Taking my own life is one thing, taking my children's lives is murder. I will leave them the milk and food, and I will depart this world hoping that my children find more joy than I ever did."

The moon watches overhead. She watches the woman carefully set out the milk and plate of food for her children. Watches as the woman reenters the kitchen, placing a towel at the base of the door, taking great care to seal the crack as tightly as possible. The moon watches as she places her head inside, the smile of accomplishment on her face as she breathes deeply. She keeps sucking in the poisonous gas. Slowly but surely, soon the breathing is slow and calm. Her back rising ever so slowly and gently. All too soon, the breathing stops. The moon continues on her way now. Nothing more to see. The woman's family will find her, and bury her in the ground. This is nothing new to the moon, for she has seen much death. She has been watching over people since the beginning of their existence, suicide is nothing new.

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Jennifer wrote this short piece in response to an essay question on a test:

Using the title “The Smile of Accomplishment,” rewrite Sylvia Plath’s poem “Edge” as a short story.

For your story, you should NOT create your own story, but simply rewrite Plath’s poem in story form. You may add details, of course, but they must be plausible within the parameters of the original poem and what you know about Plath’s life and death. NOTE: I am not looking at your creative writing ability here. I am looking at how you can extrapolate the future outcome of a character’s life based on textual clues offered in her current reality.
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Interestingly, before setting pen to her exam booklet, Jennifer jotted down some notes on the poem Edge:

Lines 1-4:

Write from first person p.o.v.(I).

Smiles as she places her head in the oven, awaiting death to claim her, ending the misery.

Lines 5-8

Walked through life for 30 years. At 10, lost her father. At 20, failed to end her life. Not this time. Too much misery to go on. Melancholy consumed her life; no happiness to be found. She will not fail.

Line 8 ("We have come so far,/") was underlined, with this notation: 30 years, 20 w/o father. Line 8 ("it is over.") also underlined, with this notation: suicide/death

Lines 9-12

Should I take my children? Wouldn't be hard, just lock the door, a smidgen of sedative in the milk. I would feel no pain, but do they deserve it?

Lines 15-16

Turns on the gas, breathes deeply, inhaling the sickly sweet gas. She smiles...(top).

Lines 17-20

The moon, a silent onlooker. She has already seen much death. What is one more?

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In order to fulfill the essay requirements for an exam (75 minutes total), Jennifer has written a fine derivative short story based on a poem; however, based on what I have seen here, I'm willing to bet that she could write her own original stories and do a very good job, indeed.

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LIT160 Introduction to Literature--Spring 2008

Posted with permission

Supporting Characters from "The Loneliness of the Long-distance Runner"

2008-04-08T15:57:00.004-05:00

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For an in-class point-of-view exercise on Alan Sillitoe's "The Loneliness of the Long-distance Runner," I gave students the following instructions:

You already know protagonist Smith's take on life, but what about supporting characters? We are about to find out, for each group will assume a first-person ("I") character point-of-view of a supporting character and write a one-page passage.

Your first-person passage must be supported by textual clues; thus, you can't just write any old thing and claim success. Your "guess" must have a basis in fact. Also, don't quote original dialogue from the novella; the idea is to understand the nuances of the text by creating LIKELY opinions of and ORIGINAL text from your character. Besides, nabbing existing text is the lazy way out, and I want you to stretch your intellectual capabilities.

----------Group 1: Smith's father

----------Group 2: Governor at Borstal

----------Group 3: The copper

----------Group 4: Mam

----------Group 5: Mam's "fancy-man"

Students read their passages in class.

Also, they were asked to designate a representative from their groups to post their passages in the comment section of this blog.

Creative Response to "No Name Woman" (Nichol Fake)

2008-04-05T20:48:00.006-05:00

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Alexis was sitting in the nursery of her church on Sunday morning. As she was watching the children play as she had every week for the last nine years she began to think back to her junior year in high school. She thought back to her friend Jessica. It was weird because over the years she rarely thought about those days. Jessica was such a distant memory it was almost as if she never knew her, but that day watching those kids and their reaction when their parents came to pick them up just hit her that day.

It was their junior year Jessica and Alexis were best friends. They had been joined at the hips since first grade. But as the year went on and Jessica began dating Brandon her time for Alexis seemed to be less and less. As the school year when on Alexis began to notice little changes in Jessica. Then a few months before school would be over she noticed that Jessica had been missing school a lot and when she was there she seemed to always be sick and going to the bathroom a lot. When she confronted Jessica she said it was just the flu. Then a few weeks later she noticed Jessica had not been to school in days, and the other kids in school were starting to talk. The rumor was that Jessica was pregnant and that she would not be back to school.

Alexis knew that in the small town they lived in, a girl being pregnant or even having sex before being married was looked down upon, especially when the girl was so young. In fact, this was the first time it had ever happened in their town. Alexis knew she had to found out the truth. She tried calling Jessica all weekend but her parents just kept saying she was not home and Alexis was too afraid to tell her parents why she needed to talk to Jessica so bad. So Monday Alexis decided she had to confront Brandon in school and find out what was going on. He told her that it was none of her business and that he had broke up with Jessica awhile ago.

Alexis knew the rumor had to be true. She was scared for her friend; she could only imagine what must be going through her head and what she was going through at home. She decided to stop by Jessica’s on her way home that day. When she arrived at Jessica’s she noticed that her car was not there and when her mother answered the door she said Jessica had gone to stay with her grandparents for awhile. Alexis asked her why and she just said “she needed to get away from this town and the people.” She continued to tell her that Jessica would be getting her GED while at her grandmother’s and they were not sure when and if she would be coming back.

All night Alexis kept replaying the day in her head. None of it made sense. If Jessica was going through all of this why didn’t she come to her? Why didn’t she let her try to help her through it all? She didn’t know what she could do, if anything. But she wanted to be there for her friend.

It was about a year later when Alexis got an email from Jessica. She was so surprised and a little upset that it took her so long to get in touch. But once she read the email she just felt sad for her friend. The email read:

Hi Alexis. I am sorry it has taken me so long to get in touch with you. As I am sure you have heard I had to leave school last year because I was pregnant. I just could not face the town and what they were saying about me. I could not stand looking at my parents and seeing nothing but disappointment on their faces and knowing I was the cause of it. They told me that I had to get rid of the baby, that there was no way I could keep the baby. They made sure I knew that if I kept the baby they would have nothing to do with me or the baby. They made sure I knew there was no way that I could ever take care of my child or give him/her the life they deserved. After listening to this every night I started to believe them. I felt like the only thing I could do was to have an abortion. So I told them I would move to my grandmother's, get my GED while I was there and have the abortion. I have to be honest; when I first got here I was hoping that my grandmother would not agree with them. That maybe by some chance she would not feel that I was some kind of embarrassment, that maybe she would help me to make a decision that was based on my feelings and not the opinions and feelings of others. But she felt the same. That a girl my age having a child and not being married was one of the worst sins a person could commit. So I finally gave in and put my feelings aside and went to the clinic here. I was not showing yet so no one in the town knew of my “condition” and still don’t. I was able to get my GED and I am starting my new life here. I work full time and I am attending the local community college. I moved out of my grandmother’s recently because even though I did what everyone wanted I could tell they had not forgotten and would not forgive me. I found a small apartment and I am doing well. I wanted to come to you in the beginning but I knew that you would be supportive and that would make it even harder for me to ignore the voice in my heart telling me to keep the baby. So I just had to distance myself from everything. I hope that you can understand. I know that you are not a supporter of abortion but hope that you can find it in your heart to someday forgive me for going through with it. I am sorry I was not a good friend to you and I pushed our friendship aside when Brandon and I got together.

Alexis found herself in tears as she finished reading the email and she was unsure what to write back. So she simply replied, “Jess, I hope you know that I would have been there for you. And I could never hold what you have been through against you. I am glad to hear you are doing better now. Keep in touch.”

That was the last time she had any communication with Jessica until that Sunday after church. Alexis was driving home from church with her own son in the back seat. As she looked back at him and thought about the other kids in the nursery it made her think about how her life would be if she had been in Jessica’s shoes. She thought about all the amazing times she had with her son and the wonderful feeling that motherhood gave her and it broke her heart to know that Jessica missed out on all of that because of the way people reacted to her when she was pregnant. So she sent Jessica another email to try and see how she was doing, but she never heard back from her. It was as if Jessica had just disappeared again.

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Nicol Fake decided to respond to Maxine Hong Kingston's "No Name Woman," a non-fiction excerpt from The Woman Warrior (1976). Nicol decided to borrow an incident from this assigned work to write a piece (story) of her own.

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LIT160 Introduction to Literature--Spring 2008

Posted with the author's permission.

Modern Girl: A Rewritten Work (Chelsea Rosenberger)

2008-04-01T17:59:00.003-05:00

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Never wash the colors with the whites; don’t throw your jeans in the dryer if you don’t want them to shrink; bleach is for whites only; don’t let the dishwasher make you lazy; keep a clean house, but not so clean that company feels unwanted; don’t lay in your bed without showering; wash your sheets every two weeks; if you use conditioner everyday it will make your hair look particularly greasy; always wash your hands before you eat; this is how you get blood out of a shirt; this is how you set the table; this is how you set up a doctors appointment; this is how you make Nanny’s infamous pound cake; this is how you get rid of ringworm—soak a penny in vinegar until it turns green, then tape it to the ringworm; this is how you keep a straight face when all you want to do is laugh; this is how you say “I love you” to a friend; this is how you say “I love you” to a lover; but I’m too young to be in love; tables are for glasses, not for asses; never put your feet up on the table—no one wants their food tasting like a foot; when wearing a dress, cross your legs, unless you want everyone to see your panties; always wear panties with a skirt or dress because if you don’t, you’re asking for it; don’t pour salt on a slug or feed a bird Alka-Seltzer; this is how you speak to a man; this is how a man should speak to you; this is how to cover your cough; this is how you check eggs to make sure they aren’t cracked; but what if they’re all cracked?; you mean to tell me you’re going to be the kind of woman who can’t find a good egg?

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(Chelsea Rosenberger says, "I rewrote [Jamaica Kincaid's] 'Girl' because when I read the poem, I immediately pictured all of the little bits of advice my mother has shared with me over the years.")

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LIT160 Introduction to Literature--Spring 2008

Posted with permission.

Poetic Response to "Hills Like White Elephants" (Meghan Daly)

2008-04-01T17:40:00.005-05:00

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Simple he says,
But what is simple?
He says it’s easy,
But how would he know?
A life in my hands,
And he says it’s simple.

The choice should be easy
Do I want it or no?

Happy,
He says we’ll be happy,
But how does he know?
If I keep it he says that he’ll stay,
But I don’t believe him,
For if he would stay
He wouldn’t be trying
Trying so hard to get me to do this

Simple he says,
But what is simple?
Easy he says,
But how would he know?

The choice should be easy.
Do I want it or no?

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Meghan says, "I did this from the point of view of the girl [Jig]. I figured that she is probably going through a lot trying to figure out whether or not she truly wants to abort the baby or if she wants to keep it. I also felt like the guy was saying anything to keep her happy while still trying to get her to go through with the abortion. I tried to incorporate that into my short poem when I said, 'If I keep it he says that he’ll stay,/ but I don’t believe him,/ for if he would stay he wouldn’t be trying,/ trying so hard to get me to do this.' I just felt like the girl needed more of a voice than the original author gave her so I wrote her this."

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LIT160 Introduction to Literature--Spring 2008

Posted with permission.

Ballad of the Tenant (Dan, Clint, Evan)

2008-03-21T14:09:00.002-05:00

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Tenant, Tenant,

I've come for my money
I want my dough
You haven't paid me yet
So now I must spit this flow.

Tenant! Tenant!
Why you gotta front
You know I saw you on that corner
rollin' up that blunt.

Ten bucks is what you owe me
I want my ten bucks now
You say you don't know how you'll pay me!
I say you should figure it out how.

That's right I got your Eviction Notice
Damn right Ima cut off your heat
Oh you can't find your furniture
Try lookin' on the street.

Hell, yea, you gonna pay me
My point, you ain't gonna miss
'cause I'll put some lipstick on my fist
and throw you a kiss.

5-0! 5-0!
You'll never catch me, pig.
Ima run, son
I will never go down for this gig.

Siren!
Police dogs
Echoes of the Gat

Cell Door Slams
Presses Print
Headlines Read

Shots Fired

---.---
-.---.-

Suspect Caught

---.---
-.---.-

Criminal in Jail

---.---
-.---.-

Justice Served
_________________________

(Note: In a 30-minute in-class group project, Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature students were asked to rewrite Langston Hughes' 1951 "Ballad of the Landlord" from the landlord's perspective, while attempting to retain the original structure and cadence of the original poem. After reading their poems to the class, the students discussed how the shift in point of view changes the poetic perspective. The class also discussed how attitudes toward African Americans have changed and not changed since 1951.)
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LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2008

Ballad of the Tenant (Chelsea Rosenberger and Ashley Clousher)

2008-03-21T13:37:00.002-05:00

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Tenant, tenant,
I know there is a leak
I called the roofing company
They'll be here next week.

Tenant, tenant,
You must give me time
I need money to fix these things
And you haven't given me a dime.

Ten bucks you owe me,
Ten bucks past due.
Do you think that's enough
to fix this house up brand new?

I don't want to evict you
I don't want you to be cold
I don't want you to come back
to see your furniture has been sold.

Blame me all you want
Keep cursing my name
Threaten to silence me
But my face you will not maim.

Police! Police!
Take this man away.
He's trying to force me out.
I have no place to stay!

This man is a liar
I wish not to kick him out
He threatened to hurt me
Don't listen to him shout.

Lock him up
Teach him something
He can't walk around owing money
And acting like it's nothing.

TENANT THREATENS LANDLORD
POLICE MAKE ARREST

The tenant learned his lesson
To this he can attest.
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(Note: In a 30-minute in-class group project, Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature students were asked to rewrite Langston Hughes' 1951 "Ballad of the Landlord" from the landlord's perspective, while attempting to retain the original structure and cadence of the original poem. After reading their poems to the class, the students discussed how the shift in point of view changes the poetic perspective. The class also discussed how attitudes toward African Americans have changed and not changed since 1951.)
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LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2008

Ballad of the Tenant" (Group #3)

2008-03-21T13:20:00.004-05:00

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Dead beat, dead beat
Where is my rent
Are you telling me
it has been spent

Dead beat, dead beat
The money is due
You are late
and this is nothing new

Give me what you owe me
But keep this in mind
the rent is going up
the next time.

If you can't afford it
I'll kick you out fast,
out on the street
I'll throw your lazy ass

Don't give your complaints
I don't wanta hear it.
Your rent is more important
than doing all this shit.

Help me, help me
I didn't do anything wrong
This man is the bad one
He is the one that doesn't belong.

Don't treat me like an animal
Don't throw me out on the street
I deserve more than that
I'm not a dead beat.
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(Note: In a 30-minute in-class group project, Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature students were asked to rewrite Langston Hughes' 1951 "Ballad of the Landlord" from the landlord's perspective, while attempting to retain the original structure and cadence of the original poem. After reading their poems to the class, the students discussed how the shift in point of view changes the poetic perspective. The class also discussed how attitudes toward African Americans have changed and not changed since 1951.)
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LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2008

Ballad of the Tenant (Jessica Cunningham, Danielle Boyer, Shana Mallory)

2008-03-21T12:22:00.005-05:00

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Tenant, tenant,
Your house is just fine.
You call me every week
Stop calling my line.

Tenant, tenant,
It's not my fault your steps are broken.
You have parties every night
People call me because they are awoken.

You always pay late
Rent's never on time
Your checks always bounce
You're committing a crime.

What? You're reporting me to the state?
You're gonna try and end my career
Ha, that's funny,
but I have no fear.

No way! You're gonna treat me like this.
I work hard at my job
Treat me with respect
You are the slob.

Lawyer! Lawyer!
Come and try this man!
He's not keeping up with his end of the lease!
Put him in the can!

Gavels bang!
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Verdicts reached.

Guilty.
License revoked.
Headlines in press:

Bad Landlord.

Landlord Loses License.

Judge Gives Landlord Time in Jail.

_________________________

(Note: In a 30-minute in-class group project, Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature students were asked to rewrite Langston Hughes' 1951 "Ballad of the Landlord" from the landlord's perspective, while attempting to retain the original structure and cadence of the original poem. After reading their poems to the class, the students discussed how the shift in point of view changes the poetic perspective. The class also discussed how attitudes toward African Americans have changed and not changed since 1951.)

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LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2008

Ballad of the Tenant (Jennifer Butts, Tasia Colbert, and Katie Fulbright)

2008-03-21T11:54:00.005-05:00

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Tenant, tenant,
You say your roof has sprung a leak,
I surely hope that you don't think
that I remember what you said last week.

Tenant, tenant,
You say your steps is broken down.
And yet when I come up myself.
You don't see me fall down.

Ten bucks you know you owe me.
Ten bucks you know is due.
So until I get those ten bucks,
the problems are up to you.

You know I can evict you.
I have access to your heat.
I can take your furniture
and sell it on the street.

Yeah, I'm talking high and mighty,
I'm gonna talk 'til it gets through,
You're not gonna lay a hand on me,
I'm gonna duck and dodge you.

Police! Police!
Help me keep my land.
He's trying to keep my furniture
and sell it to the white man.

Broken lights.
Water stains
What he said was true.

Broken stairs.
Frozen pipes.
I should have fixed it new.

New flyers say:
We have a vacant space
But if your word goes against me,
I'll put you in your place.

_________________________

(Note: In a 30-minute in-class group project, Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature students were asked to rewrite Langston Hughes' 1951 "Ballad of the Landlord" from the landlord's perspective, while attempting to retain the original structure and cadence of the original poem. After reading their poems to the class, the students discussed how the shift in point of view changes the poetic perspective. The class also discussed how attitudes toward African Americans have changed and not changed since 1951.)

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LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2008

Introducing Body Memoir Politic: Looking (A Play)

2008-02-20T05:47:00.003-05:00

Body Memoir Politic:

Looking

A Play in Ten Scenes

by

Jennifer Semple Siegel

© 2008

______________________

One pill makes you larger

And one pill makes you small

And the ones that Mother gives you

Don’t do anything at all.

Go ask Alice

When she’s 10 feet tall.

–Grace Slick, “White Rabbit”

Go to the website.

John Hersey's Hiroshima: Graphic Adaptation of Mrs. Nakamura's Experience (Emily Morris)

2008-01-27T14:42:00.000-05:00

(Note: I have included a text transcript for each panel; however, if you wish, you may click onto to each page, and you will load a large and readable version of each page.)

Page One (Above)

Panel 1:

(Home of Mrs. Nakamura, widowed mother of three; 3/4 of a mile from center:)

MRS. NAKAMURA (Thinking.): Tearing his house down. What a shame--Soon he will have nowhere to live.

Panel 2:

AIR DRILL: Warning! Warning! Warning!

Panel 3:

MRS. NAKAMURA (Thinking about the night before, when she and her children had fled to Asano Park): Everyone is so tired. Maybe I can let them sleep this time.

Panel 4:

(Mrs. Hatsuyo Nakamura chose not to wake her three children that morning. They have been to the shelter many times in the past few days, and they were tired. It may have been this decision that saved their lives.)

Panel 5:

(Center Hiroshima during the explosion.)

Panel 6:

CRASH! Boom!

ONE OF MRS. NAKAMURA'S CHILDREN: Help, Mama! Help!

Panel 7:

TOSHIO: Mama, I'm scared.

MYEKO: WAAAA!

YAEKO: (Sobbing.)

MRS. NAKAMURA: Hush, darlings! I don't know what happened--I think we need to get to safety, then ask questions. Don't cry--it'll be okay soon.

Panel 8:

(Before leaving for Asano Park, MRS. NAKAMURA chose to keep her only source of income safe. Her husband's old sewing machine was how she provided for her family. When this was all over, she would need to make money to feed her children.)

MRS. NAKAMURA: (Thinking as she tosses her sewing machine into the Water Reserve Tank.) This should be safe in here.

Page Two (Above)

Panel 1:

(Many neighborhoods had safe areas they were to retreat to if there was a bombing. MRS. NAKAMURA followed a neighbor through the wreckage of her community to Asano Park, outside of town.)

Welcome Asano Park

Panel 2:

MYEKO: I am so thirsty.

MRS. NAKAMURA: Here, sweetie, drink this.

YAEKO: I don't feel so good, Mama.

Panel 3:

(After drinking from the river, MRS NAKAMURA and her children became very ill and spent the next few days with stomach sickness. As they lay ill, many in the park lay dead or dying. Some seemed healthy one day and perished the next. The scene was horrific and no help ever came. MRS. NAKAMURA had to make a decision to move her children away from the park to a nearby shelter.)

Panel 4:

(Six days later [the Nakamuras] left the shelter [Novitiate] to stay with her sister-in-law.)

Panel 5:

MRS. NAKAMURA: (Crying.) I am so ashamed. I can not go anywhere looking like this. My hair is gone. I am a Bald Dreadful woman. UGLY! I am ugly. BALD!

Panel 6:

(MRS. NAKAMURA lost all her hair due to nuclear radiation exposure. Her youngest daughter had a cut on her arm that took months to heal. MRS. NAKAMURA could not afford a doctor's visit so they waited their sickness out and soon MRS. NAKAMURA was planning for their future. She had sent her brother to her old house to retrieve the sewing machine she had stored in the water tank. When he returned it was with bad news.)

Panel 7:

MRS. NAKAMURA: It's useless--This will never work again! It has completely rusted! What am I going to do now?

Panel 8:

MRS. NAKAMURA: (Thinking.) Please, God. Give me strength. I need money desperately. Please?

Panel 9:

BANK CLERK: (Handing money to MRS. NAKAMURA.) MRS. NAKAMURA, this is how much the bank has for you. Have a nice day.

Panel 10:

(At the Machine Repair shop.)

MRS. NAKAMURA: (Crying.) How much is this [sewing machine] worth?

OWNER OF SHOP: It's junk--all rust!

MRS. NAKAMURA (Still crying.) Please--whatever you can give me.

Panel 11:

(After selling everything she owned, MRS. NAKAMURA moved her family into a small wooden shack, their new home in Hiroshima. MRS. NAKAMURA scavenged for supplies and did all she could to provide for her family.)

Page Three (Above)

Panel 1:

MRS. NAKAMURA: (Thinking.) This has all been my bad luck. My fate, that I must accept. This suffering is my test of faith. I must survive. My children rely on me and only me.

Panel 2:

RADIO: ...Hiroshima Survivors, also known as Hibakusha... This just in. Our Government has just passed a new program providing health care options to all of our survivors...Please report to your closest agency to receive your card...

Panel 3:

MRS. NAKAMURA: (Handing someone a loaf of bread.) Your fresh loaf, Ma'am.

Panel 4:

MRS. NAKAMURA: (Handing someone a newspaper.) Your daily news, Sir.

Panel 5:

(Factory work: Moth ball belt)

MRS. NAKAMURA: (Holding a bowl of moth balls.) All good...Sir.

Panel 6:

(Although the Japanese Government provided assistance for their survivors, MRS. NAKAMURA's pride prohibited her from accepting any assistance for many years. She held many low paying jobs just to pay for food and rent. The long term effects of radiation made her have to take frequent resting periods throughout the day. In 1951 her family moved to a better home and she continued working at the Moth Ball factory until she retired.)

Panel 7:

(MRS. NAKAMURA's luck began to change. Life continued to happen. Things were changing all around her. The town eventually got rebuilt. MRS. NAKAMURA watched her children grow up. Eventually she began to accept Governmental services like health care and pension plans. It is noted that MRS. NAKAMURA completed her life one day at a time.)

(Her son got married...)

TOSHIO: I do.

TOSHIO'S BRIDE: I do.

(MRS. NAKAMURA danced in a festival.)

Panel 8:

The End.

________________________

Emily Morris: I chose to pick only one of the main characters from John Hersey’s [account] and complete a graphic version of that [survivor’s] experience during the bomb drop on Hiroshima. The graphic version will be from the point of view of that [survivor] (first person) and contain only pertinent information to tell her story. The graphics will be selected based on the main events that tell the story of that [survivor] and the feelings or emotions that [she] must have felt during the bombing of Hiroshima and the aftermath. While I am aware that the [survivor] is Japanese and does not speak or even think in the same English context, I will need to summarize what I believe [she] felt in my terms.

Reflecting on the process. After completing the graphic representation of Mrs. Nakamura’s experience of the bombing of Hiroshima I feel a little less confident in my execution. It was difficult depicting everything in a graphic square without going overboard with pictures. I believe I chose the main events that Mrs. Nakamura went through; however, there were a few circumstances where I had to write a brief paragraph to place the readers where I needed them to be. This was a strip that spanned over many years; a lot of middle ground was tossed aside to illustrate only what was important. I’m not 100% positive that the reader would be able to pick up this graphic strip and know what really happened. Reading the stories of the Hibakusha (survivors) through a non-fiction account seems to me to be the best way to tell their stories.

I still enjoyed the challenge of completing this journal in a graphic version. It may not be perfect, but it was a good experience. I know now that I will not follow a career as a comic book artist.

_________________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Fall 2007

Posted with author's permission.

What is Fail-Safe? (a Poem by Samantha Colandrea)

2008-01-27T12:20:00.000-05:00

.
.
What does "fail-safe" even stand for?
To make sure everything goes right?
Is it to make sure in the worst situation?
That the plane will still take flight?
.
It began when a plane was spotted from Europe
The SAC declared it as a possible threat
But they are not allowed to proceed without orders
So they left it alone without fret
.
The SAC declared for an attack code
They created a bomber group made up of six
The orders are misunderstood because of the radar
And now it is too late for a fix
.
The thought of nuclear war
Causes Colonel to send out the crew
The six flights go toward Moscow
He did not know what else to do
.
Groteschele makes the suggestion
That the U.S. should begin
An attack to make the Soviets
Surrender and give in.
.
They made the attack look accidental
This was actually pretty cruel
Except they didn't think it through
And ran out of gas and fuel.

All six flights went down
And landed them in the sea
The pilots were all dead
And the other plane went free.

The Soviets make an agreement
With the President of the U.S.
They decline his request at first
But ended up saying yes.

The air defense shoots down two
Of the six planes unarmed
But the sixth plane should be left alone
Because it will do no harm.

Because of another disagreement
The sixth plane gets attacked
This was a mistake
That they weren't able to take back.

The President tries to tell Grady
That there is no war going on
Grady doesn't believe him
And sees it as a con.

They sent a plane to Moscow
To destroy the city for the "good"
Except this causes a bombing on New York
The Soviets would do what they could.

The moral of these attacks
Is that war is not worth fighting
It causes all the authorities to argue
When we all should be uniting.

(Samantha Colandrea responded to the book and film Fail-Safe by writing a poem about it.)

__________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Fall 2007

Published with author's permission.

J. Alfred Prufrock and His Women, A Character Study (Emily Morris)

2008-01-27T11:56:00.000-05:00

.
.
Night time has ascended and a tall figure walks down a dark alley, the only visible light coming from small neon signs protruding from brick buildings like rainbows in the night sky. With the strong gusts of wind the sound of distant traffic and a few bums discussing politics on the corner blow through the alley. The smell of burnt garbage and urine stagnate in the air like a never lifting fog. This man walks with a quick pace and holds his chin tucked close to his chest, only lifting his eyes to read the signs as he passes through. There is a chill in his bones as with the darkness came the cold. He is a familiar sight in this alley coming here for the comfort he cannot achieve on the main streets of town. His mind races with fleeting thoughts of honesty and integrity, but his body continues to press him on through the night to find solace in the arms of his next lover.

As he approaches the familiar threshold he peers through the unstained portions of glass in the window pains. There is a warming sensation in his groin as he observes the ladies laughing with each other over a game of spades in the parlor. The brunette on the right laughs joyously as she apparently won the last hand. He watches her as her hair flows with the motion of her alabaster neck, laying softly on the bare shoulders and tickling her back. This one he knows as Sophia, she speaks with a soft accent of somewhere exotic a low sultry voice that pleases his ears. He has had her company many times and enjoys her immensely.

He enters the house that will shelter his aging bones for the evening. Cigarette smoke attempts to escape through the open door as the chilled October air threatens to follow him in. He hands his coat and hat over to the Madame of the house, her name is Chelsea and she is an everlasting beauty, with grace and money. Chelsea trains these girls in the house on how to be ladies to the men that come here, how to speak politely and listen with care when they choose to discuss their days. She teaches them the art of seduction that will warm the coldest heart. She shows them how to be tigresses in bed and how to make a polite exit when morning comes. Chelsea recognizes the man with a familiar smile and with one swift motion extends her hand for a greeting. He brushes his lips on the back of her hand and responds with a greeting regarding the change of seasons. Chelsea offers his most preferred drink and he accepts with a nod.

The man, once again locked onto Sophia approaches her as she deals the deck of cards to the ladies around the table. The arrangement for her company is made and Sophia excuses herself from the card table and locks her arm into the crook of his elbow they are approached by Chelsea bearing his drink, cheap gin and soda water with a wedge of lime hanging to the side of the glass. Chelsea approves the transaction and the two lovers ascend the stairs to the room where they will be spending the evening.

The man selects an overstuffed wing chair and props his feet on the stool set in front of it. Sophia moves across the room lighting candles for ambiance. He stares at his glass, swirls the ice around and takes another sip. Sophia moves toward him, locking his eyes with her sultry gaze as she moves closer, he can smell her perfume. She smells of exotic flowers and clean linen. Sophia bends down, exposing the crest of her breasts tucked tightly into her bodice. She loosens his laces and removes each shoe placing them side-by-side on the floor. Sophia moves to straddle the stool placing his feet in her lap. With her thumb she rubs circles into the soles of his feet. She politely asks him "What miraculous things did you accomplish today?" He returns his gaze to his glass and returns her question with a soft voice he says, "there will be time to discuss these things, now is not the time." Choosing silence instead of conversation Sophia continues rubbing his feet and humming a soft tune.

Sophia’s hands move up from his feet and begin a soft caress to the inside of his legs. Still maintaining silence he locks her gaze with his and enjoys the feeling of her womanly touch. Conflicting thoughts race through his mind. He accepts her touch, he craves what comes next, but how on earth can he continue to act this way. He recognizes his true age; he knows the inevitable truth of age. He has begun the downward step to death. His hair is thinning; his forehead shows the wrinkles where years of stern concentration and heated arguments have crossed his face. His eyes have lost luster and his teeth are yellow now from years of combating stress with tobacco.

The night progresses as usual, the physical desire quenched in a bed of tossed sheets and the smell of sweat. The sun has begun to rise; through the cracks in the window shade he can see the gray shades of morning. In all the years of coming here he does not speak to these women. How can he explain what he does during the day, when the light of the sun graces the sky, he is not the same man laying in this whore’s bed now. If they ever ask why he never took a bride, how can he explain the tragedy of loosing the only person he ever truly loved. How can he speak to these women, and why should he.

Through all the years of coming here he has known these women he has loved them all. He has felt their embrace and the warmth of their bodies. He recognizes the sound of their laughter he knows them well. He rises to his feet and begins dressing in last night’s clothes. His eyes travel over the view of Sophia’s body as he exits the room without any goodbyes or condolences. The other men are leaving now, and he spots one exiting the room up the hall. He asks himself, "am I any different then that man there, or the one still sleeping in the room over there? Am I any different, any better then them?" He toils with the idea of paying off his house account and never returning again. He may just be getting too old for this. Better yet he knows he is getting too old for this.

As he begins his walk home to his apartment on 5th street, he is angry with himself for allowing his physical urges to override his moral approach to life. He recognizes it is time for him to end this behavior, to accept his age, and to accept that every day draws him closer to death.

Will he return to the house? It’s left unsaid. Will he ever be truly happy with himself? That’s left un-read.

(Emily Morris' note: After reading this poem I analyzed the character or rather what I thought of the character. I broke down every section into an action of a rather undesirable man. I pictured a pitiful man, a man that takes his nights at a whorehouse. A man that during the day he portrays an honorable man a role model to society’s rights.)

________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Fall 2007

Published with Permission

Publishes.us -- New Blog Name!

2007-12-09T13:19:00.000-05:00

This blog has a new name, which matches the new URL, containing, perhaps, a bit of wordplay.

Nothing else has changed; this blog will remain committed to publishing the creative work of college students (and others).

As a college instructor, I remain convinced that when one reads and absorbs good literature, one writes better, and this blog offers compelling proof.

Many of these student writers are not English or Writing majors--just college freshmen who are filling an elective slot.

Often, when college instructors expect quality work and thinking, students meet those expectations, and then some.

The best part: while my students often surprise me with their astute insights and creative talent, they mostly surprise themselves.

And THAT is what keeps me in the classroom!

2001-2007

2007-09-11T18:20:00.000-05:00

A New Memoir

2007-08-04T16:27:00.000-05:00

I have just completed a memoir titled I, Driven: memoir of a teen's involuntary commitment.

When I was 18, I was committed, against my will, to a mental institution, The Cherokee Mental Health Institute in Cherokee, Iowa, pictured in this post (I snapped this photo in 2004).

The institution is still in business, but has added a new twist to its business: incarcerating sex offenders.

I'm in the process of shopping the memoir around to agents and editors. For those of you who are writers, you know how difficult it is these days to gain the attention of the powers who decide what gets published. So I have decided to try something a bit different:

I have set up a web page with an open letter to agents and publishers regarding my memoir. I'm also going to try the old fashioned way, but the other night, as I was checking out a domaining blog, I got this brainstorm: why not find a generic domain name and put my promotional information on it?

Amazingly, some great generics having to do with memoir were available and just ready for the plucking (for cheap), so I grabbed several variations. For now, you can see how I have used one of them (I'm still a bit slow with creating web pages):

www.NewMemoir.com

This domain name was parked on Sedo for less than 24 hours and received three browser type-in hits, so I decided to pull it and DO something with it--that's my goal for all my parked pages; I just need to find the time without devoting my entire life to creating web pages. But this one felt important (at least personally).

Don't be afraid to promote yourself and your artistic endeavors on your own blogs and web pages; it may be the only free advertising you will ever get.

Best,

Jennifer

A Letter to John Hersey Regarding Hiroshima (Sarah Moser)

2007-05-21T20:12:00.000-05:00

(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature class, students are offered the option of writing a letter to an author, dead or alive, to ask questions and comment on their works. Sarah Moser chose to write her letter to John Hersey, author of Hiroshima, a non-fiction/journalistic account of six people who survived the a-bomb in Hiroshima.)

____________________

Dear Mr. Hersey,

What made you decide to turn [The New Yorker] article into a book? How did you even come about writing the article in the first place? Was it your idea? How did putting a face on the [Hiroshima] victims make you feel? Were you proud to be able to do this or did you just feel sad and ashamed? (You had to talk to the very people that we knowingly dropped a bomb on and tried to kill.) How did it feel to have everyone in the country talking about the book and the accounts within it? Why was distribution discouraged in Japan? Were they against the book being made, or was it just to be sensitive to their feelings about the past? Was the American occupation government trying to protect their feelings and not make them relive the event? Did you form a bond with the six people in the book or was it merely a professional interviewing relationship? I don’t know that I could hear these stories and not become attached. How did you feel about the bomb being dropped? Did this change at all while you were writing the article? After meeting these six people and getting to know them, did you keep in touch? How did they feel about you personally? I just can’t imagine being friendly to someone from the country that tried to kill me.

I know I’m asking a lot of questions, but history intrigues me, and I want to understand what the feelings at the time were like for both parties.

How do you think the Cold War affected the release of your book? Do you think that it was positive or negative? Did you hope that your book might cause people to learn from their mistakes and be more wary of similar situations in the future? With the climate of the world during the Gulf War/Desert Storm, did your opinions on nuclear weapons change at all? Do you think that the world view, or at least the American view, on nuclear weapons has changed at all because of Hiroshima? Will there ever be a day that this devastation is unleashed again?

I think you did a wonderful job on this book. Following these individuals from beginning to end humanized what happened. It now serves to make younger generations understand the situation. I feel that this book was written just at the right time—long enough from the event that people could read it in a different perspective.

Thank you for doing such a good job!

Sincerely,

Sarah Moser

______________________________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission.
______________________________________

Janie Crawford Watches God and Children, a sequel (Joel Trimmer)

2007-05-21T19:06:00.000-05:00

(NOTE: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's African-American Literature final exam, students were offered the option of writing a sequel to Zora Neale Hurston's novel Their Eyes Were Watching God. Joel Trimmer wrote his sequel in about an hour.)

__________________

[After Tea Cake’s death] Janie [Crawford, Killicks, Starks, Woods] went back to working the General store, as she always had. Hezekiah was happy for her return. It was if while she was gone, nothing changed in Eatonville. The men still gathered on the porch to play checkers and argue over anything that could be argued. It seemed as though a replacement for Jody Starks was even in place. Every day that passed made Hezekial more and more like Jody. He even smoked his cigar the same. Janie watched as the young man mused. Jody was the most respected man in Eatonville before he died. He set her up for the wealth and prosperity that she now lived. She had made peace with him. So if Hezekial wanted to be another Jody Starks that was as good a man as any to emulate.

In the coming years, Janie spent a lot of time reflecting. She sat on the porch like one of the man. She even swapped stories time to time like she would at the muck. She thought about Tea-cake most often. Every day she thought about Tea-cake. He gave her the opportunity to be fine. Janie felt isolated for years until tea-cake came and set her free. Janie also went fishing, just like tea-cake taught her. She fished for hours thinking about that first night Tea-cake too her fishing…

In all the reflecting that she did, she discovered she had no regrets. When looking back on her life, she was satisfied. Not many people can say that about their life, and Janie truly believed it.

She still got scowls from all the women in town. Janie was through weaving bonnets and tying her hair up. She was happy in blue overalls and loose fitting dresses. She was beyond trying to accommodate others. The next chapter in her life was to be dedicated to Janie. Janie used all her experience and knowledge of the world and shared it. She was as influential and controversial as she ever was. Suitors came and went. Janie said she was off the market, but deep down, she knew she was powerless to deny love if it came to her. She would have to follow her own teachings. When the young children of Eatonville gathered on the porch of the general store, Janie always gave them a freezie-pop and a story. Their favorite was the story of the hurricane. She always told them to follow their love. She told them never to settle for anyone. Love would find them if they kept their eyes open. This kind of talk stirred up all kinds of fussing in Eatonville. Parents were scared because their kids kept talking, “Miss Janie this…”, or “Miss Janie that.” That was Janie, though, and the people knew she couldn’t be talked down. The Janie that returned to Eatonville was a proud, strong woman. For all the grumbling, the townspeople still respected her. They also feared her. They saw her as a loose cannon, and worse, their children loved Miss Janie. The townspeople were terrified their children would run off to the ocean first chance they got.

Janie wanted her story told. Telling these stories made her feel good. She wanted the children to know what they could be for themselves. Janie had also never had kids herself, so this was her way of passing on her legacy. She spoke about her passions and freedom and loving life. She became a grand mother figure for all the children in town. She was beloved by many, and respected by all.

________________________________
LIT203 African-American Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission.
________________________________________

Graphic Version of "August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains" (Andrew Herr)

2007-05-21T18:05:00.000-05:00

Text: Follow the arrows.

Panel 1: Tick-tock, 7 o'clock! Time to get up!

Panel 2: Seven-nine, breakfast time, seven-nine!

Panel 3: Nine-fifteen, time to clean!

Panel 4: Five O'Clock!

Panel 5: Six O'clock!

Panel 6: Eight O'clock!

Panel 7: FIRE!! FIRE!! FIRE!! FIRE!!

Panel 8: Today is August 5, 2026!!

_____________________________

Artist/Writer's note:

This graphic version of Ray Bradbury's short story "August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains," coupled with some of the actual text, makes the reader to visualize the story line. The point of view changes when the reader reads the text, then looks at a picture of an actual house on fire. The shift from plain text to a text with visual representation makes the reader visualize what's going on in the story, the pictures acting as clues and reminders. The timeline style portrayed by the graphic version allows, in minor detail, for the reader to follow along during certain hours of the day as described in this piece of fiction.

______________________________________
LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission.
______________________________________

What happens When We Grow Old? (Kate Updegrove)

2007-05-21T17:24:00.000-05:00

(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature class, students are offered the option of writing a creative response to a poem, story, or play. Kate Updegrove chose to write a poetic response to Langston Hughes' poem "Harlem.")

____________________________

What happens when we grow old?

Does our memory shrink
like a dried up sponge?
Or create a colorful canvas ---
And then smudge.
Do we laugh the same?
Or develop a lion’s roar
With a big mane?

Maybe we don’t move
Like a sloth in the wild.

Or do we reminisce our lives as a child?

_____________________________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission.
_____________________________________

The Game of War (Erin Collins)

2007-05-21T16:17:00.000-05:00

(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature class, students are offered the option of rewriting a story, poem, or play in another genre. Erin Collins chose to rewrite Tim O'Brien's short story "The Man I Killed" as a poem.)

___________________

the game of War

the face of a faceless man
staring back at me.
one eye shut
the other a hole,
looking deep into my soul

the face of a faceless man
haunts my dreams.
nose unbroken
hair clean and black,
glistening under the sun.

the face of a faceless man
I never did see.
his fingernails clean
skin smooth and freckly.

a butterfly rests
on the face of that man.
a man who is unknown to me.

what would have become,
should have become
of the man with no face?

a scholar or soldier?
teacher or lover?
maybe neither, maybe both.

all I knew
was what I saw:
the face of the faceless man.
fragile and beautiful

in life and in death.

_______________________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission.

______________________________________

I’m Not Afraid of the Coppers (a sequel by Ashley Stahle)

2007-05-21T16:04:00.000-05:00

(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature class, students were offered the option of writing a prequel or sequel to a short story. Ashley Stahle chose to write a sequel to Alan Sillitoe's novella The Loneliness of the Long-distance Runner.)

Well, I pulled my big job about two weeks ago, and the coppers haven’t started closing in yet. While that doesn’t mean I am in the clear, it is most definitely a good sign. It makes me smile to think about how the Governor would react if he knew about this last pinch. I like to think it stings when people like him find out they can be wrong, that just maybe someone like me can knock `em off their high horses even for only a moment or two.

The money from this last job will keep me going for a while, at least until I find myself a new mark. I’ve already got something in mind, but I need more information on it before I can decide if it’s worth the risk. It’s not that I’m afraid of gettin’ nabbed by the rats again. I know they’ll get me sooner or later; I just want to enjoy what I can get until that happens. For now, my plan is to just keep on running, fast and hard, see how far I can get, you know? It’s funny how the Borstal made me faster than ever when you think about it. They were supposed to be reforming me for the honest life. Instead, they made me harder to catch.

I haven’t seen my ma in a long while. Sometimes I wonder how she and the younger ones are doing. I still think about me pa, too. I remember how he slaved away doin’ honest work for them and gettin’ nothing in return. They’ll never get me like that, not me. They may catch me, stop me for a while, but they’ll never own me. I’ve found my own way, and though it’s not without risk, I’m making it just fine. Better off now than I’d be if they got hold of me for good.
I hid my take from this last job good. Even if they suspect me, those coppers’ll have a tough time hookin’ me for it. They’re not too bright, you know. With the set-up I’ve got, I expect they’ll have more than their share of work cut out for them. And no matter how hard they sweat me, I’ll never give ‘em a thing. I’m no fool; I know their tricks by now. They don’t know mine, though, and that’s all the edge you need most of the time. If you can just outthink ‘em, you’re golden ‘cause coppers, they think you and me are stupid, too stupid to hide from them for long. They underestimate us, and between you and me, they’re not doing themselves only favors that way.

______________________________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission.
______________________________________

Technology: Love or Hate Relationship? (Arielle Pringle)

2007-05-21T15:30:00.000-05:00

(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature final exam, students were offered the option of writing an essay that explored both the positive and negative aspects of technological advances. Writers were asked to use Ray Bradbury's "August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains" as a springboard. Arielle Pringle's piece is a first draft, written in about an hour.)

________________________

In the year of 2007, there are many technological advances that some people love and hate. Some advances in technology that we love is the cell phone and the computer. Others are TV and the DVD players. The negative impact that cell phones have today: they are a distraction to everyone. If the phone rings, then we jump to pick it up, or if we get a text message or voicemail, we hurry to either reply back to it or listen to it. We stop just to work with our cell phones anytime during the day. Just like in the story “August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains,” the house was a distraction for people. It made a lot of noise and it talked back to them (if anybody was in there). But a positive impact that the cell phone has made: it is a better way to get in touch with people. Also, the cell phone itself can do a lot of other things than just call out and receive calls. It can hold phone numbers so that you won’t have to carry around the usual address and phone book. It is also good to have when there is an emergency, but at the same time it may cause the emergency. Cell phones are both technology that people love and hate.

Another advance in technology that we have come to love and hate is the television and the advances in the screen look as well as the advances in the cable options. Back in the olden days, televisions were only in black and white and you could only get a few channels. But today television has advanced to have a bigger screen with better quality and look. There are now LCD screens and flat screens. Also, some people have the home theater system which makes your living room like a movie theater. The best movies are viewed in a home theater room. In 2007, we also can get over 500 channels, whereas back then there were only two. Satellite dishes are taking over. No more of the regular cable or the cable boxes; there has to be a dish sitting on top of your house in order for a person to be considered one of the best. That is also a negative look on today’s society with the advances in technology. People don’t look at your character or your integrity anymore; they judge you solely on what you have. If your house does not have at least one big screen in it, you are not qualified to be the best. My house has over 6 televisions in it, two of them being LCD 50” televisions. Does that make me a person of honor and integrity? Some people in this world would think so.

Other advances in technology that people would love and hate are the advances in home appliances. Now there are refrigerators that have the news and weather on them, washers and dryers that can sense how much water to use only by the size of the load of clothing, and microwaves that now grill and are convection ovens. These advances are great for some people but are a nightmare to others. Yes, to have these appliances in your house would be a big deal. To have a stainless steel, LG refrigerator with a big computer screen on the front would make your house nice. Also, to have the water and the ice on the door is an extra benefit. The high efficiency HEST washer and dryer are a big deal today, too. Being able to get rid of stains without even treating them before they go in is an extra benefit for some. Using less water in the load can save money as well. But what happens when the computer screen on the refrigerator breaks or the sensor on the washer goes bad? People are now wishing they would have the protection agreement at Sears. All the nice benefits of having these appliances are making the people love them, but as soon as it breaks down the people start to hate the fact they even considered changing their kitchen around. Having to go through the hassle of getting the parts to fix the appliance, then having a technician to come out to repair it is a whole other reason why people hate and love the advances in technology.

Yes, these advances are great for America and the world but it also creates problems that are unnecessary. Cell phones are a distraction to anyone, TV’s are over priced and home appliances are so advanced that it is taking place of another electronic in your house. People love to say and flaunt these advances in technology but they hate when something goes wrong. Then they have to worry about the consequences and the problems that come up. All the advances in technology have made a positive and negative impact on today’s society, as well as the society of tomorrow and other generations after the ones of 2007.

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LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission.
______________________________________

So Muslims are Terrorizing Americans (Andrew Costanzo)

2007-05-21T15:03:00.000-05:00

(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature class, students are offered the option of writing a creative response to a poem, story, or play. Andrew Costanzo chose to write a poetic response to Jimmy Santiago Baca's poem "So Mexicans Are Taking Jobs from Americans.")

_________________

Are we? Do we come in
with tanks and guns and say:
Be afraid, terror has come?

Do you put down your weapons,
and concede to terror, and then
wage your war?

I hear we are terrorizing your country,
do we come in, voice high, and
while you are invading another country,
terrorize yours?

Even as you watch TV, and
See the terror that your bombs
and your soldiers have wrought
on the world, you can safely say,
we are taking down the terrorists.

So I look, I look for these
So-called terrorists.

Everywhere I turned, I looked,
Do you know what I saw?
American soldiers, American bombers.
And at the feet of these “heroes”
were thousands of dead.

I see all this and I, no, we,
are the terrorists? Through your
words of hate, thousands die
through terrorism, and it is not us

Turn and look in the mirror,
and you will see the face
of terrorism.

_____________________________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission
_____________________________________

"I Stand Here Ironing," a poem (Adam Shurnitski)

2007-05-21T14:47:00.000-05:00

(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature class, students are offered the option of rewriting a story, poem, or play in another genre. Adam Shurnitski chose to rewrite Tillie Olsen's short story "I Stand here Ironing" as a poem. This writer has captured the female point of view--not always an easy shift for a writer of the opposite gender.)

______________

The iron, heavy, I drag
Back and forth, back and forth.
The most wonderful gift, but
Timing is everything.

Two years, quickly pass,
She is a stranger to me,
But I have little time to notice.

She is my perfect child, oh,
To love her properly all over again!
She is alone, in the dark, scared.
I assure her that it will all be fine,
And as perfect as she is, never complains.

What price must I pay to win the love,
Of my so distant, sweet Emily.
Nothing I have done justifies,
My poor upbringing.

As I stand here ironing,
It hurts my soul, to drag,
Back and forth, the destructive
Iron. The iron which crushes my
Sweet child.

I was never there,
To ease her pain and sorrows.
I never saw her life escaping,
My loving touch. I merely saw
Myself, ironing, dragging slowly across
A wooden board.
She deserves more.

______________________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission.
_____________________________________

I am the Slave Mother (Christy Torres)

2007-04-29T19:31:00.000-05:00

(NOTE: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's African-American Literature class, students are offered the option of writing a personal essay, using an assigned literary piece as a springboard. Christy Torres chose "The Slave Mother," by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper as her springboard.)

His shrieks pierce the silence of the night. The rhythmic dance of inhales and exhales is disrupted. I can feel my mind slowly return to reality. My husband’s chest moves my hand slowly up and down. His breath continues its dance and he is oblivious to the cries shattering the night’s sleep. I force my eyes open and scan the dark room. My eyes stop on the clock, 3:42 a.m., its harsh fluorescent light mocks my loss of sleep.

I push away the covers and pull my hair up in a quick ponytail. I force myself to leave the warm haven of my bed and creep slowly to the adjourning room. He is crying hard, his breath catching in his throat before being forced out into the darkness. I open the door softly, and walk over to where he is sitting helplessly on the floor. I pick him up and look at his brother, still sleeping in his bed, undisturbed by his brother’s cries.

He lays his head on my shoulder and hiccups. I walk down the steps to the living room where I can rock him. As I rock him, I think about my life. The constant routine, the furious pace that leaves me exhausted, the never-ending cries that bombard my mind. I feel bitter. I am bitter because it was my sleep that was forfeited. I am rocking a toddler that is now asleep; however, one slight move, one break in the rhythmic rock and he will be awake and wailing.

Tomorrow is Tuesday. I have school. I dare look at the clock, the only light in the dark living room. 4:12 a.m....time is still mocking me. In less than three hours I need to be up and showered. I need to wake my daughter and get her ready for school. I need to wake up the boys, change them, get them dressed, and brush their hair and teeth. I need to feed them, make sure her backpack is in order, put socks and shoes on feet, push arms into coats and be out the door by eight. Drive to the bus stop, give a kiss good-bye, and drive to the babysitters, listening to “Crazy Car” three times on the way there. Pull in the driveway, unbuckle seat belts, put shoes back on wiggling toes, carry each boy on either side of my hips up the walkway, spill into the house, take off coats, smile as they run in screaming “Nana,” thanking God for the wonderful babysitter that I found. Kiss each one goodbye three times, and try to walk out the door while my youngest clings to my leg, not because he is upset but because he thinks the ride is fun.

Once I am finally out of the house I must drive back across town to school. I need to be at school by 9:30, and it is 9:12. I drive across town and for some reason “Crazy Car” is still playing…and being sung…I am in school all day until 3:15, and then I walk home. In the house by 3:25. My husband and boys are asleep, they will wake shortly. It is time to thaw dinner for my family. I must clean up the house, load the dish washer, and take out the trash, which should be deemed radioactive from the fumes being emitted from the diapers inside.

It is 3:40, time to get my daughter from the bus stop. She bounces off the bus, smiling. My heart swells at the sight of her smile. We walk home and she tells me that she needs my help with her math homework. We walk in the door and I can hear my sons awake and playing in their room. I close the front door and I hear, “Mommy, et me out my ooom, peezze.” I grab two diapers, wipes, and climb the stairs, open the door to two smiling beautiful faces. Pick them up, tickle them and change them one by one.

My husband wakes up and we all go downstairs. I make dinner; they play with toys that I must later pick up. We eat dinner, food is thrown on the floor despite my instructions to “Use your fork, eat pretty.” They once again play with my husband while I clean up the plates, cups, forks, and food scattered around the dining room.

The clock glares at me, I am racing against time, and it is 6:45. Time is competing with my children’s demands, and I am the one losing the battle. I gather PJ’s and draw the bath water, the boys get in the tub, my husband bathes them and I help my daughter with her homework. Their bath is over. I dress the boys for bed, get their sippy cups, read them a story and tuck them it. Three more kisses are given to each little boy, and to my delight I get six of my own.

I turn the bathwater back on and fill the tub for my daughter. She bathes, and gets dressed, and I tuck her in. She reads me a story and I kiss her, once, goodnight.

My husband is in bed. The clock on the nightstand mocks me still. It is 8:30. I kiss him goodnight, and he begins his dance with the night. I, on the other hand, go downstairs to clean up and tackle my homework.

I am frustrated, I am tired, and I am running on a constant cycle. I am a slave. A slave to time, a slave to professors, a slave to my husband, a slave to my work, a slave to the constant mess of toys and a slave to the gooey, sticky substance that is smudged between the pages of the book I am trying to read. But mostly, I am a slave to my children. I am a slave mother. As my mind leaves the day ahead and turns back to the rhythmic rocking and the sleeping two year old nestled in my arms, I wouldn’t want it any other way, even if it is 4:58 in the morning.

Author's Note

I chose to write a personal essay on “The Slave Mother.” This piece was extremely powerful to me and I believe that I reacted to in such a strong way because I couldn’t imagine losing a child despite the frustrations involved with motherhood. After thinking about the piece and reading it to myself at least a dozen times, and reading it to my husband twice, I knew that I wanted to write something related to this piece. I approached it a little differently because I can not relate to the exact emotions of having a child ripped away. I was unsure of what I wanted to write until my son woke up screaming the other night and I had to tend to him. I was frustrated because I wanted to sleep and as I rocked him I got more frustrated thinking about my life. Then I thought about the poem and knew that although I was in constant motion and was a “slave” to their needs, I couldn’t imagine losing one. I realize the time spent with them is a blessing no matter how tedious the task throughout the day is. I think the maternal instinct and emotional attachment in the poem is what connected me in such a strong way and enabled me to portray my own emotional attachment to my children in this piece.

________________________________

LIT203 African-American Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission

August 2026: The Day My World Collapsed (Sarah Moser)

2007-04-29T11:58:00.000-05:00

(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature class, students were offered the option of writing a prequel or sequel to a short story. Sarah Moser chose to write a prequel, from the point-of-view of the family dog, to Ray Bradbury's "August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains.")

I lay on my rug in front of the fireplace just waking up from a deep, dream-filled sleep. The day before had been full of intense activity and play. The prospect of what today might hold was almost too much to handle. I had even woken up to my feet furiously fluttering, as if running at high speed. After a brief stretch, I was ready to begin my routine. It always made me stop and stare, head cocked, when I moved away from my rug. The funny, little mice came out, buzzing furiously, while vacuuming up the hair I had left behind. In my younger days, I would bark at these interesting creatures, but now I just watch in amusement, day after day.

Walking over into the kitchen, I waited for the muffled voice I knew would come. Tick-tock, five o’clock, time to eat, time to eat, five o’clock! As if coming to greet me, a nook in the wall opened up to reveal a small robot Dalmatian carrying a miniature hose. It zipped out to my bowl and a stream of cold water majestically began to arc out of the nozzle. A minute passed and the Dalmatian, hose-in-hand, retreated into the wall it came from. The water tasted amazing! It always did, but today it seemed to dance on my tongue as I lapped it up. Almost on cue, three choices lit up on the screen behind my food dish and a new voice asked, “Turkey and gravy, Lamb and rice, or Beef and potatoes?” This was my favorite part of the day, until dinnertime any way. I pressed my nose to the Beef and Potatoes option and a robotic arm emerged clutching a can. A small saw buzzed in a circle around the top and the arm flipped over. The moist food glistened in my dish. Eat up, no time to waste, no time to waste, eat up! In a moment, the food was gone and my stomach was pleasantly full.

As I strolled back into the living room, a voice chirped again. Five-six, time to play, time to play, five-six! A bundle of toys appeared in the corner of the room; a rope, a few balls, and a bone. Normally, I would take turns playing with each of these toys until my family woke up. Today, however, all I wanted to do was go outside and play. After that fantastic dream, I was ready to run. One whine at the front door was all it took and I was free.

Outside, a breeze was blowing and the air was filled with familiar smells. The one that caught my attention was the scent of a rabbit. The hair on my back perked up and my eyes did a quick scan of the perimeter in search of my target. There it was! I darted over the hill and followed the speedy rabbit into the woods. Around bends and trees, carefully avoiding roots and rocks, my family should be up by now, but I persisted in my pursuit. Suddenly, as I ran through the winding creek a brilliant light seared my eyes.

The next thing I remember is waking up with half of my body in the creek, I didn’t know how long I had been unconscious, but my stomach told me I hadn’t eaten in awhile. My weak body struggled to get up. I felt nauseous, but sheer will-power kept me moving in the direction of home. The family must be worried!

What felt like a hurried pace was more of a slow crawl. As I came over the hill, I saw funny markings on the wall; however, my only thought was going inside to let my family know I was alive. Arriving at the door, a chill swept over my body and I let out a whimper. The door opened. I was feeling so weak that I barely even noticed the robot mice scurrying all around me. I hurried from room to room. What is going on? Where is everyone? I knew something was wrong, but the smell of breakfast lured me to the kitchen. The familiar scent was a small comfort. My family was gone and I frantically tried to think! The room started to get hazy and I felt myself spinning in circles. I fell to the ground and my last conscious thought was of my family and the hope that I might be with them once again.

____________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission

Pursuit of Absence (Lindsay Klunk)

2007-04-28T20:52:00.000-05:00

(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature class, students are offered the option of writing a prequel or sequel of a poem, story, or play. Lindsay Klunk chose to write a prequel of Sylvia Plath's poem "Edge" as a stream-of-consciousness short short story.)

February 6th, 1963

My hands are tired from carrying out the tasks of yet another painstakingly long and meaningless day in this place that hardly deserves the name of home. A more suitable name might be “residence,” or “quarters." I stay under this roof, inside these four walls. I don’t live in this place. To say that I live would suggest that there is some life inside this shell of a body. There is no laughter or smiling faces in this place, at least not when I am present. It is late, but the night differs little from the day for me. My days blend together from the lack of sleep. My world is one of 24 hour periods of monotonous time followed by more 24 hour periods of monotonous time. This never changing process is too much to bear, mostly. The children sleep and I am torn. Shall I take them with me, or leave them behind? Surely no good mother would abandon her children. Would any good mother have kept them to suffer along side of her for as long as I have? Oh, the quandaries I face this night, and every night. For I have thought to go on with it every time the moon is full, or half, or absent, or anywhere in between. She is gone this night. Perhaps I will join her soon. And be absent. I do miss her lonely smile, her lonely eyes when she is not present. But she always returns, as do I. You see, on occasion I have gone beyond simply thinking of leaving. I have left. But something drags me back here, every time. The stillness of this night engulfs my body like an ocean. The darkness surrounds me as I drown in a sea of my own short comings. I have failed miserably at life, and I am unable to succeed, even in death. What a triumph it will be, what a glorious day when I take my final breath and God carries me home. Mother Earth will finally have had enough of me. She will breathe a sigh of relief to see me go on my way. This world will be at peace to be rid of me. And I will be at peace to be rid of her. She has shown me no hospitality. My heart aches at the thought of what could have been, things that should have been, but will never be. Guilt and regret claw and tear and rip at the very core of my being. My soul is weary, exhausted from the battle within. Will my soul sleep? Or will it be awakened with a new life, with new opportunities in a new place? One can only hope. Would an eternity of rest be so terrible? My thirty-one years have left me with little more than enough energy to pry my eyelids open when the alarm sounds at seven with that persistent and undying burst of ungodly noise. An eternity of rest might be refreshing. The children stir. What is left of my cold heart seems to be fighting its way towards the back of my throat. I have got to face it. I simply must take them with me if they wake. It will be my sign from God himself. He will make the decision. It is in His hands now.

Author's note

I attempted to take on the persona of the woman from the poem, while keeping Plath’s voice. I wrote this piece as a diary entry, which is why I chose not to separate it into paragraphs. It is more of a stream of consciousness piece, from the point of view of someone about to commit suicide. I intentionally jumped from one thought to another in an attempt to recreate the irrational thought process of someone who is so out of touch with logical thought. I realize that I took a risk in writing this way.

_________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007

Published with persmission

There Will Come Soft Rains (Autumn Darbrow)

2007-04-28T20:15:00.000-05:00

(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature class, students are offered the option of rewriting a story, poem, or play in another genre. Autumn Darbrow chose to rewrite Ray Bradbury's short story "August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains" as a poem.)

Tick tock, seven o’clock.
Breakfast is ready
In an empty house
Standing all alone, steady.

Tick tock, eight o’clock.
Time for work and school,
But the house is empty,
The air is calm and cool.

The breakfast is old
And discarded right away.
Dishes are cleaned
And put back to stay.

Tick tock, nine o’clock.
Robot mice come darting out.
It’s time to clean.
They do it with no doubt

They whirl around
Cleaning every spot;
An empty house immaculate
Not even a dot.

Tick tock, ten o’clock.
The sun shines now
On a city of ash and ruin.
This house still stands somehow.

The west face has been burned.
No pretty white paint.
Only spots here and there,
But ever so faint.

Tick tock, eleven o’clock.
The house is paranoid.
It waits for the tenants
To come fill the void.

It still asks for passwords
And inquires who’s there.
Nothing better come close.
It better not dare.

Tick tock, twelve o’clock.
A starving dog cries.
The house opens the door.
Its voice it does recognize.

The dog searches
For the long gone family.
It soon realized the emptiness
The house can also see.

Tick tock, one o’clock.
The dog runs around, cries,
Spins in circles, bites.
Then it dies.

Robot mice come flying out
And dispose of the dog.
An incinerator burns it to ash
As if it were a log.

Tick tock, two o’clock.
Bridge tables fold down.
Playing cards flutter out
As chairs sit all around.

Martinis appear
Ready to be drank
With egg-salad sandwiches
Sitting on the bench’s wooden plank.

Tick tock, three o’clock.
Silence still around.
No cards being played.
No laughter. No sound.

Food is cleared away
With drinks following, too.
Tables fold into walls.
Silence still seeps through.

Tick tock, four o’clock.
The nursery comes alive.
Animals on the wall dance:
Many different types, even butterflies.

Giraffes, lions, antelopes
Dance in brilliant colors.
Some animals move to the waterhole
Followed by all the others.

Tick tock, five o’clock.
Bath water falls.
The tub is filled up,
And steam the mirror draws.

Tick tock, six, seven, eight o’clock.
Dinner dishes come out.
Inside the study, a fire is lit,
And a cigar burns, patiently waiting about.

Tick tock, nine o’clock.
Circuits turn on.
Beds become warm
Thwarting a waiting, cold dawn.

In the study a voice comes alive
And asks Mrs. McClellan for a poem choice.
No reply comes back.
“Sara Teasdale, your favorite poem, then,” says the voice.

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

Tick tock, ten o’clock.
The house begins to die.
A tree bough crashes
through a window.
Cleaning solvent shatters over the stove. “Fire!” comes a cry.

Doors spring shut
As the house tries to live,
But windows are shattered open and
Oxygen to the fire the window gives.

Water falls from the ceiling.
Tiny mice try to help, too,
But the water reserve is empty.
The house is through.

Walls are burnt, revealing wires,
And voices cry out until the fire stops them.
The house falls down now.
It’s not even worthy to condemn.

As dawn approaches,
There stands one wall.
The fire did not get it.
This one did not fall.

A lone voice comes from the wall saying,
“Today is August 5, 2026.”
It plays repeatedly over and over.
“Today is August 5, 2026.”
_____________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission

A Prequel to Alice Childress' “All About My Job” (Julie E. Pennella)

2007-04-28T19:52:00.000-05:00

(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's African-American Literature class, students were offered the option of writing a prequel or sequel to a story assigned for the course. Julie Pennella chose to write a prequel that retained the original dialect, still from Mildred's perspective.)

Well, Marge, I was walkin’ home tonight from Miss Jennie’s and, wouldn’t ya know, it was gittin’ cooler out and so I put my coat on. I hate that raggedy ol’ thang, but it wasn’t doin’ me no good carryin’ it, so’s I put it on anyhow. I dug my hand into the pocket and, do ya know what I found, Marge? There was a ticket for that fancy movie theatre over on Main Street. And with the ticket I found a note from Miss Jennie. It said, “Thank you for all your hard work this week. See a movie on Thursday night. My treat.”

Can you believe that, Marge! Miss Jennie treatin’ me to a movie. How nice! Well, come to think of it, she probly is just tryin’ to keep ma mouth shut about Mr. Dixon stoppin’ by the house this afternoon. Miss Jennie’s husband don’t like it when that man talks to Miss Jennie. Actually, he gits aweful mad at her for it. Miss Jennie don’t seem to care much though. Mr. Dixon already been over to the house twice this week and both times Miss Jennie would fluff up her hair and put on her red lipstick before she answer the door. I don’ know why she likes that color on her lips anyhow. It looks like her mouth is bleedin’ or somethin’.

But, anyhow, Marge that’s not all I wanted to tell ya. As I said, I was walkin’ home tonight and I found the ticket in ma pocket. I was holdin it in ma hand as I was a walkin’ and this nasty wind came and blew it right outta my grip! I was so mad at that wind I could’a kicked it if it had a physical bein’ to it. Marge, I looked around where I was standin’ and around where I looked for damn near ten minutes for that thang! I was too damn dark to see nothin’ and that ugly wind was blowin ma hair in ma face. Finally I seen it lyin’ in the middle of the street.

Well, Girl, I walked over to it, to grab it before the wind blew it up again and before I knew it I was gettin’ tackled to the groun’! Ya know what happened, Marge? A car almost took my out! That’s right, it almost ended me right then and there. Luckily, this man quick pushed me outta the way of the car. It hurt some, but I’s just thankful to be alive! Marge, I tell ya, the man saved my life!

Well, I got maself collected again and we stood on the sidewalk talking for ‘bout a half hour. He was a nice man, Marge…good lookin’ too. Tall and big with great big hands and shoulders and deep dark color skin, like chocolate. Yeah, Girl, he was a looker! And he looked like the kind’a man who has a good appetite. Someone who be needin’ a housewife to cook for him and take care of him. Well, Marge, we got to talkin’. I told him my name was Mildred and he says I looks like a Mildred. Do ya think I looks like a Mildred, Marge?

Anyhow, he told me his name is Henry and we got to talkin’ bout this-n-that and where I was headed and everything else in the universe. But, Marge ya know what happened next? I told him I was a houseworker comin’ home from Miss Jennie’s. I know…ya thinkin’ so what. Well, soon as I told him that, he said he had to be gettin’ home to his wife! His wife, Marge! I’ll be damned if he actually got a wife! He was talkn’ to me for bout a half-hour on that side walk and he wasn’t wearin’ no weddin’ ring on his finger! He ain’t got no wife, Marge! He was just usin’ it as an excuse to stop talkin’ to me. That’s what men do, Marge…it’s easy for em’ to just say they takin’. Gotta be getting’ home to ma wife! Men like him, they don’t want no houseworker. They want a pretty-face, size-ten or so, red lip stick-wearin’ girl who ain’t no houseworker with a free movie ticket.

Damn he was a good man though, Marge. He was a good man needin’ a wife. Girl, you been married before…Ya think he has a wife? Ya think he really is takin’? I suppose it could be the truth. Girl, thank the Lord I got a friend like you, cuz Lord knows when men like that come ‘round we be needin’ friends to keep us goin’.

Epilogue (Author's note)

I chose this piece as a springboard because I really liked the sense of pride that the main character portrayed throughout the story. In the beginning of the story, she says that she hates her job as a houseworker, but by the end, she changes her mind and realizes that she should not be ashamed of her occupation. I felt like I could relate to the story in this way because I grew up on a farm, working hard for my parents all my life. My mother was always a homemaker, keeping busy with the farm; she never had a paying job outside of our home. While I knew some other children whose mothers were housewives, it was not too common among families. Most children had mothers who were dentists, teachers, hairstylists, and even artists. Growing up I was somewhat ashamed of the lifestyle my family lived; however, I look back now and realize that I am proud to have grown up under those conditions. It instilled in me a sense a pride and a good work ethic.

I also liked the stylistic aspects of this writing. I enjoyed reading the story because I felt like the main character was personally having a conversation with me. The story is written in a kind of stream-of-consciousness manner. It takes on the form of a person talking to another. The main character rambles on with her thoughts, sometimes going on tangents. I tried to simulate this style of writing as I composed my prequel to the story.

I also tried to write using the dialect that the main character uses in the original story. As I wrote the prequel, I used words that are grammatically incorrect and some sentence fragments here and there. It was a little difficult to keep the writing legible, but it was actually quite fun. As I was writing, I was talking in my head with a southern accent! It actually helped!

There were also many elements of the story that I used to create an idea for the plot of the prequel. I wanted to include Mildred’s negative feelings toward housework in the prequel, since that is where the original story begins. I also wanted to end the prequel with Mildred feeling thankful to have a friend like Marge, since this is also mentioned in the beginning of “All About My Job.” I chose to include an encounter with a potential mate for Mildred in the prequel because, in the story, she talks about her need for a husband and mentions that Marge has been married once. She also talks about her weight, referring to herself as a size fourteen. I used all of these elements to come up with a plot for my prequel; however, I added some unrelated elements of the story such as, the character of Miss Jennie, and the story about the movie ticket.

In all, this piece was very fun to write and I think that it is a pretty decent prequel to the original story.

___________________

LIT203 African-American Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission

I Am a Motherless Child (Valerie Anderson)

2007-04-28T18:55:00.000-05:00

(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's African-American Literature class, students were offered the option of rewriting a poem into a story. Valerie Anderson decided to rewrite "Motherless Child" [Anonymous], an African-American (Negro) spiritual, into prose.)

*****

No sense in pretending anymore. Life has been too long and too hard for my brief twelve years on earth, on this plantation, on this same God-forsaken piece of earth. I am abandoned and I am alone.

I do not know who my mother is or who my father is. I do not know who this “God” is that the other Negroes sing about. I feel like a motherless child because that’s what I am. I am motherless, fatherless, Godless, hopeless. When I pick cotton I try to daydream, try to close my eyes and imagine a family and a warm wooden cabin with a freshly swept dirt floor. I can hear my momma singing as she stirs a stew over the fire and I can hear my pa’s soft and hypnotic voice telling all of my brothers and sisters a story.

In this house I can smell the fresh, clean earth, devoid of blood and sweat. That smell coming from over the hills is a feast for my family to enjoy, and not for the white family that has enslaved me and caused me to forget, to never know, who I am and where I came from.

In my daydreams it is my birthday, it is April 15, because that day is always beautiful and sunny and flowers are in bloom. It is beautiful, just like my momma tells me I am. I am wearing a clean new cotton dress that belongs to me and only me. It is not a dull brown color, smeared in dirt and sweat. No one has worn it before me because it was made just for me. And I look just as fresh as the beautiful April day.

But the story stays the same – just a story. The crack of a whip and warm blood trickling down my back bring me back to a harsh and unpleasant reality. There is no cabin, no stew, no dress, no ma, no pa. There is only myself in my dirty clothes and cracked and blistering hands.

I am a motherless child, a family-less child. Yes, I know I have been adopted by the older slaves as their own, but it’s just not the same. I am their child for their own sake and not for my own. I am replacing their children but I don’t want to be a replacement, I want to by part of my own family. How dare they pretend to know how I feel! How dare they call me selfish and stubborn when they can’t possibly understand how my life is! I do not feel lucky to be alive, to be provided for, to be loved by God. I feel alone and miserable and spent.

This life is too long and too hard and I know that there is more to the world than this. I know that I could endure my breaking back and bleeding hands if I was loved, if I had a family, not just the mournful and pitying eyes of slaves just like me, whose position in life is not much better than my own.

I feel ready to quit, ready to lie down and die in the dirt that I toil in day after endless day. I am a motherless child, forgotten in a world of motherless children. I have no more hope, no more future, and only one foster parent – the cruel and unforgiving King Cotton. What a poor replacement for the family and love I want more than anything. I feel like I am almost gone.

Epilogue by author

When I was in high school, I sang an a cappella version of this spiritual. In order to be able to sing this with feeling, I tried to imagine what it would be like to feel like a motherless child. This prompt gave me an opportunity to imagine the back story that I had already partially developed several years ago.

Although the poem is fairly simplistic, it is still incredibly powerful. I wanted to create a short piece that had the same power behind it as the fifteen-line poem that I was inspired by. The part of the poem that struck me the most was the line, “Sometimes I feel like a feather in the air.” I really wanted to focus on what would help a slave feel unburdened by their hardships.

Therefore, it seemed entirely appropriate to me that the person who would relate most to this poem would be a young child who is not only motherless, but also doesn’t feel as if she has a place or purpose in the world. The added tragedy is that the child is so young and already wants to give up.

My goal was to create a story that read like an extension of the poem, and I think I accomplished that. My story is about a girl who is imagining an escape and a better life, just as the author of the poem is imagining flying away from her circumstances.

___________________________

LIT203 African-American Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission

Biography of J. Alfred Prufrock (Lauren Penkala)

2007-04-28T18:23:00.000-05:00

(Note: in Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature, students are offered the option of responding to literature in a creative manner. For T.S. Eliot's poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," Lauren Penkala decided to write J. Alfred Prufrock's biography--from the point of view of an added character: Emily, his sister. This piece was done during a 75-minute test)

_________________

I, L. Emily Prufock, sister of J. Alfred Prufock, think of my brother as a man who lived an interesting life. Here today, at his funeral, I will give a short biography of his 68 years of life.

When I think of my little brother, I think of a mischievous boy, always curious, throwing caution to the wind. He got himself into more trouble as a child than all of our other siblings combined, but this helped him in the future. He did learn from his mistakes, and this made him an experienced contemplative, deeper man.

In his teen years, he became more quiet, but not shy. J. Alfred loved the ladies, and most loved him as well. Maybe it was his dark, full head of hair, or his muscular, masculine frame. Maybe it was his occupation – a business man. Some say it was because of how handsome he always looked in his simple yet eye-catching business suit. He listened to music on a regular basis – to help him clear his mind. Alfred was an orderly person who hated not knowing the future, and planned out his every moment – all the way to his death.

After work, Alfred, despite his handsomeness, did not go out with the ladies (he only flirted), he went home for a quiet evening alone, where he drank tea, had toast, and watched his sleek yellow cat, Chester.

Alfred could have made many friends, and probably even found a wife. But he was a hard worker and valued his time alone. He did not enjoy art, which made it difficult for him to relate to a woman once the relationship got past flirting (if it ever did).

Alfred got his strong body from walking on the beach. Sometimes Alfred ran. He imagined mermaids in the ocean, and he swam too, but never found a mermaid.

My brother had one weakness, the fear of death. After retiring from the business world at a fairly young age, 40, he began to have this fear. He wrote much about it too. Alfred even spoke of it to me. He read the Bible and believed in God, but that did not end his fear.

So he wrote about it, hoping the fear would disperse. Alfred compared death to his cat, Chester, and worried so much that by the age of 42, he had a bald spot shining. He was very self-conscious and thought people were talking about him. As he grew older, his body withered quickly, becoming frail and thin. Alfred went from a mischievous boy, to a confident teen, to a successful business man, to an old, weary man of age of 55. We assume that a disease overtook him – a 40 or 50 or 60 year old man should not look as badly as he did. He wept, fasted and prayed, as did we all, but he did not improve. On his final day, he requested to be taken to a nearby window to look out at the ocean. This was difficult for me, an 80 year old woman, but I managed – I could see it in his 68-year-old eyes that this was his last desire. I lugged him to the window, and left to prepare lunch. When I returned 25 minutes later, he could not be awakened. He had met his mermaid.

Maybe he could reunite with mom and day, our two older sisters, and my husband. Maybe, just maybe he is no longer afraid.

______________________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission

I Am Woman (Jamie Sterlacci)

2007-04-28T18:15:00.000-05:00

I, too, am a woman

I am heavier then most
My hair is not perfect
My skin is blemished.
The boys call me
To complain about the others
I listen
I answer
I laugh at their silly ways.
They look through me.

One day they’ll call me
Just to talk to me.
And I will know it’s because
Of who I am inside.
I’ll listen
I’ll answer
We’ll laugh at their silly ways.
He sees into me.

One day, they’ll see
That under my skin I am gorgeous.
They will be sorry they undervalued
What I can do.
But I won’t need them; I never did need them.

I, too, am Woman.

___________________

I used Langston Hughes’ poem "I, Too" as a starting point for my poem. His poem is about how black people are oppressed and shunned. They are ignored and considered a lesser being, but others do not realize what they, specifically Hughes, are capable of. Hughes does plan to show them what he can be – that he has the potential to be something great and that he will rise up against the oppression. Hughes is proud of who he is and considers himself an important part of America. One day, people will be ashamed of how they treated him and they will appreciate him for all his worth.

In the year 2007, although most people do not make judgements based on skin color, they still judge people on the way they look – if someone is not as aesthetically pleasing as others, they are often judged and become outcasts. I know that most people have felt less then beautiful at some time in their lives, including myself. People who are outcasts because of their looks are oppressed in sort of the same way as African-Americans were during slavery or in the South under the Jim Crow laws, when Hughes wrote this. The less beautiful are kept apart from those that are considered to be better looking, just like black people were separated from others. These separations have nothing to do with who is better, smarter, or earned the right to be considered accepted. Instead the separations are based on shallow notions that what a person looks like on the outside defines who they are on the inside.

It is important that people do look past the exterior and get to know someone because they could be truly great on the inside. My poem is based on the idea that all women are beautiful, not just the ones who are obviously so. It also stems from the idea that the only way some one can be completely happy is to see past looks and get to know someone and appreciate him or her for it. Relationships that are based on looks become as shallow as the reason for starting it. On the other hand, relationships based on love and appreciation of the other person tend to give the most pleasure to both parties involved. This is similar to the relationship between white and black people in the South. Because they were not working together, the people of the South did not reach their full potential. Instead, there was always fighting and people dying senselessly.

The woman in the poem finds someone who gets to know her and love her for who she is despite her weight, skin, and hair, or maybe even because of them. She thinks maybe one day other women will see how great she is, but she will not need them as friends. She realizes she has never needed anyone who is shallow. She knows that their shallowness prevents them from reaching full happiness and she laughs at them for it.

Like Langston Hughes considered himself an important and overlooked part of America, the woman in the poem is not appreciated because of her looks. Both poems recognize the potential of the oppressed and how great things could be if people saw them for who they are.

___________________________

LIT203 African-American Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission

On Holiday (Liv Carlson)

2006-05-15T19:44:00.000-05:00

America
Green acres and purple sky
Yellow houses

England
Island of green hills and sheep
Rainy days

Steaming cups of tea
Uni students in a queue
The flat London sky

Train station
The big clock strikes one
Travelers run

Cloudy moors
Cliffs upon the ocean’s edge
Foggy Foothills

Rock
Black and rough volcanic ash
Many brick walls

“Bonjour, merci!”
croissant, baguette, escargot
Eiffel Tower

Rollerbladers
in Notre Dame’s shadow
Men selling art

Blood red sun
setting on the piazza
smallest country

Volcanic ash
Body cast in cement

At Pompeii

Bicycles
Ride down the canals
Smoke in the air

Dark beer,
Calico cat at my feet
Amsterdam

Big fast cars
Large portions of food to eat
America

________________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Spring 2006

Published with poet's permission

Barbie’s Boyfriend (Amanda Dinmore)

2006-05-15T19:31:00.000-05:00

(Apologies to Marge Piercy)

Another boy arose
Blue pajamas, blue booties
Dinosaurs and G.I. Joes.
He played football, it was his life.
Then one day his coach said,
You play like a girl, try ballet.

Intelligent from all angles,
Never even needed to study,
Yet he saw nothing in himself.
Nothing but a body,
A body he would never have.

Spent day in and day out trying,
At the gym, on the football field,
Alone no matter where.
People smiled as he waved
But never lifted a hand.
Never sought him out,
So he cut his hands off.

Teary eyed they came,
Never knowing why he left.
They gathered in a line
Each waiting their turn to
Finally lift their hands to him,
Only to fold them over his casket.

______________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Spring 2006
Published with Poet's permission

Desert Sestina (Rachael Noble)

2006-05-12T13:04:00.000-05:00

In the heavy silence
Blood in the dust
And on a stone.
Bones already bleaching in the heat,
Life soaked into the earth.
Sun holds a vigil for the dead.

Sun sets, the sky is dead
Still there is only silence.
Blood-soaked earth,
No wind to stir the dust.
The heavy, crushing heat
And blood on a stone.

Blood, bones, and a stone.
All else is sand, stone-dead.
Madness born of heat,
Anger in the silence.
Death in the dust,
Blood drunk by parched earth.

Half buried in the earth
Almost like a stone,
Bones in the dust,
Sign of the dead,
Reveal nothing, only silence,
Burning in the heat.

A blow in the heat
Blood spilt on the earth
No reply in the silence.
Weapon made of a stone.
Now the dead
Lies in the dust.

Now wind blows the dust,
A sandy blast of heat.
The sky watches over the dead.
Bones covered by earth
Now there is only the stone,
And the silence.

Through the silence, in the dust,
By the stone, in the heat,
Under the earth there is the dead.
________________________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Spring 2006
Published with permission of poet

According to “The Experts” (Ruth Ann Hake)

2006-05-11T16:44:00.000-05:00

(Creative non-fiction)

They spotted the little log cabins on a Sunday drive. The sign in front read:

INDIVIDUAL CABINS
COLOR TV AND AIR CONDITIONING
OTHER AMENITIES

She hoped they were as nice as they sounded.

They had two days together, and no one knew where to find them.

“I’ll wait in the car. I’m nervous,” she said. “What if they ask for identification?”

“We’re not doing anything illegal. And I have my driver’s license,” he answered, looking more like a teenager than a man as he made his way to the office to register.

This was the first time they had stayed in a motel.

“What was taking so long?” she thought. “I bet we won’t be able to get a room.”

They brought very little with them, an old brown suitcase for her and an army duffle bag for him. It was late, and a summer storm was brewing. The weatherman said: Severe thunderstorms.

“We have Cabin #5,” he said as he returned to the car just as the rain started.

She sighed with relief and he with anticipation.

It was easy to find; there were only eight cabins. As he opened the door to #5, a blast of hot air greeted them. When he found the light switch, a bare bulb shone from the yellowed ceiling.

“It won’t take long to cool,” he said.

The room was sparsely furnished; in fact, the bed was small and uninviting.

“Where’s the air conditioner?” she asked as she sat her suitcase by the door and glanced around the room.

They looked everywhere, but Cabin #5 didn’t have one.

“That’s okay,” she said. “Let’s just sit for awhile and watch TV. That might help us to relax.” Her hair was a little wet from the rain, and she wondered what she looked like.

There was nothing to sit on but the bed.

And where was the color television?

There wasn’t even a black and white TV in Cabin #5! But, there was a radio, a big old cabinet radio.

“We’ll listen to music. Maybe we can find something romantic to put us in the mood.”

She was easy to please even when she got upset. He said he liked that about her.

“This is unbelievable!” he said as he tried to turn on the radio. “This contraption needs quarters. I don’t have any. Do you?”

He was sweating. The heat was stifling. The rain pounded on the little cabin’s roof.

“No, but that’s okay,” she said as she headed to the bathroom, averting her eyes from the bed. “It’s late. I’ll take a nice cool bath, and we’ll go to bed.”

She took her suitcase with her. She brought a special nightgown.

The tension was mounting between them. Their getaway weekend was falling apart. She didn’t ask him to find the manager to complain. She was too embarrassed, this being their first time. And she suspected the manager was in bed in HIS air-conditioned cabin watching HIS color television.

“Honey,” she called. “There’s no bathtub, just a shower behind a plastic, mildewed curtain. I’m afraid I’ll catch something if I get in this shower.”

Maybe these cute, little log cabins trimmed in pink, advertising air conditioning and TV weren’t a good idea.

“I’ll just wash my face and be right there,” she said as she heard the bedsprings squeak.

She would lock herself in the bathroom for a little while to calm her nerves. She felt like she might throw up. Maybe he would fall asleep before she came out.

She didn’t notice when they first walked in, but now she did. There was only a ratty, plastic curtain for the bathroom door. And it didn’t even reach the floor! This was NOT okay! He could hear every sound she made. He would see her feet and know what she was doing. She would hold her bladder, all night if necessary.

“I’m coming out now.” Her voice quivered as she removed some clothing. Forget the nightie!

So in her slip, underwear, and a pair of socks that she brought along, she dashed from behind curtain number two to the bed. She could get through this ordeal if she covered up. She didn’t care how hot she was.

Where were the blankets? The bed was bare. Why didn’t she notice this before?

“What did you do with the blankets?” she asked as she turned her back to him and closed her eyes tightly.

“There aren’t any,” he replied.

She was on the verge of tears when he spotted the blankets hanging from hooks on the far wall. He retrieved one and covered her up to her chin.

“I want to go home.”

He turned off the bug-stained light and lay down beside her without even a kiss.

“It’s okay,” he said, keeping a distance between them. “We can just go to sleep. We have tomorrow, and the day after that. In fact, we have a lifetime.”

He was easy to please also.

A few hours earlier, they were pronounced man and wife, and this was their honeymoon in Cabin #5.

* * * * *

For the next thirty-nine years on her anniversary, she remembered Cabin #5. What a beginning! Maybe they should have waited until they had more money and honeymooned in Aruba, or even the Pocono’s. Cabin #5 was an omen!

Today while she waited for her husband to come home from work, she listened to Dr. Phil and his guest, a marriage expert. Did they marry too young? Would they have been happier if they had more money to start with? But they loved each other in spite of age and money.

As she watched and listened, she made his favorite supper, shrimp lasagna and apple crisp.

They greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek.

He looked tired when he finally sat down to the table.

It was her turn to say grace, and she added a postscript, “Help our table-talk to be productive. Amen.”

“Do I smell apple crisp?” he asked.

She shouldn’t have said anything until supper was over, but she didn’t wait.

“Our marriage needs help,” she said. She patted his arm.

As he bit into a shrimp, he sighed, “What have you been watching now?”

“Dr. Phil. And he had a lot to say about us. We never had a real honeymoon, and our fortieth anniversary is coming up in a couple of months. Remember?” she asked as she took the salad dish from him abruptly.

“Have I ever forgotten an anniversary?” he asked as he put his fork down with a clang.

“You came pretty close sometimes,” she said. “Dr Phil says that to keep a ‘long time’ marriage fresh and teeming with passion we need to be spending quality time together. New hobbies or a shared sport were two of the expert’s suggestions. A second honeymoon also might do us good. You do remember the first one, don’t you, dear?”

“Of course, I remember! Cabin #5, dear!”

“And we’d have to start sleeping together again,” she said. They hadn’t slept in the same bed for two years. That was a big problem, according to the experts.

However, something needed to be fixed before she considered going away with him and sharing a bed. She didn’t know how he would take her next request.

“If we decide to go on a second honeymoon, will you get the operation?”

His face registered fear and shock. The only sound was the ticking of the timer.

“I’ll never let a doctor touch me again with surgical instruments. How many scars do I have from the ‘simple’ gall bladder operation?” he asked. “I can’t believe you asked me that!”

“The surgeon apologized to you for his resident’s mistake of missing the gall bladder with his first incision. And it was the young doctor’s first operation.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” he said. “ I won’t go under the knife again, not even for a second honeymoon.”

“I’ve hardly ever said a word about our first honeymoon, but each anniversary brings back the memories of that fiasco. We could take pictures this time, get a tan, read, and reconnect,” she said.

“Is that one of the expert’s words, reconnect?”

“As a matter of fact, yes! I can’t reconnect with you until you fix the problem that only surgery can cure.” She stared straight into his eyes.

It was his turn to stare back. The timer ticked louder.

“According to the experts, is there anything else wrong with our marriage that we can fix with an expensive honeymoon? We might as well get this all out in the open while my favorite supper gets cold!” he said. He sat back in his chair.

“I wanted to talk to you while the show is fresh in my mind.” She sipped her ice tea before her next announcement.

“We failed the quiz!”

“What quiz?” he asked.

“The Will This Marriage Last quiz.”

“How could I fail The Quiz when I didn’t take it?” He leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“I knew what your answers would be, so I answered for you. Except for question number eight, I wasn’t quite sure.”

“And what was question eight?” he asked.

“I can’t remember exactly. It was something about nudity and lighting.”

“What was my answer?” he asked. “I’d like to know!”

She sensed his interest now. Interest was good! Maybe their marriage could be fixed.

“That question is the least of our worries. According to the experts, we didn’t get off to a good start. We had several strikes against us,” she said.

“I can name a few,” he said as he counted on his fingers. “We were too young, I was still in college, and my father hated you. And your dad thought I couldn’t take care of his first-born.

“Am I right?” he asked as he held up four fingers.

She nodded and added, “Our first baby was born too soon, you quit school, and we had to rent a house from my dad.”

Now they were up to seven reasons.

He continued, “I made barely enough money to support us, I worked an extra job in the evenings, and two more babies came within three years.”

“Why didn’t we know we were in trouble?” she asked.

It was his turn.

“And then for the next thirty-five years, we took care of a handicapped daughter who zapped our energy, our hopes, and our resources. It should have been obvious at that point, that our marriage was doomed, don’t you think, dear?” He ran out of fingers to hold up.

“So I wonder why we are still together, against all odds, dear?” she asked.

“Probably because we didn’t have as many experts back then as the world has now. Stop listening to the experts and listen to your heart.”

That’s all she needed to hear.

“So about our second honeymoon. Let’s see if the cabins are still there,” she said, happy once again.

“If they’re still there, we’ll drive right by!”

They picked up the silverware since the crisis was over. Neither noticed if the food was cold.

“Forget that I mentioned your operation, I’ll keep sleeping in the extra bedroom, just don’t tell anyone. If we go on a second honeymoon, I’ll use earplugs and you can try breathing strips to stop your snoring.”

“And no more quizzes!”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The timer rang. Dessert was ready.

___________________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Spring 2006
Published with author’s permission

The Promise (Christy Torres)

2006-05-11T16:18:00.000-05:00

(Short Story)

Cancer…Cancer…the word resonates in Tracey’s mind. It bounces back and forth and cuts the breath from her lungs. Cancer, it feels like a death sentence. She stares at the doctor, numbly nodding as he explains everything. As the doctor leaves the room, she closes her eyes, steadies her breath, and drifts back in time.

It was 1987. Tracey was seven years old. She lay outside in the grass, and stared at the clear blue sky. The sun was shining. Its warmth caressed her skinny arms and legs, and it kissed her freckled face. The blades of grass swayed in the wind, and tickled her neck. She watched the cotton-ball clouds float by. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her body twitched toward imminent sleep. Suddenly a huge gush of frigid water poured over her. She sat up gasping to steal back the breath she had just lost. Goosebumps immediately popped up covering her arms and legs as the scream reached her lips.

As the sound of Tracey’s discomfort echoed throughout the yard, a new sound joined it. High-pitched laughter poured out of Ted’s mouth. He laughed so hard that tears ran down his face, and he clutched his stomach. Tracey jumped up with a yell, startling him. Wide-eyed, he watched his twin sister run full force at him. He had no time to move, duck, dash, or even think. She tackled him to the ground.

Tracey stares out the window of the hospital as the nurse enters the room. “Are you ready?” the nurse asks. Tracey stares at the vials lying neatly on the table, and swallows hard. She nods and lies down on her back on the hospital bed. The nurse wipes her arm with an alcohol pad. The smell stings Tracey’s nose and the prick of the needle fires hot pain up her arm. She clenches her teeth and looks out the window. “I am all done. I am going to take your blood to the lab so they can compare the DNA to see if you are a match. Try to rest; the surgeon will be in shortly to talk with you.” The nurse smiles and leaves the room. Tracey gets up and walks to the window and stares at the world outside. Her mind continues to drift.

It was 1988. Ted walked into the living room. He wore a Detroit Tigers baseball cap and a jersey. He had a huge smile on his face, and cradled something in his hand. “Whatcha got there?” Tracey asked from her seat on the worn-out couch.

“It ain’t anything for you. Daddy got it for me after the game. It’s a baseball card to add to my collection. Ya know it’s probably the best card I got. It’s an original and everything!” The excitement in Ted’s voice piqued her curiosity. She sat up from her reclined position and took her feet off the coffee table.

“Well, can I see it?”

“No.”

“Please, I won’t hurt it.”

“No. It’s mine!” Ted yelled. Tracey got up from the couch and lunged for his hand. Ted jumped out of the way, causing her to lose her balance. She stumbled forward and tripped over the coffee table; she tumbled to the floor. She sat up stunned. She rubbed her head and tried to fight back the tears stinging her eyes.

“Ha, ha, that’s what you get,” Ted said. He continued to laugh as he walked down the hall to his bedroom. Rage filled her, and her body trembled. She got up and raced down the hall to Ted’s room. She burst through the door and grabbed his new baseball card from his hand. Before he could take it back, she took Ted’s baseball card, an original 1909 Ty Cobb, ripped it into small pieces and ate them.

Ted stood there in shock. His mouth was gaping open, his eyes were glossy with tears; he was clenching his fists so hard that his fingernails drew blood in the palms of his hands. In a split second he tackled her to the ground.

Tracey turns her head toward the door at the sound of a soft knock. A doctor walks in and flashes a toothy grin. He sits on the edge of her bed and extends his big hand to her. “Hi, I am Dr. Smith, your surgeon. You probably don’t remember me, but I helped take care of your family in 1989. Of course I was just an intern then. Anyway, back to business, we got the results and you are a perfect match to your brother. Twins usually are. So, do you have any questions for me?”

Tracey’s mind races, he helped my family? She thinks. She takes a deep breath and clears her throat. “Well, after surgery, will his cancer be gone? Will I be okay with one kidney? Will he be okay with only one?” The doctor pats her shaking hands and nods his head.

“We caught your brother’s cancer early before it had time to spread anywhere else. You are both young and healthy and will do very well with only one kidney. After surgery, I am optimistic that you will both make full recoveries. The best thing is that Ted will be cancer free. I want you to know that I think this is a very brave thing you are doing for you brother. Try to rest, surgery is in the morning. Tomorrow evening you’ll both be right as rain.” Dr. Smith smiles and leaves the room. Tracey sighs and turns on the television. Lost in thought, time fades away to the past.

It was 1989. Tracey and Ted were sitting in the backseat of their parent’s car, thumb wrestling. They were on their way to Disney World. It was the family’s first real vacation, and they were all really excited. Ted had been nagging their parents to go there for years. He was so excited that he could barely contain himself. Their father was driving and their mother hummed softly to the music playing in the background. “Are we there yet?” Ted asked.

Their mother turned and smiled, “We just left home, Teddy. It is going to take us a few days to get there. Be patient, and we will be there faster than you know it.” She turned in her seat and smiled at her husband. He reached over and patted her leg.

“Eww…they’re getting all lovey-dovey again.” Tracey giggled. She turned and looked out her window. They were entering an intersection, and Tracey saw a truck barreling toward them. “Daddy?”

Tracey woke up with a sharp pain in her side and her leg felt like it was on fire. She looked beside her at her brother. His head was down and he looked like he was sleeping. She craned her neck and looked at her father in front of her. He looked like he was sleeping too. Then she looked at her mother. “Mommy?” she asked.

Her mother looked back and smiled. “Don’t be scared honey. The truck hurt the car, but help is coming. We’re going to be okay. Mommy and Daddy love you so much. Be a big girl and always be there for your brother. Okay, honey?”

Tracey was confused, “I love you too Mommy, and I will watch Teddy if you want. I feel sleepy and my leg hurts.”

“It’s okay, baby. I love you.” Tracey closed her eyes and the world slipped away with the sound of sirens in the distance.

The nurse walks in snapping Tracey back to reality. She quickly wipes the tears from her checks. “I’m just here to take your temperature and blood pressure. We have to make sure there isn’t any sign of infection before surgery,” the nurse says. She finishes and charts the information, and then she leaves the room. Tracey turns off the television and then the lights. She closes her eyes and falls into a restless sleep full of haunting dreams.

It was 1989. It was a dreary day, full of dark clouds, fits of rain and rolling thunder. Tracey stared out the window of the car as it drove through the cemetery. Rain splashed off the car, rolled down the windows, and distorted the tombstones that danced by. The car pulled up behind the hearse and sputtered to a stop. She turned and looked at Ted sitting beside her. His eyes were red and bloodshot, his checks were stained with tears, and his lips were bright red from chewing on them. There was a bandage over his right eye covering the stitches he needed from the accident.

Tracey took his hand and opened the door. They slowly walked hand in hand to the two coffins resting side by side. Family and friends surrounded them to offer their condolences; but Tracey and Ted were oblivious to those around them. Ted sobbed and his whole body trembled. Tracey turned and hugged him tightly. “I want Mom and Dad back,” he said in her ear. Tears welled up in her eyes and she blinked them back rapidly.

“I do too, but they’re gone. It’s just you and me now. I’ll watch you, I promised I would. I’ll be there for you always, whenever you need me.” Ted continued to shake in her arms.

Tracey wakes up to the gentle touch of the nurse. She opens her eyes and knows it is time for surgery. She remembers her long-forgotten promise that she made to her mother and brother. The nurse wheels her down the hall to the surgical suite. She watches the lights flash by overhead and the butterflies in her stomach threaten to overcome her. She closes her eyes and sees her mother’s face smiling at her.

Once in the operating room, they prep her for surgery and the anesthesiologist begins to put her under. The drugs wash over her and her fears fade away. She knows that she is about to fulfill her promise to her mother. She is going to be there for her brother in his time of need, and she is comforted in that fact.

Tracey opens her eyes. She feels groggy and tired. She looks over and sees Ted beside her. His handsome face is pale from the surgery and chemotherapy. She tries to speak, but can’t yet talk. She clears her throat. “Hey there Teddy,” she says. His eyes open slowly and he smiles at her.

“Hey.”

“Looks like we both made it.”

“Yeah, I guess we did.”

“How long do we have to recover?”

“A week, maybe, why?” he asks.

“Just wondering,” she closes her eyes and goes back to sleep, dreaming of the past.

It was 1990. Tracey was ten years old. She was sitting on a tire swing tied to a huge oak tree in her grandmother’s front yard. She looked down at her white shoes and slowly swung herself back and forth. The autumn sun glowed low in the sky, and leaves fell lazily to the ground. Ted walked up to her on the swing. “Can I have a turn?” he asked.

“No, I was swinging first.”

“Come on, please, let me.”

“No,” Tracey said and smiled while she swung higher. Ted started picking up pebbles and throwing them at her. She laughed as they missed her. Ted sat down and pulled his knees to his chest and put his head down. Tears rolled down his checks and he sniffled. Tracey stopped and got off the swing. She went over and sat down beside him. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly.

“Nothing, just leave me alone.”

“Well, why are you crying?”

“Because.”

“Because why?” she asked scooting closer to him.

“Because you are always mean to me. You never do anything nice for me. Remember when you hurt my baseball card that Dad got me? That was my favoritest thing ever. And now you won’t let me swing on the tire. I wish I would have died with Mom and Dad.” Tracey sat there stunned. She did not know what to say. Tears filled her eyes and she felt terrible.

“I’m sorry Teddy,” she said softly, “You can swing if you want. I promise I will do better. Someday I will get you a good baseball card. Heck, someday I will take you to Disney World. I promise. I’m glad you didn’t die with Mom and Dad.” She got up and walked slowly to her grandmother’s white farm house. She looked back at her brother crying softly in the yard and renewed her vow to him.

A month after leaving the hospital, Tracey drives to Ted’s apartment to pick him up. She honks the horn and he comes out with a suitcase in hand. He pulls open the blue car door; throws the bag in the back seat and gets in. “So where are we going?” he asks.

Tracey smiles and reaches over to open the glove box. She pulls out a small box wrapped in blue paper and hands it to Ted.

“Let’s just say I had a lot of time to think while I was in the hospital,” she says as she turns onto the highway. He pulls off the paper and opens the box, inside is a baseball card, an original 1909 Ty Cobb. He looks out the window speechless, tears in his eyes, and sees a sign that says Disney World 1100 miles.

__________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Spring 2006
Published with author’s permission

Daddy's Little Girl (Danielle Fugate, Ashley Reid, Stacey Pusey)

2006-04-11T20:47:00.000-05:00

These three writers developed this poem based on the following prompt: In a similar style to Sylvia Plath's "Daddy," write a poem called "Daddy's Little Girl"; thus, the speaker of your poem is the father or estranged husband of Plath's speaker. The writers had about 25 minutes to write the poem. After working on various exercises, the entire class listened to Sylvia Plath reading her poem "Daddy."

You do not do, you do not do
You never did, you always knew
What I was, a man of
passion when love was new.

I didn't have to kill you,
you did for yourself.
Cold to the core, burdened by two,
Not strong enough. It all fell
through.

If I am a vampire, you are
my cross. The very image of
you burns and sears.

A broken soul before me,
but I gave you my sanity.
You only borrowed; didn't
you know I'd need it
back?

My darling wife, you
hollow being, I'm through.
___________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Published with writers' permission

A Pet's Love (Hank Weikel, Michelle Miller, Colleen Pisano)

2006-04-11T20:31:00.000-05:00

These three writers developed this poem based on the following prompt: In a similar style to Ted Hughes' "The Lovepet," write a poem called "A Pet's Love"; thus, the speaker of your poem is the estranged wife of Hughes' speaker. The writers had about 25 minutes to write the poem.

Is he a blessing or a curse?
it overtook my life
He watched it passed by
I nourished it
hoping for healthy growth
looking for signs of life
He paraded around with others
I waited
it overtook my emotions
He ignored it
It started to fade away
I held it tight
off again it went
I lingered a moment
waiting for return
then off I went
finding another way
to pull him in tight
I watched its sickness spread to our children
So I tried to heal it
But I felt it dying in him
It overtook my life
As it left his

___________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Published with writers' permission

So Muslims are Terrorizing Americans (by Dera Nevius, Ryan King, and Lauren Wollschlager)

2006-03-23T02:22:00.000-05:00

(This poem was created by students participating in an in-class writing excercise. Their assignment: to respond to Jimmy Santiago Baca's "So Mexicans are Taking Jobs from Americans" by writing their own poem. They had about 25 minutes to plan, edit, revise, and write the poem, just as it appears below.)

September 11, 2001
A plane went down,
and you're on the run.
When the plane crashed,
our guns went up.

To your land we went,
to run amok.
Your sand is now our grass.
Your back our bullets grasp;
we bury the last of the last.

Nuclear weapons won't help you now,
No mushrooms will be seen in the clouds.
Chemical gear to be worn by troops,
From plastic helmets to plastic boots.
Communism stops in all the lands.

Freedom of speech,
and religion for all.
Death to the ones,
Who try to stand tall.
Oppose the U.S. and you will fall.

No armies left
To stand against us.
We just so happen to be the power
In NATO's crutch.
So Muslims are terrorizing Americans.

__________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Posted with writers' permission

For My Husband, Leaving His Lover (by Michelle Miller)

2006-03-23T01:40:00.000-05:00

(This writer responded to Anne Sexton's "For My Lover, Returning to His Wife," by writing a poem from the wife's perspective. I titled the poem.)

I sat waiting...
supper on the table
Dirty pots flung about the room;
it's me, I'm not stable.

The phone rings, and it's you.
I sit awaiting your excuse,
Your children cry.
To you I am the one to misuse.

I clean up the table,
knowing deep in my heart
work has not kept you late
you're with her looking at art.

I hear from friends,
about your damn parades
all over town.
Not even taking cover under shades.

I am your wife;
I've given you three children
We're supposed to be your life
And will once again

For I know her kind,
just for the moment.
She'll be gone soon, and to me,
to me, you'll come for consolement.

_________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Posted with writer's permission

Whiten the Earth (by Ashton Paul)

2006-03-23T01:23:00.000-05:00

(This writer responded to Stanley Kunitz's "Touch Me," by writing a poem from a different perspective.)

Winter never comes, I fear
The chill in the air never occurs
Just last year
When I could play in the snow
and bundle up until I could barely move
then come in late at night to sip hot cocoa
of the steaming drink of heaven
to warm my heart when my body was cold
it was my favorite thing about York, PA
the seasons brought so many new feelings
The hazy sky told tales of white flakes
soon to fall upon the land
I gazed outside from the warm fire
heating my cozy living room
and for the first time I really appreciated life
The roads were closed
I was off school for the day
I long for the wonderful season
I will no longer experience in Florida
Remembering, remembering, remembering
That part of my life that's now gone
One season each year
*

but now, never again.

So let the white pieces of heaven

fall from the sky in York

and bring happiness to the children who

may truly appreciate the beauty of winter

Fall upon me, don't you remember how

we used to play?

Whiten the earth! Remind me of my youth.

___________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006

Posted with permission of writer

Gun Crazy (by Casey Rose)

2006-03-23T01:12:00.000-05:00

(This writer responded to Dorothy Allison's "Gun Crazy” (non-fiction) by Dorothy Allison by writing a poem with the same title.)

My uncle, Bo, was the shootin’ kind
He’d sit and clean his guns, with nothin’ else on his mind
“You gotta sit still, perfectly still,” he’d say of the great outdoors,
Still sittin’ cleanin’, tippin’ back a Coors

Come to find out, Bo ain’t never shot nothin’ in his whole life
We heard it all from Nessa, his dear wife
“Let me help you,” I begged Bo to help me help one night
He laughed in my face, and maybe he was right

I just wanted to learn to shoot a gun
I don’t know why, maybe just for fun
Maybe I should ask Uncle Jack, maybe he’ll teach me
Just you wait, Uncle Bo, just you wait and see

High school came along, Anne was my best friends
Best friends, I say, friends ‘till the end
One Sunday we were bored and she invited me to go plinking
“Plinking?” I said, what’s plinking, I was thinking

“You know, shootin’ bottles and cans,” Anne said
And over to the woods behind the mental hospital we went, Anne led
“You got a gun,” I asked Anne wonderin’ where she got a gun
“Mama got me a rifle for my birthday,” and then it was done

Anne’s mama was somethin’ special, I believe
A nurse with a dead husband, and when mentioned would leave
She’d drink cocktails everynight sittin’ in her Lazy-Boy
She was a lot of things, and one of them was certaintly not coy

So Anne shot at a couple bottles, and I watched her carefully
I was so envious, so excited, so simply filled with glee
I wanted to be taught, and Anne wanted to teach me
So I shot and shot again, “Goddamn!”, I shot a gun, ME!

_____________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Posted with writer's permission

I Want a Wife (by Stacey Pusey)

2006-03-19T17:28:00.000-05:00

(Note: This poignant poem is a literary journal response to Judy Brady's feminist essay "I Want a Wife.")

I am a wife
I want a wife

I am a feeder
I want someone to cook for me

I am a worker
I want someone to work hard to help support the family

I am a lover
I want someone to care for me always and take care of my needs

I am a maid
I want someone to clean after me

I am a gardener
I want someone to help make my home appealing

I am a shopper
I want someone to drive out for last moment items

I am a mom
I want someone to take care of my kids

I am a doctor
I want someone to care for my family, as well as me, when we are sick

I am a shuttle
I want someone to rush around to make sure everything gets done

I am a motivator
I want someone to push harder to ensure success of my loved ones

I am a receptionist
I want someone to be organized and make sure all tasks get completed

I am a dictator
I want someone else to take the blame for punishments

I am an emergency call
I want someone to be there for me when I need help

I am a wife
I am alone
I want a wife

_______________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Printed with poet's permission

Beautiful Martyr Mother (by Danielle Fugate)

2006-03-17T03:53:00.000-05:00

(Note: the author wrote this poem as a response to Amiri Baraka’s “Beautiful Black Women.” Baraka’s poem brings to mind her personal remembrances.)

Beautiful martyr mother, fight, never break. Love them, win.

They’re of your blood, bring them back. Love them, win.

Innocence, dry tears, fight back. Fight for them for family is

the basis of love, basic need. Win. Love them. Unfair

prosecution. Find the meaning of family values, win, don’t lose sight of

love, family is the bonding of blood, bring them back

to their rightfully deserved home. Beautiful martyr mother, roll with

the punches and keep on movin’. They need you. They cry for

family, they cry for their true home, they need you. Win.

They need you, fighting, unfair prosecution. These horrible judgments of

innocent, family values reign, the jury, win, they cry, and their tears

soon shall dry in justified justice. The tensions are high hanging in limbo, their

innocence and purity, the unfair prosecution, the fight for values, the loss of meaning

and absence of family. Family. Mothers. They need you. Closer to values

closer to justice, never give up fighting for your constitutionally justified values.

Mothers.

Keep on fighting. Bring them back to where they should belong. Win them. Mothers.

Never

stop fighting, never, win them, dry tears, build values, keep fighting and

win

them, keep pressing for family values, their tears will be gone soon, justification is

nearly worth the wait, siblings, family values, never break

__________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Printed with permission of author

The Empty Space On The Paper (by Lauri Kubuitsile)

2006-03-08T14:39:00.000-05:00

I remember how I sat huddled, my arm around my brother, on the corner of the sofa. The man who brought the news wore a black coat that held the cold from outside. His hat hung in his hands in front of him and dripped rain water onto the wooden floor. As the water collected in a little pool at his feet, he told my father that it was over. My father listened in silence because he had been told that was how grown up men accepted such news. He nodded his head until the man stopped speaking and turned to go.

“Thank you for coming in person, that was very thoughtful of you,” my father said at the door.

The man stopped. “I nearly forgot.” Then he came back into the house and stood next to me and my brother. He reached into the pocket of his cold coat and pulled out a folded paper and he said, “She told me to give you two this.”

We looked at each other, Thomas reached out his small hand and took the paper from the man. Then the man in black left.

I was twelve and Thomas was eight. We were old enough to know what was going on. We’d been waiting for the day for some time, everyone was. It wasn’t everyday that they hung your mother, especially in our small town.

A handful of reporters had been milling around our street for days. Most had gone up to Austin where the execution was taking place but a few, maybe the second string, the ones who might finally get their byline on page eighteen if only they could get a few good quotes from the family, milled around our neighborhood. When they first arrived, my father warned, “Don’t say a single word to any of them.” So with them outside and us holed up inside, we had waited.

When the man in black left, Daddy sat down on one of the straight back chairs at the oak dining room table. He sat silently with his hands hanging at his sides, staring straight ahead at the blank wall. I took Thomas’s hand and we went upstairs to my bedroom.

We sat on the edge of the bed and Thomas started crying quietly. “If Daddy hears you crying he’ll be angry, “ I said dry eyed. Daddy’s strict rules about girls and boys didn’t allow for crying from Thomas. I looked at the note still clutched in his hand. I was scared of it. What did she want to say to us? We were only children. I wondered if she had remembered that.

With shaking hands I reached out for the paper. I tried to think of Mama. It had been a long time since we’d seen her. Once her appeals were finished, she begged Daddy to stop taking us to the prison on visiting day. He’d go alone and we’d stay out at Aunt Carmen’s. He’d come home the next day, his face pale, his clothes smelling of beer. Aunt Carmen, Daddy’s older sister, always said the same thing.

“The trip go okay?”

“Sure did,” Daddy’d say. Then we’d come back home and it would be two or three days before Daddy’s skin would go back to its right color and he’d talk normal, not as if somebody had handed him the lines.

Sitting on my bed, with Thomas crying next to me, I tried to conjure up Mama’s face. I wanted a picture of her face in my mind before I read the letter, but it wouldn’t come. The only thing I saw picture clear were her hands. No matter how much I tried, only her hands were there. The short fingers with thick wrinkly knuckles. She always said they were the ugliest part of her. I never thought they were ugly, though, to me they looked friendly and used. Later, after the execution, I used to wish Thomas or I had gotten her hands so that I could see them once in awhile, but we had my father’s hands with long fingers and small, tidy knuckles.

It’s funny how little, irrelevant details remain. Things like the color of the paper. It was off white, almost yellow, with blue lines drawn on it, like a sheet torn from an old exercise book. The writing was slanted to the left and all of the letters were tall and thin, as if space were a problem, even though it wasn’t because most of the page was empty, only the one line across the top. I often hoped she meant to write more. Maybe someone stopped her, or she couldn’t find the right words and then it was too late to fill the page as she had intended. I think that when I’m being charitable.

I was thinking of Mama’s friendly hands when I opened the yellowed paper torn from the exercise book. I saw her picking up the pen and writing in the funny way she had. I read the words out loud so Thomas could hear them through his tears.

“Forget me and all of the sadness I brought to you.”

That was it. No “to my wonderful children” at the beginning or “I love you” at the end. I turned the paper over to check the other side. Nothing. I sat for a minute. I thought maybe it had not been intended for us. Maybe the man in black got it wrong. Maybe this note was for someone else and our note was somewhere out in the rain in the pocket of his cold coat.

As Thomas’s crying grew louder, I accepted that the man in black wouldn’t have gotten such an important thing wrong. I took the yellowed paper in both of my hands and I tore it in two. Then I tore it again and tore and tore and tore until it was nothing more than pieces. No more words. Just yellowed pieces with a few drops of ink, a spot here, a spot there; incoherent and harmless. Then I held the pieces above my head and let them rain onto the floor where they fell like confetti at a party.

The End

___________________________

Lauri Kubuitsile is an award winning freelance writer and author living in Botswana. Her articles can be found on four continents if you search hard enough and her most recently published book is the novella The Fatal Payout (Macmillan 2005).

This story was an entry in Writer's Weekly Winter 2006 24-hour contest.

She can be reached at:

centraladvert(at)botsnet(dot)bw.

Greenhorn (by Matthew Knaub)

2006-01-19T19:41:00.000-05:00

In a time aching for remembrance,
Ancient creatures lived, far beyond our grasp,
In a land enchanted by God’s old past,
Outside of man’s domain and repentance,
These beings with a holy innocence,
Could not know how man is always corrupt,
So when one man came, he interrupted,
Life looked above for divine transcendence,
To find only that he traveled too far,
A man, not evil, only oblivious,
Without warning, prediction to forlorn,
He came, a quest, a goal he was after,
Who knew the end would come out of his kiss,
He brought the demise, his name was Greenhorn.

Just as he determined, spoke a sparkle,
Seven feet forward, through a briar patch,
A glimmer of light made quite an eye catch,
He crawled, hands and knees, to the miracle,
With his hand he clasped the bushes’ barbed branch,
A jolt of pain as he began to bleed,
The thorn had pierced his flesh, a bloody bead,
Fell to the dirt, silent he took his chance,
With his arms he spread the bushes to see,
His blood now stained the thicket crimson red,
No matter as the vision came to sight,
In front of him rested the proof, his key,
Not the unicorn, something else instead,
Magic was proven, this sight was his light.

"You are right, brownie, but what do I do?
I don’t want my presence to alarm them,
Humans are forbidden in these parts," then,
Greenhorn waited for instructions how to.
The brownie came closer towards his ear,
"They will be kind to accept your presence,
Long as they believe that you are pleasant.
Look at me, big man," stood and proved no fear,
"I, Nudnik, have no fear of human souls,"
Standing two inches from his left eyeball,
"The rejuvenating water does good,
I doubt any of them would think to oppose,
Get naked and swim. There’s no need to call,"
Nudnik hopped off and back on the wood.

To eyes that have never seen a human,
Man sure appears interesting in ways,
And to lips that yearned to see how man tastes,
Never before known the bite of his sin,
Man circled now by seven blue beauties,
Toe touched his back, spiraled under water,
The sprite submerged deep as Greenhorn watched her,
In water they must be able to breathe,
Their aquatic blue figures were perfect,
One sprite came face to face with destiny,
She gave her hand to the man openly,
Her flesh felt as good as he could predict,
"Heavenly angel," he was stunned to meet,
"What shall I say?" he must remain friendly.

His vicious prosecutor was a beast,
It stood tall with seven heads and ten horns,
Each head and horn had a body of thorns,
To scorn the wicked with hell full of teeth,
To grind the sinners that turned 666.
The blessed and the cursed number of the Beast,
To guard the number, on sinners they feast,
The seventeen members made quite a mix,
A noble race created by the gods,
To protect the actions of the Goddess,
The number is the Goddess and his sin,
Ample recipe for creating Gods,
That are without sin and truly modest,
Now here to place blame onto Greenhorn’s sin.

_________________________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005

Forever in our Heaven (by Geneva Doll)

2006-01-18T23:53:00.000-05:00

Above a life of vanity
Balanced in a starry sea, a world of love,
Clearly placed for all to see, though
Darling William, this world calls only to you and me.

Envious any man would be
For what I’m going to say is true.
Golden and bright as each star shines,
Hardly compares to you.

Indeed men may cry, the heavens were never made for
"Just one guy," although a
Knowledgeable men can not deny,
Lucky is the man, who is the universe in her eye.

Miles above the shallow hearts,
Neatly tucked into the evening sky,
Our world sits high, made of memories
Pieced together never to be torn apart, despite who may try.

Quite rapidly we soar into the unknown,
Reaching and collecting stars as we pass by.
Somehow I’m sure in this love we have both grown,
Taller and taller, together, until the day we die.

Under the stars we snuggle and gaze
Vast heavens above our heads, we only need to wait,
Wait until we rise to our heaven and happily live out our days.
Xanthippe I promise to never be, you’ll only receive all of my praise.

You and I have a love pure and true
Zealously I await my forever, in our heaven, with you

_____________________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005

Continental Tapestry (by Rasharria Emery)

2006-01-17T15:56:00.000-05:00

How beautiful were your diamond minds.
How beautiful was your soul.
I spoke of you with brazen beauty,
when your heart was solid gold.
I laid within your land,
listening to echoing cries of pain and sorrow.
I watched as you reigned Queen, Africa.
The promise land.

You gave me the cold shoulder,
Still I longed for you.
Trapped in your glaciers,
I hold onto you.
Looking into your sky,
I am still head over heels;
Antarctica oh! How I want to return to you.

Piled high,
Across a sea.
No desert.
No dream.
No ice,
and no streams;
Asia! Asia! Depart from me peacefully.

Return with your lustrous greens,
your foreign accent,
your wildlife serene.
I equate you to peace found within.
I married you into my soul.
I promised myself the day I say I do,
Australia, my love, I shall never let you go.

But I did let go.
I failed in my attempt.
I crossed another sea,
and was swept off my feet.
Standing slanted.
My heart has forsaken my future.
Not comprehending your language,
yet in love with your ways.
Europe will love me ‘til my dying day.

That day has come.
My love has cast me aside.
Abandoned me at the stake.
Carried me out to sea.
Laid me by my flag.
Pledged my foolish pride.
North America picked up where my love had slacked.

Here is where I belong.
The land of my ancestors.
The place my father called home.
Where the sky meets the sea,
where wishes are turned into streams of endless dreams.
South America my true love has rescued me.

________________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005

The Rock Wall (by Christine Deluca)

2006-01-13T21:54:00.000-05:00

(Final Exam Essay)

Always keep going, keep looking forward for your next step. Don’t look down, don’t look back, and remember--there’s always something to grab hold of. I remember the first time I tried rock climbing, it was amazing. It felt like I was facing my fears--no--more like facing myself. Keep going--keep climbing--remember that there’s always something to grab a hold of. If you repeat those words to yourself to yourself you can make it to the top. Your team is always there with you, no matter what, and they will never fail you.

Times were tough in my house during my last two years of high school. I had finally come out to my mother and father and they were none too happy, my sister had changed and I couldn’t really talk to her anymore, and my mother was looking into--of all things--conversion therapy. Coming out was one of the hardest things for me to do, and the fact that my mother was not handling it well didn’t make things easier. I tried telling them the "best" way possible, I tried to sit them down and explain that I was still their daughter and nothing would change that, but they wouldn’t have it. After many years of feeling like a freak I had finally come to terms with myself only to have that torn down by my parents. I felt like I had nowhere to go, but I tried to look on the bright side.

Then it came time to face the rest of my world, a.k.a. my friends. I hadn’t told a single one of them yet. We were all at the diner one night--as we always are--and the moment just felt right. I took a deep breath and dove in. "Guys, I have something to tell you." I was met with laughter of all things. I couldn’t understand why they were laughing! "Is this the part where you FINALLY tell us you’re gay?" my one friend asked. I was in shock. After agonizing over when to tell them, after nights of worrying if they would accept me or leave me, they knew! They explained to me that they had known since the day they met me and they were just waiting for the day I was comfortable enough with myself to tell them. I don’t think there has been any other moment in my life so far when I felt more loved and more safe than that night with my boys--my team.

I explained to them about the situation with my parents and how I was torn over what to do about it. I didn’t know whether to go along with my mother’s conversion therapy to make me happy, or stand my ground and be proud of who I was. My best friend, Radeeb, told me to meet him at his house the next morning fully packed for the weekend. He didn’t tell me where we were going.

I asked my mother if I could go and she reluctantly agreed. The next morning I met Radeeb and we got into his car. I was kind of worried to say the least. Radeeb and I have always been the more adventurous of the group, so I didn’t know what he had planned. After a few hours of driving we wound up in Fawn Lake Forest, Pennsylvania. We checked into the cabin we had for the weekend and he told me to get dressed in some warmer clothes and go outside for my beginner’s training. That’s when I saw the rock wall. It was HUGE with sharp edges and steep drops. It didn’t look fun. It didn’t look like beginner’s training. I decided I was not for dying any time soon so I went back to the cabin and sat on the comfy HORIZONTAL bed. Radeeb was furious. He came in the cabin and yelled at me. He told me to go on with "conversion," that I wouldn’t be able to stand my ground anyway so I might as well back down. I cried, he yelled more, and he finally got me up.

Beginner’s training was on the ground thankfully. They explained to us the dynamics of the harness and how to grab on to rocks properly (not that I ever thought there was a right or wrong way to grab a rock). Before we began the climb our professional Mr. Mallia hit us with the infamous pep talk. He began with a quote--"Courage consists of being able to hold on one second longer." He told us we had nothing to fear but ourselves and that as long as we put our faith in our team and our team’s ability to help us through the rough spots we would be okay--there would be no reason to turn back. That speech hit me harder than if I had fallen off the rock wall. I couldn’t not climb after that. It meant so much, and I knew I had to try this. It was hard. There were times we had to stop because the rocks were difficult, but we worked as a team and got through to the top. When we got up there I realized it wasn’t so high--well, it was high, but not as bad as I thought it was going to be. It was just high enough for an amazing view. It felt wonderful. To know that we had earned that view was one of the coolest feelings ever.

While I was climbing I made up a mantra to keep myself going. "Keep going. Don’t look down, don’t look back, and remember there’s always something to grab on to. You can always rely on your team." Today those words are still with me. I decided to stand my ground with my mother--to keep going. I realized that even if it was rough with her there was always something to grab on to, my team--my friends. I don’t look back on the bad times anymore and I know no matter how rough it gets I’ll always have my team.

"Courage consists of being able to hold on one second longer," and I held on, I hold on. I learned that day that the only way is up and if you put your faith in your team and yourself it’s not always as high as it looks but it’s high enough for an amazing view.

____________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Fall 2005

[Posted with permission of writer]
____________________

The following instructions were part of the final exam; students had 75 minutes to complete the writing task:

Alan Sillitoe’s novella "The Loneliness of the Long-distance Runner" incorporates the sport of long-distance running as an extended metaphor.

Write a short story, or personal narrative essay (500-750 words) in which you incorporate an extended metaphor involving a sport (not long-distance running--Sillitoe has already done this, and you would be just echoing his story), such as baseball, basketball, swimming, football, etc., or other hard physical activity.

The Funeral (by Shannon Arnold)

2006-01-13T21:39:00.000-05:00

It hardly did justice for the man;
the absurdity of his folded hands,
and the stillness of the room.
The deep remorse of silence,
marred by coughs and tears,
the occasional quip of a child-like voice.

Attention soon turned to the sound of a soft voice,
the pastor stood rigid, a meek pallid man.
His presence stifled the torrent of tears,
soon to be wiped by moistened hands.
"Please, a moment of silence,
for the dead," he directed the room.

The people in the room
obeyed the doting voice;
bowing their heads they commenced into silence.
Each remembering the man
with absurd folded hands,
the rain outside poured down like tears.

"Dry your sadness and your tears,"
he said unto the room.
A weathered Bible was cradled in his hands.
"This is a celebration of life," announced the voice,
"for a father, husband, and God-fearing man,
whose soul has found eternal peace and silence."

"Eternal peace and silence,
safe from pain and fear and tears.
The body of this man
resides in this room,
but his soul was called by the Lord’s voice,
and carried away in God’s loving hands."

Upon reflection, I sat with folded hands,
a prisoner to the fleeting silence.
Suddenly a voice
full of pained tears
cuts through the room
screaming at the undisturbed man.

A gray-haired woman, with shaking hands,
dashes across the room, breaking the silence.
Her face is full of tears: "You left me," screamed her voice.

__________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005

The Squad (by Eric Bowersox)

2006-01-13T21:18:00.000-05:00

(Fiction Excerpt)

The building was in the middle of the park, yet no one knew it was there, at least no one but a select few. It was located within the giant rock formation that most people thought was just a monument to the founders of Brown Rock, Virginia. Little did Brown Rock’s citizens know that this rock served as the headquarters of the Squad, a group of government-sanctioned peacekeepers. Of course, if the public ever found out the truth about the big rock, they would all likely ask, "What’s the Squad?" Only a few higher-ups in the government knew of their existence, and even fewer knew anything else about them.

In the war room, five figures gathered around the table. There was one seat still empty.

"How much longer do we have to wait?" asked a young man in his mid-twenties. This was Jason Steed, the youngest member of the Squad. He was their technology expert, thus earning him the codename "Tech." He could hack his way into any system given enough time, but aside from that, he had little patience.

"What, are you going to be late for a cyber-date or something?" asked Michelle Lampton, a.k.a. Scope. She was the only woman on the team, and often very quick to make fun of others, especially Tech. But when it came to sniping, there was no one better.

"Very funny, jerk," said Tech, "but no, I just hated sitting in here waiting for who knows what."

"Just calm down. Even if we have a new mission, it won’t be anything we can’t handle with ease. After all, we are the Squad," said Chief, real name Patrick Sitfield, the Squad’s leader, due to his excellent tactical skills and quick thinking in the field. "We haven’t failed a mission yet."

"Don’t get too cocky," said Scope. "You never know when one of your plans might go haywire."

"Let’s hope that doesn’t happen," said a voice from the doorway.

"General Merden, welcome," said Chief.

"Thank you, Chief," said the General. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

"Well, you’re here now, so let’s get started," said Tech.

"Very well. Last night, at 0100 hours, a warehouse in D.C. was attacked."

"Attacked? I saw this on the news this morning, and they said it was just a break-in and nothing was stolen," said Barry Forbs, the team’s demolition expert, appropriately named "Bomb."

"That was just a cover-up," said General Merden. "The basement of this warehouse contains a biological weapons laboratory. Three of our chief scientists had been working there for the past fifteen months trying to develop a bomb that wound infect only the target race."

"What? Why would such a thing be authorized?" asked Chief.

"It wasn’t. We just found out about it two days ago. Apparently so did someone else. They broke in and stole the canister containing the virus."

"Was it completed?" asked Scope.

"Yes," said the General.

"What race was it designed to take out?" asked Billy Timson, also called Fist for his advanced knowledge of two dozen forms of hand-to-hand combat.

"Blacks."

"Why would they want to infect my people?" asked Bomb.

"They didn’t," said the General. "They never intended to use it. They just wanted to see if it could be done. The other races they tested failed."

"Of course our bodies have what it takes," said Bomb.

"General, do we know who took the virus?" asked Chief.

"All evidence points to a white supremacist terrorist cell called Whites "

"‘Whites?’ That’s a really stupid name," said Scope. "Sounds like we’re dealing with brain dead terrorists."

"Despite their lack of an imaginative name, they have caused over sixty deaths over the past two years. We have not been able to get any leads on their base, which leads us to your new mission. We need to locate that base, retrieve the viral canister, and shut down the Whites before they cause any more deaths."

"Do we have anything to go on?" asked Fist.

"No, but I want Tech to see what he can find on the Internet. I want the rest of you to go to the warehouse and do a search of the lab. Maybe you can find something the Feds missed."

"All right, team," said Chief, "let’s do this. Tech, get to your station. The rest of you, be at the tunnel in ten minutes. Move out!"

* * * * *

The train whisked through the tunnel. Its four occupants sat silent, wondering if success was on the horizon. The Squad had always been successful before.

"We’re almost there," said Chief.

Chief was controlling the train. To help keep the Squad’s existence a secret, travel to local missions was done in a subway system that could only be accessed by the Squad and a few other military and government personnel. If they had to travel far, they would use a private jet, then some heavily accessorized vans they kept hidden in most major cities around the world.

"Okay, people, we’re here," said Chief. "Move quietly and stay alert."

The team got out of the train, climbed out the hidden tunnel access in the alley, and casually crossed the street to the warehouse.

"Fist, stay out here and watch the front door. Let us know if any Feds come back to investigate."

"Sure thing, Chief."

"Scope, go up on the roof and keep watch from up there. Bomb, come with me."

Chief and Bomb went around back. Bomb picked the lock, and they went inside. The building looked just like a warehouse. Boxes were stacked everywhere, a perfect place for a criminal hideout. Too bad it was government scientists committing the wrongdoings.

Behind a big stack of crates they found a door that took them down to the lab. The place was a mess, broken glass everywhere and blood in a few spots on the floor. Bullet holes decorated the walls.

Suddenly Chief pushed Bomb back out into the hallway.

"What’s wrong?" asked Bomb.

"Security cameras," said Chief. Then into his radio, "Tech, fix the cameras so we can get in."

"I’m sending in a looped feed of the room just before you entered. You’re good to go."

"Thanks, Tech."

Now undetectable, Bomb and Chief searched the room. All hope seemed to be lost. They could not find a single clue that might lead them to the Whites.

"Chief," said Fist, over the radio, "There're three guys across the street. They're too obvious to be cops. They look like Skinheads."

"Keep your eye on them, Fist, we’ll be right up," said Chief.

"Wait, a black car just pulled up. They’re getting in. I’ll hail a taxi and follow them."

"Keep us informed of your location. We’ll get a van and track you down. Be careful, Fist."

"You got it, Chief."

_____________________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005

The War of Draenth–From Part I: Decay (Anonymous)

2006-01-13T21:02:00.000-05:00

Prologue

(Fiction)

"Faster," the putrid Orcish Overmaster screamed, "or I’ll snap all your worthless necks in half!"

A whip cracked out over the heads of some hundred grimy, green and panting Orcs. Each and every one retracted and winced with the snap, but quickly went back to their work hammering and pounding the thousands of wicked red-hot glowing swords scattered about the room. Massive furnaces lined the walls, and for every piece of weaponry that exited their searing embers, three more were thrown in. A thick corrosive smoke hung in the air over the disgusting figures, obscuring the amazing architecture above and around their heads in the great Orcish citadel of Jil’Vug.

Only thirty years ago, the ground they now stood upon was a beautiful Elvish settlement, nestled sweetly above the ground in the ancient treetops. Tiny innocent almond-eyed children had played and frolicked here deep into the summer nights. Now their blood and bones fueled the great Orcish war-machine. Each and every blacksmith smiled the cruelest smile at the thought of lifting such a frail quarry above their head and crushing them in a spray of gore like the dry and worthless twigs that they were, then feasting upon their flesh.

"Vug’Krush will not be happy with your lack of effort!" he screamed again.

The very mention of the great Warlord’s name sent every Orc in the room into a frenzy. Most eyes grew wide with fear, some covered their ears and others began to whimper softly, for the great and terrible power of Vug’Krush the Hellspawn was known all-too-well by these Orc tribes, "The Uniter", as they called him; an all-powerful Orc of monstrous size and even more formidable strength. Most had never seen the great warlord with their own eyes, but those who had glimpsed upon their most worshiped commander brought back tales of horror. They spoke of an Orc more akin to a giant, twelve feet tall, with blood-red eyes and the flesh ripped from the side of his face, leaving only finely-polished skull where his cheeks and forehead should be. Krush wore the skins of his most formidable enemies as breeches; King Cassius of Larg, High Warlord Bhat of the Doomfist Tribe and the Troll leader Kama’Kun. His chest armor was a ferocious piece of jagged metal that fit his massive frame perfectly. Foot-long barbs covered every inch of the breastplate, and if one were to inspect close enough, one would find the rotting flesh and organs of his past victims still lodged between some of the spikes. On his head he wore a cage of metal, magically grafted to his jawbone and eye sockets.

If his visage wasn’t enough to cause even the most ferocious fighter of the Orcish horde to wet himself, then his weapon would do the trick. Strapped to his back was a blade six feet long that emitted a sickly acidic-green aura, illuminating and outlining the horrific image of Krush. Down the length of the blade were carved runes of ancient Orcish magiks, and, when Krush swung that blade and cleaved into his enemy, the runes would activate, unleashing a blast wave capable of ripping the very bones out of a victim’s body, leaving the poor defender as nothing more than a pile of skin and muscle.

"Bah!" one puny Orc grumbled to his partner in the corner of the room, clearly unimpressed with the threats of the Warchief, "Krush is nothing! I could wring him dead with my very hands!"

"Don’t say that you fool, Grug!" his horrified partner whispered, barely able to contain his fear of being heard.

"What? Are you afraid of that mangy beast, Krush? Have you ever even seen the bastard?" Grug asked.

"Watch your tongue! You’re new here, and you don’t know what happens to people who speak ill of the master! And no, I haven’t seen him, but I’ve heard enough to know that he could kill everyone in this room right now if he wished, no matter how many weapons we had!" Grug’s accomplice whimpered.

Grug looked at his friend in disbelief. Never had he heard an Orc cower in such a pathetic manner, especially towards another Orc. Where Grug came from, when you felt one of your tribesman was superior to you, you challenged them to a duel to the death. Grug had never lost a duel before, and was damned sure his pride would not be hurt by any other Orc, no matter how powerful others said he was.

"You are weak, friend. You have lost your will to fight. You are no better than a sniveling Elf!" Grug scoffed.

The other Orc simply shook his head and went back to hammering.

"Fine! If this fool won’t remember what makes him an Orc, will anyone else in this room?" Grug cried out.

The banging stopped and a silence filled the air.

"Who here still has a spine?" yelled the enraged Orc, glad to see he had everyone’s attention.

"Quiet, fool! Back to hammering everyone!" the Warchief screamed, incensed at such traitorous words. He cracked his whip in Grug’s direction, expecting to hear a scream of pain as the barbed-tip ripped into flesh, but instead all he felt was a slight sting in his chest. The Warchief looked down to find three tiny daggers sticking out from his heart. He suddenly felt very weak, and fell to a pile on the floor, dead.

Down below his perch, a very jubilant Grug laid spread out on the floor. Clearly his nasty little daggers had found their mark.

Grug urged the other smiths in the room to join him with a triumphant cry, "Come my brethren! Let us go and make waste to this supposed ‘leader’ of ours! Nobody can control the Orcish tribes!"

He grasped two newly forged-swords in both hands and began to back his way to the door, beckoning for the others to take up arms and follow, but none of them moved. The workers simply stared at Grug with disbelief and horror, unsure of what to do about the dead taskmaster and this defect from the great cause of Vug’Krush.

"What? None of you shall follow me to slay this beast that you call your ‘master’? No Orc shall ever have a master! Don’t you realize that?" Grug screamed louder than he had ever before, rage splayed across his face, grimacing with the pain of seeing thousands of years of pure breeding turned into a farce, as his brethren slaved over furnaces and groveled like pitiful dogs at the very mention of this "Vug’Krush", this joke of a leader.

Through his screaming, Grug was unable to hear the massive wooden door creak open on its rusty hinges behind him. He continued to yell, tears streaming down his face, falling deeper into the passionate cry for his kinsmen to follow him out of slavery. Only when he saw the look in the other Orc’s faces did his speech grow softer and less violent. In every set of eyes he saw a greater fear, something terrible, something indescribable. The Orcs in the room shuddered and whimpered, and Grug could see a massive shadow cover the ground around him. All was silent. Even the once omnipresent hiss of steam pouring forth from the furnaces seemed to recoil back into the glowing embers and quiet itself.

Grug’s muscles tightened. Every hair in his body stood-up on end. Deep in his puny brain, something clicked; an inherent warrior instinct ingrained into every Orc, a switch, that when flipped, brings a terrible bloodlust to the body of the warrior; a desire to kill, which blocks out every other emotion. Grug was ready to kill his quarry. He was ready to demolish the figure behind him. Slowly, he swiveled around to face and hopefully eradicate whatever it was that had encroached upon his moment of glory.

The figure was black, blacker than the blackest night in the blackest corner Illidian; twelve feet of demonic energy, nothing but a ghostly mist in the air. There were two eyes which seemed to hover atop the figure, crimson and furious, perfectly spherical and perfectly disgusting. Within the orbs swirled a viscous liquid that reflected the meager light playing upon them and made it seem as if they contained a sea of blood.

Grug dropped his swords and fell to his knees.

Vug’Krush the Hellspawn stepped into the room, the furious furnace light illuminating every curvature of his horrific figure. Twelve feet tall and in full battle-gear, the leader of all things violent raised his terrible zweihandler into the air. Krush looked straight into the eyes of the quivering, pitiful Grug, and down came the sword. A wave of perfect pain and pleasure washed over the proud but insolent warrior, and he felt every bone in his body tearing its way from his skin. He was going to join the gods of war. He was happy. His bones blasted in every direction, a thin spray of red mist following, splashing upon Vug’Krush and the other Orcs in the room. Bliss was the last emotion Grug felt as his brain melted inside his skull, and then he was Grug no more, just one more Orc that had made his stand against the unstoppable Vug’Krush and found his death quick and painless.

All eyes shot to the floor and each Orc dropped to their knees in reverence of the great warlord who now stood amongst them.

"Rise!" Vug’Krush cried, his unbelievably deep voice, as if magically amplified, shaking the very walls of the forge-room.

Some whimpered, some cried, some trembled, but all stood up straight, with as much spine and dignity that an Orc could muster.

Krush smiled.

"You have toiled long and hard in the name of the Bloodgut and all that which is glorious on the battlefield! You have shown me you are loyal to carnage! You have shown me you are willing to devote everything within your puny bodies to me!"
Vug’Krush drew himself up to an even more massive size, puffing his chest out and raising his arms to the sky.

"So tomorrow it comes! The dawning of a new era is upon us, brethren! Tomorrow we march for Draenth!"

A monstrous cheer rose from the crowd of petrified Orcs. They knew that their years of toil and work and planning were soon to come to fruition. They knew that their great leader would soon show them the way to true glory. They knew the glory of the Bloodgut tribe and the relentless Vug’Krush the Hellspawn would be known the world over.

They knew that in only a few short days, the great Elvish city of Draenth would lie in ruins.
____________________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005

Hunting Season (by Katie Winter)

2006-01-13T20:42:00.000-05:00

(Fiction)

It was high noon on a cold, brisk Sunday at the end of November. Tomorrow was the first day of deer season, and Colin was ready for it. He drove earlier to his cabin in northern Pennsylvania that was deep in the woods. There was nothing he looked forward to more then going to the mountains for deer season. Although he loved the thrill of the hunt, the peace and quiet was the part he loved most.

Colin was young and full of life. When he was not out hunting, he liked to play baseball for his local college. He was about five-seven with pale creamy skin, dark shaggy hair and big brown puppy looking eyes. He was very adventurous and was not afraid of taking risks. He was easily excited, but what made him most excited was getting to go up to the cabin alone this year. Colin’s father usually came up with him but his work forced him to fly out to California on business.

Colin loved spending time with his dad, at least when he could get time to spend with him. His father was always at work or traveling somewhere. Deer season was the one time he could count on his dad being there but that had come to an end. Colin being twenty now, his father felt that he was old enough and responsible enough to go up alone.

After getting settled in the cabin, Colin decided it was a good time to take a walk through the woods to scope out some spots, and find where he wanted to sit in the morning. As he set off down the trail behind the cabin it suddenly hit him how cold it was.

"It must be twenty degrees out," he said to himself as he heard the crackling of twigs under his boots. Right now there were nothing but brown, bare trees and dead crispy leaves all throughout the woods. He really hoped that it would snow tonight, and leave a thin layer of powdered snow in the morning.

Colin had been walking through the woods for about an hour now, going up and down the mountainsides. He stopped at the top of the mountain and peered down into the valley. He had only seen two doe and a pheasant. He was not too pleased with all he saw, but he knew tomorrow morning would be a lot different. He decided to sit down on a trunk of a fallen tree for a little, and to take a break before he would head back to camp. Before he left, he had packed a peanut butter sandwich and a bottle of water. He sat there for ten minutes just taking in the fresh air and amazing scenery. He reached down to get the sandwich out of his knapsack. While he was bending over he saw a dark flash in the corner of his eye. He froze in his spot. He suddenly felt like he was not alone. He felt like there was something watching him.

"Is there someone else in the woods?" Colin thought to himself. Out of the right corner of his eye he could see a dark figure that was not there before. Colin closed his eyes for a few seconds and opened them in hopes that the dark shadow would be gone. To his disappointment it was not. He knew now that at this moment he would have to force his head to turn and see what this black figure was.

Colin realized at this point he was holding his breath. He closed his eyes and turned his head to the right and reopened them. Once he adjusted his eyes and saw what was in front of him he let out a long sigh and smiled. Right before him was one of the biggest bucks he had ever seen. He thought that it had to be at least a twelve point. He did the best he could not to move, so he would not scare the buck away. The buck just stared at Colin for a little then turned and trotted off.

"This is definitely where I am going to sit tomorrow."

Colin then realized that he should soon be heading back, so he quickly ate his sandwich, packed up all his gear, and got up to walk back to the cabin.

As Colin was getting close to the cabin he could see someone walking about one hundred yards away. He did not think the man saw him yet, because once he got closer the guy looked up and saw Colin. The man was about to turn, and go another direction, but Colin yelled over to him first.

"Hey, did you see a lot of deer?" yelled Colin as he started to jog over to him. The man seemed to realize there was no escaping Colin now.

Once Colin reached the man he felt a little uneasy. The man was about five-ten, and seemed to be very well in shape. He had black hair, and it appeared he had not shaved in weeks. He was wearing a flannel shirt, and a pair of overalls. Colin then noticed that his overalls were covered in a thick red substance that was obviously blood.

"Are you okay? What happened?" Colin asked the man. The guy did not seem sure how to answer. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"No, I was, um, walking through the woods, and saw an injured deer, so I, um, went to see if it was okay, but it was unable to move."

Colin saw the rifle he was carrying. Gesturing towards it he asked, "Did you shoot it?"

Seeming to forget he was carrying it, the man looked at the rifle, and then looked back up at Colin. "Yeah, I just did not want to see it suffer, you know?"

"Yeah, I’m Colin by the way. I am staying at the cabin right over that hill." He pointed to the direction he was walking earlier. "What’s your name? Do you come up here a lot?"

"Uh, I’m James," he said a little hesitantly. "I’m just up paying a visit to a friend."

Giving him one more look over, Colin felt that it would be better to leave. There was just something odd about James and it made him very uncomfortable.

"Well, I better head back. Good luck tomorrow."

"Oh yeah, you too." James said. Colin could tell he was a little unsure what he was talking about. Colin could tell when James realized he was talking about hunting when his face perked up a little like he had a bright idea. "I hope you get a big one."

"Thanks, you too." Colin said as he took off towards camp not daring to look back at James.

_________________

(Excerpt: Part 1 of 4)

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005

Two Unicorns (by Nicole Utz)

2006-01-13T19:59:00.000-05:00

(Fiction)

It was still raining.

The man leaned slightly over the edge of his small balcony and squinted, looking somewhere into the distance, looking for any sign of life. He saw nothing but gray clouds, gray water, and the top of one palm tree swaying uselessly two feet above water. He leaned further out and squinted harder, and as he wondered to himself if that was a person sitting on top of that building over there, he was promptly drenched by a torrent of rain. He cursed and took a step back, reminding himself that the balcony was indeed small and that the rooftop above it was even smaller.

He removed his glasses and wiped them on the edge of his shirt, turning as he did to peer back into his hotel room. The door separating his room and the balcony on which he stood was open—what use was there to a closed door right now? --and in front of the king-sized bed, a small television still stood blaring. He’d only turned this television on twice during the week he’d already spent in this room. The first time had been four days ago, when the local news station was all abuzz about a tropical storm approaching the Florida coast, one expected to bring strong winds and six inches of rain. The second time had been two hours ago, when he’d woken up from a sound sleep and found the ceiling leaking and every floor below his flooded.

The television really hadn’t been much use; everyone on it was too frantic to do any good. Things had already spiraled out of control, with the less practical newscasters proclaiming that the second coming had finally arrived and those who hadn’t sinned would be saved by Jesus. They’d all promptly been dragged off their air by their higher-ups, but the man wondered to himself if the censors could really give half a damn at this point, Jesus Christ or not. He’d watched all that he could stand and had found himself absorbing the news calmly, eventually lighting a cigarette when he realized that there was probably nobody left in the hotel to tell him he was a menace to society or a man with dirty lungs. He certainly couldn’t give a crap about lung cancer right now.

So the entire continent was flooding. The man put his glasses back on and squinted out into the storm. He needed to get his prescription changed; he still couldn’t tell if that was a person over there or not. Fleeing to the roof was probably a good idea at this point, considering he’d managed to sleep right through whatever evacuation there had been the evening before. He was the kind of guy who could sleep through an earthquake, and during a business trip to California three years ago, he had. But he figured that the twelfth of fourteen floors was close enough to the roof as it was, and the water still had to rise another foot and a half to get to him, so for now he was safe. Safe, but a little pissed off.

He grunted and reached into the pocket of his jeans, looking for the cigarette he’d previously placed there for safekeeping. When he found it he went back into his hotel room for his lighter, and as he lit up his eyes were inevitably drawn to the television again. Some big shot reporter was speaking now, at a desk under bright lights instead of "on location" as guys like him always wanted to be, and something about the dark circles under the reporter’s eyes told the man that he’d missed a lot in the past couple days. As he listened, he caught the word "apocalypse." He sighed, wondering if the entire population had lost its collective mind. Wasn’t the end of the world supposed to come with fire and brimstone? Hadn’t that Noah guy been promised that the world was safe from giant, humanity-destroying floods from 2000 BC onwards? Or had that been a lie?

The man snorted as he lit his cigarette. Somehow he could see how people could be panicking. If he’d read the Bible at face value and taken Christianity seriously as a kid, maybe he, too, would have been willing to believe that the world was currently being flooded due to the wrath of an angry god. But he was far too intelligent to think that something of that nature was possible. A storm was a storm, and the fact that it was currently causing a gigantic flood was unfortunate, but on its own… that proved nothing. He would believe in religion the day God himself walked into the room, shook the man’s hand, and told him his life story forwards and backwards.
He looked at the television, decided to keep the now crying newscaster in his thoughts, and turned it off. Regardless of what anybody believed, this had to be something like hell on earth.

There was no doubt about that.

He went back to the balcony and leaned on the railing as well as he was able, being careful this time not to poke his head out too far. The last thing he needed right now was another drenching. The usually strong scent of cigarette smoke was nearly drowned out by the overwhelming smell of rain, and the man inhaled only twice before tossing the cigarette into the water below.

Smoking was his one bad habit, and the only reason he had to enjoy it was the scent. It reminded him of his father and grandfather--both men had smoked and had died from it, but yet the smell was so inviting (and the activity so calming) that it all seemed impossible to avoid. But with all this rain around…

"Well, looks like I’m not the only one left after all."

The man started and turned, nearly losing his footing as he did so. He caught himself and looked into his hotel room, staring across the short space at a figure in the entranceway. He’d forgotten to lock the door that led from the hallway into his room--what would have been the use? --and so someone had apparently decided that this permitted entrance. He squinted and took a step forward and saw that it was a woman. As she came into clear focus, he could see that she was smiling, and that smile put him on guard. "Who are you?"

She laughed, somehow sounding fearless. "Does it matter? I was looking for some company… didn’t think I’d find any, though." Her voice was sweet and Southern, and she moved into his hotel room, crossing the floor to the door that led out onto the balcony. "You here by yourself, sweetie?"

He looked at her and wondered how someone who seemed so young could have the audacity to call him "sweetie." His great-aunt called him "sweetie."

"As far as I know," he answered, cautious. "I thought everyone else had left--"

"Everyone but the two of us. D’you have a death wish? A handsome fellow like you should’ve evacuated long ago." The woman came onto the balcony and looked the man over, then smiled again. "Trying to jump or somethin’?"

"No! … No. I wouldn’t do such a thing." He frowned at her, wondering how someone could simply walk into his hotel room and judge him in such a way. "What do you want?"
"You’re all questions! Sheesh, what a hardass. Got any more of those smokes?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "How long were you--"

"Look, does it really matter? I’m amazed somebody can ask so many questions while the whole damn earth is flooding." She snorted and took her place beside him at the balcony railing, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Maybe this’ll get you to shut up. I came here with my grandmother on a vacation, and she died last night. She wasn’t well enough to move out when the evacuations started, and I sure as hell wasn’t gonna leave her alone, so I stayed. S’far as I know, we’re the only two people left here. Grandma’s body is up in my room on the next floor, and there’s some guy laying in the hallway outside your room--I think he’s dead, too, or just layin’ real still. I’ve been looking around for any sign of life since this morning, since I figure drowning alone would be pretty crappy… y’know what I mean?" She took a breath, paused, and rolled her eyes. "I was standin’ there long enough to see you toss a perfectly good cigarette out into the goddamned ocean, so if you’ve got another, I’d be happy to take it off your hands."

The man took a moment to absorb this information and then walked back into his hotel room. He emerged a moment later with a pack of cigarettes, half-full, and a lighter. She accepted both items with a grin. As she lit up, her eyes seemed to twinkle a little. The man took a good look at her and saw a woman that could have been no more than twenty years old-she was average height and somewhat skinny, and her waist-length hair had been dyed bright red- it reminded him of a freshly painted fire hydrant. Her eyebrows were blonde, but something made the man think red suited her better than blonde. Maybe it was just because she was a loudmouth.

"So, sweetie," the woman said, and blew a cloud of smoke into the rain, "why’re you still sticking around? If you’re not killing yourself, you’ve got to have some reason…"

He leaned against the railing again and stared out into the rain. Something told him that there would be no use resisting conversation with this woman. If they were going to drown anyway…

"I was asleep," he answered, and heard her choke. "I didn’t wake up for the evacuation."

"You’ve gotta be kidding--"

"No. I woke up and found the hotel abandoned and everything flooded."

"And you didn’t try to--"

"To escape? How?" He glanced at her and shook his head. "There seems to be no use now. I decided to wait. If the rain stops--"

"The rain ain’t stopping’, sweetie. Haven’t you heard?" The woman laughed. "It’s the end of the world. The rain won’t stop until there’s nothing left for it to rain on."

"The end of the world?" The man looked at her. "Do you actually believe that?"

"Why wouldn’t I?"

"It’s--you can’t possibly think such a thing--" He stumbled over his words. "How could you think such a thing?"

"How couldn't I? Think about it." She kicked off the shoes she had been wearing, sinking two inches lower to the ground as they were cast aside. "Do you know," she began, stepping towards the balcony edge, "what the probability is… of all this happening?"

He remained looking steadily at her. "What?"

"The chance of there being rain falling on every square inch of this planet-the chance of a flood occurring everywhere all at the same time-is less than a ten thousandth of a percent. That’s really damn low. To put that into perspective…" She stopped to blow more smoke. "It’s more likely for every member of the United States Senate to spontaneously combust at the same time."

The man chuckled despite himself. "That’s an image to remember."

"I’m not joking, y’know. It’s almost statistically impossible for the entire world to flood. The fact that this is happening completely defies logic." The woman’s expression hardened. She swallowed, her eyes fixed on the burning tip of her cigarette. "I don’t know if you’ve seen the news lately, but even the atheists are screaming about the apocalypse now. The probability is just too low--"

"How do you know that?"

She sighed. "Before I came here, sweetie, I was a statistics major."

The man was caught off guard. He drew back from the railing and looked over the woman again, unsure now of his previous judgments about her. At first she had seemed like a wild Southern teenager, uneducated and brash, but a statistics major? He never would have guessed such a thing. After all, the students he had attended college with would have never dared to dye their hair bright red. There would have been consequences to such an action. But, he reminded himself, times had changed. So it was possible for someone so strange to be more accomplished than he had initially thought. Even so… He cleared his throat. "How old are you?" he asked.

Now she seemed to be the one off guard. "How old… why d’ya ask?"

"I want to know." He folded his arms. "If we are the last people left, we might as well get to know each other before we drown."

"Well, well!" The woman laughed. "Looks like you had a change of heart. Can’t say I expected to hear something like that come out of your mouth." She flung her spent cigarette out into the water and tossed back her hair, pressing her thin arms to the top of the railing. "I’m twenty-four."

"You don’t look--"

"I know. Save it; I hear that every day." She looked at the water instead of him. "You?"
The man forced back his surprise and answered her. "Thirty-nine."

"Woooow." She threw back her head and laughed. "You’re practically an old geezer. Man, and at first I thought you were my age. You take a dip in the Fountain of Youth or somethin’?"

He chuckled softly and reached into his back pocket for his box of cigarettes. "Such a thing doesn’t exist."

"There y’go again. You’re just resolved to be the most practical man alive, aren’t you? I bet you don’t believe in God, either."

"No."

"Well, you’d better start believin’ while you can, sweetie. Otherwise…"

"Otherwise," he began, lighting up, "what?"

She shrugged. "Otherwise you spend eternity rotting in Hell. Who knows, at this point. Like I was saying before, though-you can’t explain this flood logically. The only thing left to do is blame it on a higher power."

The man snorted. "A thousandth of a percent still isn’t very low. I’ll take my chances."

The man and woman were quiet for a while, and as the rain continued to come down in torrents, they watched. Suddenly the woman whirled around and faced the man, grinning like a cat would if it had cornered a mouse. "You ever read the Bible, sweetie?"

He nodded. "Once, a very long time ago."

"Ever wonder why the unicorns weren’t mentioned?"

"The unicorns?" The man blinked. "What are you talking about? Unicorns never existed."

"Do you have proof of that?"

"Well, no, but--"

"Look, just listen to me for a second." The woman shook her head, seemingly annoyed with his protests. "It’s said that the unicorns weren’t mentioned in the Bible because they managed to get themselves killed back when the Earth flooded. You remember the story of Noah’s ark, right?" She waited until he nodded in response to continue. "It’s said, sometimes, that the Bible excluded mentions of certain creatures that boarded the ark-creatures we’re not supposed to believe in. Y’know, faeries, elves, and so on…"

The man cleared his throat. "I fail to see how this relates to our current situation."

"I’m getting to it!" The woman glared at him, then spun around, turning her back on the rainfall.

"Unicorns kind of fall into that category--you know, nonsensical creatures. My grandmother always used to tell me that they existed, though, and that they aren’t seen anymore because they were too proud to board the ark. When the rain started and Noah gathered up his pairs of animals, the unicorns were stubborn and stayed behind. They thought they could wait out the storm-that it wouldn’t get as bad as that crazy old man was thinkin’. They thought they could just swim right through it. Noah begged and pleaded with them, but they insisted on staying right where they were. So all the other pairs boarded the ark, and the unicorns just sat by watchin’, thinking to themselves how smart they were, how stupid Noah was for believing that God guy would really wipe out all of humanity…"

He pursed his lips. "Then what?"

"What do you think? You know what happened, geez. It rained for forty days and forty nights, and everything and everybody drowned before a week had passed. Those stubborn unicorns didn’t make it past two days--Grandma always said they tried to cross a river and each and every one of ‘em slipped on the rocks and fell in. Hooves aren’t exactly the sturdiest things, y’know, especially when there’s water involved." The woman studied her fingernails, painted red to match her hair. "What I’m saying is this: we’re kinda like those two unicorns. Noah gave those two a chance to live through the biggest storm the world would ever know, and they turned it down. They just walked away and thought to themselves that they would be just fine on their own. And we know how that turned out…"

"Are you trying to say that the two of us are going to die?"

"What else do you think could possibly happen at this point, sweetie?" She shook her head slowly, her hair falling forward to shield her eyes from his gaze. "It won’t stop raining anytime soon--at least that’s what the weatherman kept sayin’--and even if it does, where are we supposed to go? What do we have left here? I only have enough food in my room for one more meal, and I doubt we could find an open McDonald’s anywhere around here." She smiled a little at her own joke. "I could really kill for a cheeseburger right about now…"

The man looked at the cigarette in his hand and swallowed back the sudden lump in his throat.

"Me too."

"Honestly, I don’t know what’s goin’ on here. If we’re to believe the Bible, God’s taking back his word about never flooding out the world again--and he’s really pissed at humanity, to boot. If we’re to believe logic… well, I’m not so sure we can believe logic anymore, seeing as this defies just about everything."

"The whole world’s ruined, either way."

"Now you’re cookin’ with gas." She threw back her head and laughed. "I mean, look at this. A hundred percent of the world is covered with water right now. There are no houses, no businesses, no buildings that aren’t filled with water to some extent. If the rain keeps coming, even the skyscrapers will be submerged. There’s almost no food, no drinkable water, only a couple places to sit or sleep in, and I’m sure people are panicking their asses off considering the death toll’s supposedly two million right now in the United States alone." The smile on her face was slowly dying. "Even if we do wait out this storm, what’s left for us? What’s left for any of us when the storm clears and everything we hold dear is underwater?"

The man flung his cigarette out into the rain and watched it fall to the ocean below them, his throat tight. Not even the smell of smoke could comfort him now. "Nothing," he said, mostly to himself, and closed his eyes. "There’s a very grim future in store for anyone who lives through this."

"Think it’s even worth living through?"

"I don’t know right now," he answered. "But I won’t know until I try."

"So you’re gonna cross the river?"

He chuckled. "I can swim very well."

"Well, if you’re determined to do that…" She turned and pointed across what had once been a beach, her sight set solidly on a taller, larger hotel. "We’ve gotta move to higher ground. There are balconies over there, too--we can climb up onto the nearest one and see if we can get into a room from there." She paused. "I was about to say that I wouldn’t wanna break in, but I guess that doesn’t matter much now."

"No." The man adjusted his glasses and squinted at the hotel--there was someone on the roof there, he was sure of it now--and sighed. "Do you think we’ll live?"

"You said you could swim well, didn’t you?" The woman was suddenly climbing on the railing, pushing herself up to sit on the top bar. "It isn’t too bad out there… nothing I couldn’t handle. I was on the swim team in high school, y’know…"

"Me too."

"Well, that’s just another thing we have in common, huh?" She winked over her shoulder at him, then slid a little off the railing. "C’mon, let’s get going. And I’m not saving you if you start to flail around, so you’d better be good at watchin’ your own ass."

The man bent to remove his shoes, smiling. "I can take care of myself just fine. I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?"

He waited for his answer and heard nothing-the woman was already gone. Sighing, he peeled off his socks, unbuttoned his shirt, and began to climb over the railing. Around him the rain continued to come down, relentless, as if it was determined to continue until there was nothing left but the sound of waves lapping against rooftops.

_________________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005

After the Bell (by Miles Watson)

2006-01-13T19:20:00.000-05:00

(Fiction)

"That was bad," Tina said. "That was real bad."

"It’s over," I said.

"’Till the next time, you mean."

"Isn’t gonna be a next time."

"Sure," she said.

"I mean it."

"Sure," she said.

"Tina."

"Tina, what?"

"Let it go. I’m not in the mood."

"I wasn’t in the mood to see you play human heavy bag, either."

"You didn’t have to come."

"You looked like a fucking puppy dog when I said I wasn’t."

"I did not."

"You did."

"I did not."

"Stop talking. You keep splitting your lip open. Put the ice back on."

"Ice won’t help. Give me another Advil."

"You’ve had four already. And two Vicodan. You need to stop."

"Give me another."

"Get it yourself."

"Tina, for Christ’s sake."

"All right. Here. But you’re not supposed to mix those with alcohol and you know it."

"I don’t care."

"That’s obvious."

"Tina."

"Stop saying my damn name like that. My father used to do that. Are you my father?"

"You’re acting like my mother, so why not?"

"If I was your mother I never would have let you get in that damn ring. You nearly got killed in there."

"I had a bad night. That’s all."

"You had no business being in with him. I couldn’t even watch that last round. It was awful."

"It wasn’t that bad. He couldn’t knock me out."

"You must be very proud."

"Why don’t you lay off?"

"Because you’re crazy. What were you trying to prove?"

"Nothing."

"Are you trying to get yourself killed because you ran into that old girl of yours."

"Don’t be stupid."

"You’re one to talk. You’re not a real fighter anymore, Mick. You got no trainer. You’re not in shape. Christ, that kid looked like he stepped out of a Bally’s commercial."

"Beautiful bodies don’t win fights."

"Neither do love handles."

"I would have killed him a few years ago."

"I got a newsflash for you: It’s not a few years ago. It’s now. You may be a big tough guy on the street, Mick, but in the ring, you’re just a victim."

"I almost had him in the first round."

"It was the other nine that were the problem."

"You really enjoy kicking a guy when he’s down, don’t you?"

"It’s just that everybody told you not to do it. Kraut told you. I told you. Alton practically begged you not to. There’s a reason he wouldn’t work your corner, you know."

"The money was good. I made good money."

"Good enough to get your head beat in?"

"Yeah, well – sometimes my money has blood on it. This time it just happened to be mine. Either way you like to spend it, so what’s the difference?"

"You think I’m with you for your money? That’s a joke right there. I had a guy come onto me last week who owned his own jet. He practically got down on his knees and begged me to come away with him for the weekend. But no, I spent it in a shitty ballroom in Yonkers, watching you get your ass kicked."

"Don’t let me cramp your style."

"I’m just saying that if you’ve got money problems, this ain’t the way out of them. How much did they pay you tonight? Twenty-five hundred? How long are you gonna be laid up after this? Ten days? Two weeks? You didn’t make money tonight, Mick. You treaded water."

"I have to do what I have to do. Business is way off and they’re upping my rent again. Every time I score Gino has his hand out. He’s getting worse all the time. I swear to Christ he can hear a dollar bill in your pocket. This kind of money, clean money, is the only he kind he doesn’t want a cut of."

"Mick, I can make what you made tonight in a week if I hustle my ass, and I don’t bleed all over the pillowcase, afterwards."

"You want I should try out for Chippendale’s?"

"I think I’d rather loan you the money than watch you go through that again."

"I don’t want your money. I’ll figure something out."

"Don’t take my head off. I’m trying to help you."

"Well, I don’t need your help. I’m not a pimp. I don’t need a woman to support me."

"I’m not offering to, Superfly."

"Okay, okay. I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. My head hurts and I’m not thinking right. It was nice of you to offer. But I’ll figure something else out on my own."

"Not fighting."

"Not fighting. I’m finished with that."

"Because I’m not your girlfriend or your damn nurse. I’m not going to watch that again and I’m not going to sit here and feed you through a straw afterwards."

"Okay. But go get a milkshake, will you?"

"I mean it, Mick. What you do is dangerous enough without looking for more trouble on the side."

"All right.""I don’t know why I put up with you as it is."

"Me neither."

"I’m serious. I could be in Bimini now."

"I’m glad you’re not."

"Of course you are. You can barely move. Now lie back. Put the ice on. God, he made a mess of you. Why didn’t you just go down?"

"I did go down."

"I mean why didn’t you stay there?"

"You mean dog it?"

"Why not? You couldn’t win. Why stay in there and take a beating?"

"I have my reasons."

"Pride."

"No."

"What, then?"

"They might have withheld my purse."

"Finally," Tina said. "You say something that makes sense."

_________________

Excerpt from Knuckle Down, a novel-in-progress

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005

Between A Woman and Her Work (by Meg Goforth)

2006-01-13T19:08:00.000-05:00

She picks up her silver camera
and asks the subject to stand still.
For as long as she can remember
this has been a dream.

She asks the subject to stand still.
He looks her straight in the eye.
This has been a dream,
but she must focus on her work.

He looks her straight in the eye.
She becomes more and more distracted,
but she must focus on her work.
She has known no other love.

She becomes more and more distracted,
and her eyes begin to shine.
She has known no other love
but cannot decide what to choose.

Her eyes begin to shine,
and his smile widens.
She cannot decide what to choose,
so she continues taking pictures.

His smile widens
as she asks him to remove his shirt.
She continues taking pictures,
but her mind wanders to the bedroom.

As she asks him to remove his shirt
he becomes more sexual.
Her mind wanders to the bedroom,
and she cannot help but succumb.

He looks at her with sexuality.
For as long as she can remember
she could not help but succumb.
So, she puts down her silver camera.

____________________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005

Curtis and the Rip-Roarin’ Snowballs (by Eli Murray)

2006-01-13T18:53:00.000-05:00

(Fiction)

Curtis moaned with sagging shoulders as Mom wrapped an itchy scarf around his neck.

"For the last time," Mom said, firmly tugging a wool cap over Curtis’ ears, "You must wear more than a T-shirt. There’s five inches of snow on the ground."
*
Curtis eagerly made his way towards the back door. He waddled because of the winter clothes. After gingerly stepping onto the icy steps, Curtis squinted at the bright snow.
*
He gazed upon the neighborhood in awe. Every house, car, and inch of ground was covered with a dazzling, flawless blanket of snow. Pine trees sagged from the newly weight. Other than the distant sounds of chains on truck tires and snow shovels scraping sidewalks, it was silent. There were no birds or rabbits playing. They were in their homes keeping warm. Curtis took a deep breath of wintry air and caught a hint of smoky firewood.
*
"Mom thinks there’s five inches of snow on the ground," Curtis said to himself, "but I think there’s five thousand inches of snow!"
*
Curtis walked into the new snowy world. With his foot prints, Curtis spelled his name. He then rolled a snowman and named him "Captain Snow Menace." To stop the snowman from conquering the world, Curtis destroyed him.
*
Tucked in the corner of the yard was a wooden shed. Inside was a ladder, a lawnmower, and gardening tools; all hibernating for the winter.
*
Curtis scooped up a handful of snow, patted it into a ball. "I wonder if I can hit the shed with this," Curtis said as he lightly tossed the snowball up and down. Curtis threw the snowball through the chilly air… thunk! The snowball smacked against the side of the shed exactly where Curtis was aiming. "Wow! My aim is tremendous!"
*
Curtis spotted a tall oak tree off to the right. "I bet I can hit that old tree in the center of its trunk." Curtis launched a second snowball and… thud! The snowball exploded in the center of the trunk, leaving behind a small trace of snow. "My arm is truly unbelievable."
*
A checkered monster with fuzzy horns and enormous pink ears suddenly appeared from behind the shed. Smacking its fist into a catcher’s mitt, the monster stooped down and bellowed, "Put ‘er there, Sport." Curtis wound his arm back and lifted a knee before he pitched another snowball through the air… smack! "Strike!" the monster shrieked before he pounced back behind the shed.
*
"When I grow up, I’m going to be a Major League pitcher," Curtis said as he spat and scraped the ground with his foot.
*
Curtis turned to the sound of crunching snow. Rolling down the white alley, wearing a football helmet, was a kangaroo on a unicycle. Curtis was feeling confident. He sent a snowball whizzing through the trees and sure enough… bang! The snowball hit the kangaroo’s helmet, knocking off the five inches of snow that innocently sat on top. "Do you have to throw so hard?" the kangaroo grumbled as he wobbled on his way.
*
In the distance, Curtis heard the piercing sound of a pterodactyl screech. As the dinosaur flew near, Curtis quickly created another snowball. "I hope the pterodactyl stops in my yard," Curtis thought. The creature flew overhead but showed no signs of slowing down. Curtis lobbed the snowball straight up in the air… wham! Curtis hit the pterodactyl in mid-flight. The broken snowball pieces fell to the earth but the dinosaur regained control and flew away.
*
"Nice shot," said the pterodactyl looking over its shoulder.
*
As Curtis watched the pterodactyl fly further away, he noticed an alien jet craft doing loops and zigzags through the winter sky. "Hitting that alien should be a cinch!" Curtis boasted. With precise timing, Curtis blasted another snowball. The air ripped as the snowball climbed higher and higher. Curtis watched with anticipation… boom! The snowball slapped the side of the strange aircraft. Curtis listened very closely and heard the alien pilot say high in the sky, "That human has remarkable throwing power!"
*
Curtis was so impressed with his new-found talent he decided to hurl another snowball just to see how far it would go. With a mighty grunt, he sent one flying. He watched the snowball until it disappeared between the clouds. As Curtis panted, he heard the encouraging cheer of fans.
*
The snowball zipped over the Atlantic Ocean. It whipped through Europe and soared past China. It cruised over the Pacific Ocean. The snowball was now on fire and started falling over California. From behind him the snowball reappeared over Curtis’ house. While he was still searching the skies… bam! The snowball whacked Curtis on the back of his head, knocking off his hat and sending him to the arctic ground.
*
Curtis made a snow angel before he peeled himself out of the snow. By this time, the birds and rabbits were peeking from their homes to watch. "My throwing power is truly a gift," Curtis thought as he brushed the snow from his hat.
*
"Now it’s time for the most rip-roarin’ of all snowballs. I’m going to hit the sun!" Curtis took his time to form one perfectly round snowball. He rolled his arm back and with all his strength, heaved the snowball into orbit. With rosy cheeks, Curtis watched and waited… and waited… and waited. At last, he heard what he had been listening for. The snowball struck the surface of the sun, making the sound of raw eggs meeting a piping hot pan… tsssss and then dead silence.
*
Like a ball slowly rolling off a table, the sun gradually tipped forward, then quickly dropped towards the backyard. The blazing hot mass of fire roared madly as it sped closer and closer. The snow in the backyard started to boil as steam rolled upwards. Curtis wiped his sweltering face with his mittens. "I’ve really done it this time," Curtis said trembling.
*
Just when Curtis thought he was burnt toast, the sun came to a screeching halt just inches from his face. Glaring angrily the sun asked, "What on earth were you thinking?"

*
Curtis’ throat was too scorched to answer. All he could do was squint and loosen his roasting scarf.
*
Unexpectedly, Curtis heard the cracks and pops of the back door opening, followed by Mom’s familiar voice. "I made hot chocolate with marshmallows. Come inside and warm yourself."

*
Curtis turned to see the winter sun sitting quietly behind the tall trees. He smiled. "Thanks, Mom," Curtis answered as he merrily ran towards his house.

__________________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005

The Mane of My Existence (by Siobahn Hyser)

2006-01-13T18:18:00.000-05:00

(Creative Non-fiction)

I hate my hair. Well, I used to hate my hair when it was long. Until I chopped it off, my hair was well below my shoulders, a mass of curls that parasitically existed upon my scalp. My hair had a life of its own. People were happy to meet my hair. They remembered my hair. I’m sure they would have taken it to dinner if they could. My hair reveled in the compliments and praise it received, rustling about like sea anemone in the ocean.

I have always had long hair, until a gay boy with an electric razor made a drastic mistake. When my hair and I were very young, the long curly locks were a beacon that attracted strangers. "What beautiful hair she has!" they would exclaim to my mother in the grocery store. "It’s so long!" I would smile and bask in their adoration. Mom always told me my hair was pretty, but she never told me I was pretty. When I got older, in high school, she would constantly point out, "Your hair is so thin on top!" I don’t think it actually was. But her insistence caused it to believe that I was going bald, becoming an ugly freak.

My hair had become my identity. If it didn’t look good, I was ugly. I wasn’t a girl: I couldn’t even do my hair right. Some days it would be this beautiful masterpiece of loose curls, and other days it was a frizzy mess. And then there was the whole going bald on top thing. Some days my hair would look great from what I could see and then I would use a handheld mirror to look at the back of my head. Sure enough, there was a scalp showing through. Years later, I discovered the simple reason for the seeming "bald spot", a cowlick that made a bunch of my hair into one big curl. My mother wasn’t much help. She just let me linger in the horrific prospect of baldness and ugliness for my senior prom. Mom wasn’t really a hands-on sort of mother, although she would help wash my hair in the sink before school if I ended up with too much goop in it.

*
After graduation, I couldn’t give it up; I was still worried about losing my hair. I was still afraid of being ugly. Soon, I thought, I will be one of those old women with cotton ball wisps floating about their heads. I couldn’t think of anything more horrific.

I kept my anxiety to myself, not seeking help from friends or my female relatives. It was shameful to be losing my hair; I must have done something wrong. I had failed at being a girl. If I couldn’t do my hair, much less hold onto the hair I still had, was I really a girl? It sounds dramatic, but my late teenage years were spent in the rave scene where sexual confusion hung in the air thicker than the smoke from the dry ice machine. The baggy pants and oversized shirts, the baseball caps and short hair: who knew who was a girl? A boy?

One evening about four years ago, I was at Jeremey’s house. His roommate had a friend over and they were all going to trim their up hair with clippers. "Jeremey," I said, "Do me, too." I had had enough. The past few years with their deaths and sorrows had left me feeling naked. First Daddy died, and then Anna was killed six months later. Around the same time, Nana, Daddy’s mom, died of old age. Why should I have any hair to hide behind? I didn’t feel beautiful, and my hair wasn’t sad for my losses. Isn’t that what women used to do anyway, cut their hair off when they were in mourning?

Besides, if I was going to do something drastic with my hair, Jeremey was the one do it. He’d gone to acting school in New York and had cut hair for his theatre friends to make money. He was gay and had an inherent sense of style. Unfortunately, he’s also an inveterate drunk.

We went upstairs to the bathroom and I sat on the side of the tub. We chopped off most of length and then he said he was going to trim it up with the clippers. He kept going back and forth from one side to the other. I ended up with sort of a faux hawk in the middle. "That looks so punk rock!" he said, "You totally need to keep it." So I did.

A few hours later, and a few – well, a lot more – beers later, Jeremey decided he needed to touch it up a little. Again, we went upstairs. Again, I sat on the tub. Jeremey picked up the clippers. He put the razor to my head, above my right ear and shaved around my ear. "Okay," he said brightly, standing back and crossing his arms, clippers still in hand, "We have two choices. We can either shave it to the skin around your ear on the other side or shave it all to the skin except for the mohawk." I looked to the mirror as my jaw dropped. All I saw was a blur because my glasses were out of reach on the counter by the sink.

Jeremey continued, never failing in his chipper tone. "I forgot to put the attachment on the blade so it shaved your head right there."

Did I mention we were drunk?

Ten minutes later I have a checkerboard pattern on my head, squares of skin and fuzz, with a mohawk in the middle. Over the course of the next week, repeated visits to Jeremey slowly remove the rest of the hair from my pale, white scalp. I am as bald as Vger from the Star Trek movie. And I like it.

Suddenly, showering takes 5 minutes. No wonder guys get ready so fast. I can leave the house without looking in a mirror. My hair doesn’t get in my mouth or my eyes when I’m driving with the windows down. My budget for hair products just went down to zero.

It never gets past my chin again. With full time school and full time work, I don’t have the patience for hair anymore. I tried growing it out a bit a couple of times. But as soon as it gets a few inches long, the curls erupt and I have two choices: back to the hair product aisle or back to razor. I keep choosing the razor.

Shaving my head was the most liberating thing I have ever done. I’ve heard other girls say the same thing. I got rid of something that had been weighing me down most of life. My sense of self became detached from the parasite that devoured hair goop and shampoo. My sense of self was now… my self.

When I first got rid of my hair, there were some ingrates at the bars who taunted with me "dyke" and "Where’s your girlfriend?" I flashed a guy on the street one day because he thought me and the guy with whom I was holding hands were gay men. I had never done that before nor have I done it since.

I realize now that my femininity does not emanate from my hair. It does not determine my sexuality or my beauty or my life. I thought no one else could see past my hair because I couldn’t. Not letting it grow has allowed me to grow. I get it cut every 4-6 weeks, telling the girl to cut it like Alyssa Milano’s character on Charmed. I’ve discovered I don’t have a pointy or dented head.

I still hate my hair, especially when I remember all the time and effort I put into it. Especially when I think of the stress it caused me and the hundreds, if not thousands of dollars spent on yet another fix-it-all hair product over the years. When I think of all the time I spent worrying over my mother’s idiotic and uncaring fixation on my thinning hair, I can’t believe I didn’t chop it off sooner.

It’s funny how I still get compliments on my hair; chicks tell me how brave I am, how they never could do it. They tell me I have the right face for it. I never believed anyone who told me I was pretty until I had no hair. I knew now they meant me, not my hair. It makes all those years of standing in front of them mirror seem all the more pointless.

Rapunzel was an idiot. She should have used that rope of hair and saved herself.

____________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005

I Tried to Talk to God (by Matthew Schultz)

2005-12-26T23:50:00.000-05:00

I ain’t been to sleep in days.
I ain’t felt this bad in years.
I drank some mud this mornin’,
but the brew can’t fix my heart.

Nah, it can’t fix my heart.

I ain’t been to sleep in days.
I ain’t felt this bad in years.
I answered the phone this mornin’,
but it didn’t have no advice.

Nah, it didn’t have no advice.

I ain’t been to sleep in days.
I ain’t felt this bad in years.
I showered up this mornin’,
but a shower can’t clean my hurts.

Nah, a shower can’t clean my hurts.

I ain’t been to sleep in days.
I ain’t felt this bad in years.
I talked to God this mornin’,
but he didn’t say nothin’ back.

Nah, he didn’t say nothin’ back.

I ain’t been to sleep in days.
I ain’t felt this bad in years.
I wrote a song this mornin’,
but my geetar wouldn’t sing.

Nah, my geetar wouldn’t sing.

I ain’t been to sleep in days.
I ain’t felt this bad in years.
I tried forgettin’ her this mornin’,
but life just ain’t no cinch.

Nah, life just ain’t no cinch
___________________________

(WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005)
(Posted with permission of poet)

"A-Bomb, My Love" and "Sad Moon" (Poems)

2005-12-19T01:04:00.000-05:00

I decided to set up a blog for my writing students, although what I'm posting today comes from my Introduction to Literature class.

I continue to be amazed by my literature students and their abilities; every now and then, I come up with an exercise that taps into something deep within them.

It’s not brilliance on my part, but the literature itself that opens up some creative muse already within them. Good literature that stands the test of time seems to help young (and young at heart) writers to stretch their abilities beyond the egocentric realm of self and into the world wide view.

I teach a basic literature course, typically taken by college freshmen. The course is required for English education majors but is also a general elective for every other major, so, as you might expect, I get a lot of "10 o'clock scholars."

At first, many students assume this course will be an easy "A" without much effort on their part. However, while "A’s" are highly possible--and I do award a lot of "A’s"--I do make my students earn them, but not to make their lives miserable; I want them to exit my courses having learned something vital about literature and its place in their lives. Perhaps I don’t reach every student, and I don’t expect them to love every work I assign, but I try my best!

I love this course and hope to teach it for a long time.

Although I use many of the same works, I try to develop new exercises each semester because the dynamic of each class differs. One semester, students got into Sylvia Plath--this semester, they connected with Alan Sillitoe’s "The Loneliness of the Long-distance Runner" and John Hersey’s Hiroshima.

But when I walk into that classroom on the first day of class, I never know what I’m going to find. This semester, now just wrapping up, I walked into the largest class of my career: 29 students.

Panic. How do I manage such a large group?

I tend to base my classes on the small-group model because I believe that students learn much more about literature through self discovery than if I just offered ex-cathedra lectures. I do give some background and explanations, but then I let them loose in groups, after which they report back to the class.

But managing a large class using this model was challenging in that I had to add groups and expand them into 6-7 students each, making it too easy for shy students to hide. Also, I didn’t get to know all their names and faces together, a regret.

In the last test of the semester (before final exams), I offered my students the option of responding to one of two works by writing a poem. Now keep in mind, these students have only 75 minutes to complete the exam, and this option is in addition to a required question. Here’s (along with the actual instructions) what they did:

Referring to some of the bomb images (in your own words, not copied word-for-word from the texts and film), from Hiroshima, Fail Safe, and "August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains," write a five-stanza poem, five lines per stanza (25 lines total, free verse or in any style). Set your poem up as follows:

Title: "A-Bomb, My Love"

Stanza #1: A Noiseless Flash

Stanza #2: The Fire

Stanza #3: Details Are Being Investigated

Stanza #4: Panic Grass and Feverfew

Stanza #5: Aftermath

(Each stanza is a chapter heading from Hiroshima; my exams are always open book, closed notes. One student got carried away in the last two stanzas and expanded them by a couple of lines, but that’s okay.)

* * * * *

A-Bomb, My Love

The sirens didn’t sound
the people didn’t scream
A noiseless flash was all there was
and my heart [as it] began to pound
as I was thrown into the stream

My body burned as if on fire
My air was gone I could not breathe
All around people lay scattered and dying
smoke billowing up from their funeral pyres
fires all around the city and stream.

"What happened?" everyone asks
because no one knows the truth
It was the A-bomb, my love,
people’s faces slide off like masks.
Was it the Americans, we have no proof.

Days and weeks after
death and destruction still reign
Doctors mystified by the symptoms
there is no more laughter
as people writhe around in pain.

Years after people are still affected
Their daily lives reflect upon their past
The details may be a little blurry
The memories will never be perfected.
After all it happened much too fast.

Nicole Sura

* * * * *

A-Bomb, My Love

As I drink my coffee,
And sit to read the paper,
I am interrupted by a picture taken outside my window,
Now I am on my back, 10 feet from the pane
What’s that you ask? A-Bomb, my Love.

The orange glow outside draws me to the door,
A mushroom in the sky, and a strange odor.
The smoke is black as night,
The sky is gray and thick.
What is that you wonder? A-Bomb, my Love.

Viewing the devastation, it’s like love at first sight,
Lepers crawl and squirm.
Small children like small white serpents on the ground,
Husbands run to their wives as their hair falls out,
What’s that you scream? A-Bomb, my Love.

In wake of death
Out sprouts a tree.
A few berries where once lied a crater
A miracle or malignant, radioactive garden?
What’s that you whisper? A-Bomb, my Love

So now as we rebuild
What was once a city
And leave what was once a home,
If you ask me what happened,
I’ll say A-Bomb, my Love.

Jeff Rice

* * * * *

A-Bomb, My Love

A noiseless flash
a white explosion of light
it looks like a light sent from heaven.
But be warned.
It wants nothing to do with heaven.

In place of the wondrous light comes realization, and fire
Red and orange and yellow tear through buildings
like they are made of fog.
The smells of sulfur and smoke and fear waft through the streets.
People are running blindly with confusion in their eyes.

Investigation. Words these people don’t understand.
It was lightning thrown down by angry gods, they say.
No. They are corrected.
It was an atom bomb.
Oh, but what did we do to deserve this?

Gutted buildings, bare trees, and lingering fires
greet people when they come back to their home.
It seems as if they aren’t wanted there.
They have been pushed out.
At least that is how it seemed.

As a new phoenix rises from its ashes,
a new city did as well.
Green springs from the ground in the most unlikely
of places.
Finally, they have time to move on.

Leah Humes

* * * * *

A-Bomb, My Love

A noiseless flash, a shortened dash
To find cover in a place of work
blinded by fear
Unconscious, but not dead
Unknowing of the horror that lies ahead

The fire engulfs all that remains
escaping with life, ignoring the pain
"Where is the safety in this labyrinth of flame?"
"Who can we save? Who to let die?"
Nothing is clear to explain to us why

Details are coming in, for the question we sought
Apparently this disaster is not what we thought
Panic still swarming
like bees of a crushed hive
"Why are so many dead and I’m still alive?"

Why are so many sickening?
I’m so tired I can’t think
Someone head to the river and give them all a drink.
Many problems arising, resources getting few
Ground getting greener, but outlook is so blue.

The aftermath is now real
I’m so numb, I’ll never feel.
I wish so much that I could forget
Make my children understand
The tragedy that occurred, inside the walls of our homeland.

Matthew Firestone

* * * * *

A-Bomb, My Love

I am very tired
I close my eyes.
I awake suddenly, and I
Feel my heartbeat in my throat
Beating a mile a minute. I see a

FLASH!

I feel warm, now hot.
I’m BURNING!
I can not see anything,
Except my flesh burning. I hear
women, children, infants...shrieking.

Now I feel a hand
There is a man carrying me.
I can see...barely. The debris covered
City looks like a jenga puzzle.
Houses, trees, even people piled on top of each other.

My body is numb.
I slept for an hour. It is
the day after. Am I
still alive? The doctor gives me water.
I can not drink it--it feels like poison ivy

running through my burnt system.

Was it all a dream?
What exactly happened?
The city is ruined, it will NEVER...
Be the same!
Did somebody say "Bomb!?"
Where is my husband--what happened?
"A-Bomb, my love," I heard the doctor say.

Laura Hulsaver

* * * * *

A-Bomb, My Love

I had barely awoken
when a noiseless flash burst through my house
I look outside through my windows
All broken
I set my eyes on the disastrous scene

The fire outside was eating my town
was eating my life
My neighbors ran in pain and suffering
too slow to escape the heat
I set my eyes on the disastrous scene

The death toll keeps rising
There are too many to save
Doctors don’t even know the cure
Other countries aren’t providing any aid
I set my eyes on the disastrous scene

Our city is a mess
People walk around like zombies
once a beautiful place
is now than uglier than hell itself
I set my eyes on the disastrous scene

Now children are born with the burden
the diseases born that day
have snuck into our bodies and are passed on
is it not enough what we went through
that now my child must be part of
this disastrous scene

Ashling Kaim

* * * * *

Sylvia Plath’s "Edge," a 1963 poem (163), written six days before her death, is often referred as the poet’s suicide note. Assume that you have found and read "Edge" before the poet took her own life, and you want to talk her out of killing herself.

Your charge: Write your own poem (10 non-rhyming couplets, 20 lines total), titled "Sad Moon," in which you answer each of Plath’s lines with your own original line. In other words, you are creating a poetic dialogue with the speaker of the poem.

* * * * *

Sad Moon

The woman isn’t perfected
Her children

reach to see her smile
The need of a mother

to be there for them
in all her beauty

they want to say
mamma please don’t go

each live child, laying full of joy
each of them smiling up

their lives still in front of them
they don’t want you to go

They have left your body
but don’t want to leave you

as you grow older
their love only gets greater

the moon will be sad for good reason
if the children are left alone.

She will weep for them
if you leave them so

Paul Easton

* * * * *

Sad Moon

You have come so far.
Sad moon

Your body should keep smiling,
Live on to show

How much you have to offer,
Your naked

Feet whisper to you:
We have come far, but not far enough

Your writing is your children.
All beautiful

Not needing milk to live.
Keep them

Close to you always
A garden

That keeps blooming.
With the pressure of your pen

Sad Moon has everything to prosper.
Looking through your eyes

Life you need not be used to.
For tomorrow there will be sun.

Amanda Dinmore

* * * * *

Sad Moon

Your writings have been perfected
You’re alive

There is so much more to write about
The illusion of your great poetry

Flows in the words of a song
Her truth

Hands seem to be saying
Go on, you have more to say

Each beautiful child you bare, a nestling baby,
one son, one daughter

Pitcher of life so full now
She needs to go on

Life moves on with you in it
like a flower growing towards the sun

Stretches and moves forth
From the sweet days that have passed

The moon has something to be sad about
Staring at you now

She is not used to this emptiness
She moves forward and keeps writing

Dianna Sauder

* * * * *

NOTE: All poems have been posted with e-mail permission from their authors.