Peer Review

Alyssa: "She who taught me" was an emotional piece and those are difficult to stay on task with. You do it well here. It was relatively short and descriptive in the sense a graphic novel would be, good job on the prompt. The next one, "La rad's stickers" is from what looks like the journal of a small child. Personally, I wasn't a big fan of this style, it looks too much like that journal entry. Even though the prompt asks for a child's perspective, I think we can still perform at a high level.

Chelsee: "Faith" A strength for this one was conveying your tone and emotion to the reader. Though, the writing was a bit off, nothing a quick read through wouldn't have fixed for you. "The redneck" this post reflects your desire to own a big ol' truck. Again, I'm sure I've mentioned it before, I feel all of out blog posts are too short to really be considered a story. For example, I think digging a bit into your experience of meeting your biological dad would have been more intriguing than just your love of trucks.

Leena: "Lost But Not..." You breeze by a potentially great story. Had you gone in depth with this post I feel it could have been really good. It's like reading a synopsis to a movie, it's a bit frustrating. Prompt 52, I said the same thing to Alyssa, even though the prompt asks for a child's perspective, I feel we can still write at a high level. It was like reading a journal entry from a small child, and we can improve from that.

Prompt 52: The Only Logical Conclusion

I remember my first time. Like any other day after school, I walked home in the 94 degree fall day and fell flat on the couch at home. I picked up the remote and went straight to UPN 45, we didn't have the luxury of cable. I looked at the rounded screen and thought, what's this? This isn't Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century?! Well, eleven year old version of myself, this is your exciting, almost sad future. Welcome to the world of Pokemon!

I'm sure it was meant to be a phenomenon, just like Pogs and the Dreamcast. Pokemon was not supposed to be the evolving anomaly it has become.

You will come to know it well. You'll watch this first episode of the series, bring yourself to tears over the main character's love of his creature, and you be the first in this subculture. Once the episode is over, you rushed to clock in the living room to make sure you knew the time for tomorrow's show. Three o'clock, that means the show comes on at two thirty. How did they pronounce the name? Pokeymon? Pokemon, that was it! Wait until everybody at school hears about this!

Of course today, not a soul needs an introduction to these little guys, these pocket monsters. They have constituted something like twenty video games, numerous tv series, and of course, one really good movie. Pokemon the First Movie will inevitably stand the test of time. A few months ago I sat with two good friends, in the middle of a party, and watched the entirety of the movie. We laughed, we cried, we hugged, we marveled at the philosophic values of Mewtwo; damn it, we lived.

The next day you practically ran to school, with the desire to greet everyone with the good news, Pokemon was here! You sat on the steps an the edge of the playground, kicking your feet that were dangling under you in anticipation. You need to talk to someone, anyone!

Today, there are two kinds of Pokemon fans. You have the new version, the kind with the three-hundred some odd Pokemon with their "Black" and "Diamond" abominations of games. Then you have people like me, people who live by "Red" version and will swear by Pokemon Stadium. To me, there are only one-hundred fifty Pokemon, as there are only twelve months in the year.

Is that Ryan? It most certainly is. You're going to tell him all about this show you just saw, only to learn that he, too, watched it yesterday. This is called the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Peer Review

Alyssa: Prompt 45 was very personal and whenever you write such a revealing piece, voice inevitably comes out. You have two speakers in this prompt, there was you over a year ago who seemed like the scope of the project was overcoming your excitement. Then there was you now who was clear minded and both relieved and excited. Both of the voices were excellent. "graophics" was a good opinion piece without knowing too much about the subject matter. Your stance was clearly stated and backed up with examples, your thought that graphic comics may be a better medium was intriguing. Good good.

Chelsee: "Sparky" Your prompt reminds me why I love people so much, aren't they just peachy? In any case, you do a swell job of changing the tone in the piece. First, it's about how your job has seeped into your normal life, then it morphs into the injustices of working. Well played.. " Graphic Novels vs. Comics" You defended your stance well, that you would enjoy to read graphic novels more. Through your argument, I believe you may have leaned towards the graphic novel being an swell medium for literature. Bueano.

Leena: 'Prompt 45' This piece here definitely conveys the monotonous tone you were going for. Your voice is there and I didn't spot any errors. I liked the line "monotonous Hell" that be it. The next prompt, 49, you clearly state your position of graphic novels as a medium for writing, and that issue is a big 'negative ghostrider' for you. That said, your voice was jolly and structure was swell.
Vaya con dios.

Prompt 50: Graphic Santa Comic

Prompt 49: The New Face of Zero and One

Is a graphic novel an effective medium for memoir writing? Being a young individual, I am growing up in a time when graphic novels are strongly being considered, and by some already admitted, for entry into the literary canon. Now, whether or not the canon actually represents all of true literature is another prompt, but the fact that recognition is being given sheds light on the question. Yes, a graphic novel is an effective medium for memoir writing.

The written word is unlimited through imagination and art is only limited by creation, the two will inevitably mix. Only one question remains, can the combination by any good? As a class we've read five comics, each with their own quirks and lines. I would say all four comics were successful in translating their words into art.

The comics have been strong in dialog, in the inner-thinkings of the people we've met through them. The comics have captured our interest, our emotions, even. Think "Sub Zero" and "“Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person". These two comics earned what any short story could give you through plot. In "Blankets" Craig Thompson's art direction gave the reader an intense description simply by staring at the page.

Yes, by every stretch of the imagination the graphic novel should be considered an effective format for memoir writing. Because, hell, people are too busy to read descriptions, why not show them. Winky Face.

Prompt 45: Adventures in Solitude

The rack of clothing in the dressing room is crammed with thin material that can hardly be called shirts. Customers walk by, fling their poorly chosen clothes onto the metal bar and walk back out to the floor of the store. Within an hour of opening, the dressing room is utter chaos. The entrance is only big enough for one worker, so she struggles to organize the clothing. Customers moving, walkie talkers blasting and employees scrambling to find go-backs for their section: the dressing room.

My movements in the morning hours were stealthy. I would pick up fallen clothes, fold wrinkly displays and secure any loose hangers without being seen. It was quite possible that I was the most productive worker on the floor but, like Batman, my good deeds went unnoticed. Customers were not ignored despite my penchant for silent production. The vast majority of the time, my friendly greeting would be shrugged off. "How are you this morning, do you need any help with anything today?" I would say with a smile made of gold. "No, I'm just.. no thanks." At least this response was audible.

Once in a while I would find a normal person for a customer and almost forget how to act in a social situation. "Let me ask you a question; what is your favorite song for this day?" She asked. "Dresses are loca - wait." Flabbergasting. Some of my fellow employees were quite unique as well. Case and point, my first manager. She was tall with long brown hair and always wore heels, which was strange because retail doesn't allow much time to sit. Her voice was breathy, yet still boisterous. I never quite caught her name the first few days, I could have sworn I heard people call her Nick. A bit different, I thought. Then, I overheard my fellow employees refer to her as him. Curious. It was about this time I noticed she had an Adams apple. She, or rather he, really just had a knack for cross dressing. Well-played, Nickolaus, well-played.

Even though I was surrounded by these interesting people, I found it was best to play Walter Mitty. With my arms full of go-backs I would briskly walk around in the sections with a soccer ball at my feet and a stadium of fans cheering my ever move. "Here comes Riddle down the right side, step over, step over, a burst of speed! Genius! Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta! GOAAALLLL!" The crowd loves me! My co-workers don't even notice because they're in their own world, just like me.

Peer Review

Alyssa: Prompt 42 - Very short, and a side effect of shortness is being conciseness. This felt like a carpe diem piece, the "monotony" of everyday life that can slap the apathy out of you. Your next piece, "Unjustified eating" is, more or less, another statement story about the extremes of eating. The style, while contrasting the two, is nonchalant. That seems to be your overall style, to me at least, the sort of breathless tone.

Chelsee: Your first piece, "Hurt" describes the melancholy atmosphere of a funeral. Unfortunately, we've all been there and felt what you wrote. The style coincides nicely with the story and the language was appropriate. "Autism Awareness Month" was a good piece about the treatment of those with autism. I feel your disdain for those who treat others so poorly. I liked your story.

Leena: "Sleep Walkers" I see what you did there with the large font. I'm assuming this was based on a night before a test or finals. If so, that seems about right. The style was right for tireless activity. Your next one, "Unjustified Revenge" aptly fits the oxymoronic title. People are fun, aren't they? I thought this was a good story, it kept the reader interested and didn't veer off course. Even though it was, what I assume to be, an emotional piece for you to write, you managed to remain within yourself.

Prompt 42: First World Problems

The prompt asks for inhumane situations we've personally experienced. I've not really seen any injustices to that extent, so bear with me.

Living in the United States is indisputably great. This country is not ran by drug cartels, it is not confined to the whimbs of a dictator, nor can it be ignored in a humanitarian disaster. Plumbing, elections, free speech, Taco Bell, winning, in sum: America. Let me reacquaint to you some of this countries problems; Republicans and Democrats won't agree on how to count to three without shutting down the country, the middle class is gone, major companies are receiving mind-boggling bailouts, BP just announced their safest year to date, and education is not a priority.

Now let me reacquaint you to some of the problems that humanity faces, genocide, genocide, genocide, for God's sake we have groups labeling themselves "Anti-Genocide". We have nuclear weapons that are missing. Our ozone is disappearing, the rain forests are being destroyed and the NFL has yet to agree on a labor deal. Such injustice in the world.

Many in this first world country choose to acknowledge these facts, many of those many say will say "Oh, my God, that's horrible." And then they'll go on eating their dinners (Hotel Rwanda). Who's to blame them, us? We have a hard time remembering to take the trash out on a Thursday. Injustices to the average American are wonderful things. Many mornings, people wake up and realize that their showers are a bit too cold, or that the hot water fogs up their mirrors. Occasionally trouble is had when locating a missing sock, which to be fair is a terrible thing. Early this month, a fellow American was complaining that he received everything he asked for for Christmas and now doesn't have anything to ask for during his birthday.

Yes, America is a wonderful and exciting place that may or may not be evolving into "Idiocracy".

Prompt 42: Tired edition

Here's Trent, a seemingly innocent young adult. He is mild mannered and respects those around him. Like all of us, he has his little kinks. Trent is a smoker, a notoriously bad dresser and uses poor grammar on Facebook. Emily, on the the other hand, is quite the rambunctious young woman. She has the personality of a fluffy puppy and looks like she raided a closet from the 80's. These two have occasionally dated, though more for fun rather than true love. Today they choose to be friends, for today comic artist from New York are signing merchandise at JJ's Comics.

The crowd is full of Trents and Emilys. Some are tall, some are hilariously short, some are too old to be wearing a bikini in public. Comic book enthusiasts are a rare breed, yet so diverse that a single stereotype cannot cover them. While wondering the small store, some fans repel contact like two negatively charged magnets. Others, like Emily, create a spotlight and works the crowed store.

The tables set up for today house the creators of three different comics. One table looks crisp, the comics are stacked properly and the creators are wearing business suits, definitely doing so ironically. Another table is covered in pizza boxes and coffee mugs, somewhere in the mess is a stack of comic books. The writers for this table are proud owners of colorful tattoo sleeves and talk up storms even with those reclusive people. The last table is tame in comparison to the others. A few comics misplaced here and there, two sodas sitting on the end and the creators just seem like normal folk.

Sadly, the day concludes without any commotion. The crowd seemed rather sleepy after building themselves up for such an amazing day.

Peer Review

Alyssa: Denim Expert: Prompt 34 - Despite the prompt being about fabric in clothing, my face did not glaze over while reading, it was actually enjoyable. You introduced the subject, then allowed your neighbor to carry the story from there. The paragraphs of your personal thoughts on the matter tied everything in nicely. Your next story was very sweet and nicely done. The tone was very personal throughout the piece and casts your siblings in an extremely positive light. The last paragraph, about a bit of personal exploration, made a great impact creating a sense of individualism without negating any of your "idols".

Chelsee: "hard core wrapper" - I found this piece very entertaining, mostly because you are so committed to the perfect wrap while I normally put a gift in a bag and call it a day. The style was smooth and flowed well. I felt your voice came through with the excitement the piece conveyed. "The President" This was nicely done and, like our reading about Rudolph, managed to remain apolitical throughout the writing. Your voice and personality come through with this prompt and really adds to the prompt.

Leena: Did not complete assignments.

Prompt 37: Tear down this lie

American culture loves it's heroes; John Henry pulled an early victory out against machines, Benjamin Franklin damn near built this whole country while in France and Nicola Tesla made Thomas Edison famous! Though, America tends to twist historic identities through time. Take Christopher Columbus, in 1492 he sailed the ocean blue and discovered this great country. Except for the fact he never set foot in the future country and wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. Another example is George Washington, remember learning about the cherry tree? He chopped it down, but young Washington was so virtuous he could not tell a lie. This is also a fabricated story, besides I'm not sure the inability to lie would be very resourceful while in war.

These examples are forgivable, after all, America was so young that the people needed icons to cling on to. Heading into the twentieth century, America had a strong base of heroes. One could say enough to fill a mountain. Surely today, with our Old Hickorys and Great Emancipators, America can finally stop constructing fake identities.

Enter Ronald Reagan. The man who, alongside Rocky IV, defeated the Evil Empire and was overall simply awesome. How could Ronald Reagan's history possibly be tampered with? The vast majority of the population could very well have had voted for the man, they would remember what they voted for. That's mostly true, though it seems FOX news is taking liberties with the 40th President.

To them, Ronald Reagan stands for every Conservative ideology. He beat the communists, he's anti-socialism, given the chance he could have taken Bin Laden out with nothing more than a stick of gum, a toothpick and a pair of wool socks. Seemingly every time a tax raise is mentioned today, it's mentioned how Reagan would never allow tax breaks to expire. However, it's just not possible to run this country without taxes, as Reagan found out. (CNN, not my cup of tea, either.) Reagan is becoming a mascot for FOX and is used to benefit their opinions.

I remain hopeful that Reagan will be remembered for what he was, not what a cable network station wants him to be. Come on, history, win one for the Gipper.

I'd love to post videos, but I only have 15 minutes to find one. So here's Zombie Reagan on The Onion


Zombie Reagan Raised From Grave To Lead GOP

Prompt 34: Guest Staring, Richard!

I sat down with fellow college student and resident television expert Richard Sandoval in his family room where, through the vast majority of his life, he has compiled the expert mark of ten-thousand hours, watching television. "You know, I didn't really think I've spent that long watching television," He says, considering taking his eyes off the screen, "but I guess it all adds up." Indeed. Richard isn't a stumpy couch potato that most would accuse an expert of watching television of being. Instead, he is a lean young man with a metabolism that works overtime, all the time. "Probably what I've watched the most is stuff like Dragon Ball Z, or just playing video games."

Richard's questionable lifetime achievement is not without purpose, however. "It's probably a good thing I'm going to school to be in the movie making business. I consider my television watching," he says with an air of professionalism, "a lifetime of study to my art." I questioned his parents about his achievement; I was met with a swat on my head with a newspaper and an incoherent rambling with something to do about Republicans. I came to the conclusion that they were absolutely thrilled with the life he has chosen.

I asked how he came to be so proficient at his delicate art. "I'd say half the time is watching the channel because I've lost the remote. The other half was probably waiting for Goku to turn Supersayan." Most people would be afraid at the prospect of spending well over a year perfecting one task, time being the most precious commodity and all. They would argue that lives must be lived and laughter be shared. Richard agrees with his critics, though with an M. Night Shyamalan (Pre-Village) twist. "I lived my life in between episodes of Phineas and Ferb. Actually, life is something that just gets in the way. Kinda like someone who's obsessed with World of Warcraft." World of Warcraft is a MMORPG, massively multiplayer online role-playing game, that has spawned a cultural phenomenon in the last decade. Though, Richard wouldn't want to be associated with that group. "No, man. They're fat virgins who think it's cool to live in a digital world." I remind Richard that his vision of World of Warcraft players are the mold that other people see him in. "Yeah, but.. but," A delayed thought, and his head turns slightly upwards to the left, "Damn."

The discernible difference between Richard and the couch potato's of the world - or just the Western World, really - is that Richard believes he can harness his knowledge and use it to entertain the masses. "So that they too, may one day be an expert t.v. watcher like me!"

Peer Review: Group Four

Alyssa: I liked your first person prompt, it seems like this happened fairly recently because we weren't given a concrete conclusion. For your third person prompt, it wasn't written in the third person narrative. It was done literary in the third person which, I suppose, still counts. While the first person prompt was a bit withdrawn - exact to your character - the, um, third person prompt was more head strong. Prompt 33 had a feeling of chaos and disorganization. Just the feeling, however, structurally everything was sound. That may have been something interesting, using different sentence structure to convey a sense of disorientation. Though, your style of flowing chaos worked well.

Chelsee: First Person Prompt - I know that patient role very, very well, so I'm aware of the atmosphere you convey. I wanted to be amused, because I can find almost anything amusing, but as the story unfolded I found I was fearing the needle almost as much as you! Your voice seeped through well and the story was better for it. Third Person Prompt - I find it interesting how all of our third person stories are shorter and much less developed than the first person point of view. I'm not picking on you, we could all do a better job of creating depth in the story. Though for the shot prompts that have been submitted, yours is again done well.

Leena: Same as I commented with Chelsee, your first person post is much more insightful than your third person. The first person provides that sense of longing, that desire to be popular. The third person post takes the side of the "popular" kids. They view you as an outsider, someone who simply cannot fit in. I've seen in all of our third person posts, that we use the third person as a way to make sense of the first person perspective. Little reasons why the others react the way they do. In this case, you could not be popular because you were different. For prompt 33, your voice is established early is with clear disdain for changing in locker rooms. Another observation, which all of us commit, is that our writings are really too short to really clarify any of our ideas. Instead of writing these short stories that we've been doing in class, we have points of ideas we try to get across in a few paragraphs at most. But I digress, "Magic Moments" creates the uncomfortable vibe we all felt that first time changing in a locker room.

Uncomfortable Serenity.

Cold concrete walls. A jagged warped gate. Weeds grown higher than my waist. Cigarette buds littering the ground. Yes, yes this will do nicely. I have come to own this inhospitable landscape, and I have since called it - my backyard. Perhaps one day I will cleanse this land and those who pilgrim to my land will be joyous. Alas they claim to be content now, as the party pilgrims are nourished with liquid mana. Though I fear their love of the nectar has clouded their judgement. Still, look at them with their sparkling smiles and ecstatic eyes. Perhaps the landscape does not affect their affection, after all. Maybe the memories that have been composed in my backyard are what attracts them? Yes, the delighted atmosphere is indeed due to the jovial spirits, not my poorly maintained land.

Isn't it queer, then, that there seems to exist a hole of misery? Anyone who feels it becomes frightened that their happiness will be stolen, never to be felt again. Ah yes, we all know the perpetrator. Jamie. She has a habit of making things, uncomfortable. Let's just avoid her and see where it goes. Maybe I'll just look over here and - nope! I've been spotted! "Oh, hi Jamie" and an apprehensive hug to you, too. "Why isn't your boyfriend here?" My God, I engaged her in conversation. What have I done? "I don't know where My boyfriend is. He should be here." Oh, what's that? You're going to keep talking to me even though I've clearly zoned out? I understand, you're needy. No, no, no, keep going, I'm good at nodding. Hand motions are being used now, a point is clearly trying to be made across. Can somebody help me? Yeah, you with the glasses and pirate hair, say something witty so I can escape. Or keep smoking, it's cool.

Help. Me. Please. Oh thank god, it's boyfriend! Now I can go socialize with the - "Where have you been?" She's causing a scene. Has she no self respect? "I was just out with Danny. I'm here now don't worry." Don't you take that tone with her! If she gets upset we all suffer. "Well I want to leave, now!" Oh hallelujah. "I want to play a game first." Has Star Trek taught you nothing? The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Don't you walk over to that table, boy! He did, we're done for. "I'm leaving, I want you to come with me." Everyone is watching you two. Stop it. "I want to hang out with my friends." It's cool, you can leave. "If you don't come with me now it's over." I saw past memories, and memories that have not yet come to pass, flash before my eyes. This was it. "Ok." What do we do? Let's just awkwardly stand here. Yes, that sounds ideal. "Ok?" You do not need to repeat it, just leave him here and we can be happy! Why are those tears? Go away and cry, just please not here. You'll find no sympathy with us. "Fine!" She's gone, she has been defeated! Let all exude out awkwardness, the time has passed!

Dual in the Desert

First Person

Despite our best efforts to live in the realm of sanity, we still choose to live in the heat of Phoenix. The only difference between day and night is that you can't tan as well during the night. Sweat still weighs down your shirt and odor lingers far after you leave. So when Sean and I came out of the outdoor racquetball court, we had a smell to make a skunk shudder. Though really, we were a bit proud of that. That smell is a distinction of a man and to a pair of new teenage boys, that was something to be proud of. I grabbed my water bottle sitting outside by the bleachers, only to realize it was empty. Nothing is worse than running out of water after a game of racquetball. Without much effort, I persuade Sean to walk to the water fountains a bit inside the complex. We talk and laugh about the games we just played with our racquet's in hand as we arrive at the drinking fountain. Sean points out a random guy walking about. We joke he's some crazy serial killer.

Sean and I continue to walk, talk and have a good time to the bike rack and unlock our bikes. The breeze feels like a hair dryer on our bikes. As we peddle down the road, I notice someone else on a bike about twenty yards behind me. Normally I wouldn't give it a second glance, but it is ten o'clock at night and we're the only ones at the park. I motion to Sean and we ignore the issue until we hear his voice. "Why you guys stealing my bike?!" I look at Sean, "Wait... What?" The man peddles closer. "Yeah, you! Why are you stealing my bike!?" I cannot stress this enough, he was riding a bike. Whatever the case, he was getting closer. Sean and I were nearing the end of the street where it cut-off into two different directions. I've gone both ways a number of nights, and each time there was a police officer a bit down the road on one of the sides. The man grabs his jacket and speaks into it saying, "I have the suspects in range. Stop! I was in the military and I'm making a citizens arrest!" I tell Sean to go one way, and I'll go the other. The squad car couldn't be more than fifty yards away in one direction.

Maybe not the brightest idea, but we split up. Sean rides left and I ride right. Of course, the insane man decides follows me. He keeps repeating the same phrase, "Stop, you stole my bike!" He manages to get very close to me, I could tell he was on drugs by his eyes. I look one last time, there was no cop on my side, and Sean wasn't riding up on his side. He then reaches into his jacket, I thought he might have a gun. At that image, I drop my bike and sprint towards on of the blue lights located all around the park. I desperately push the small red button until I hear, "911, what's your emergency?" I snap back, "There's a man chasing after me!!" The operator calmly asks, "Where are you at?" Where am I at, I thought? Shouldn't these blue lights have gps or something? In this emergency I yell, "A blue light! A blue light!" One more time the operator asks, "Which blue light are you at?" If I've ever had an official face-palm moment, this was it. What blue light am I at? "It's a particularly blue one!" Whatever, the man was now walking towards me. I didn't have to time rant at a little box. He yells at me, "Why did you steal my bike?" I yelled back at him, for good measure, "That's my bike!" "Is it?" He incredulously asks. "Yes!" Now I could see my friend Sean riding his bike my way next to a squad car. The man walks towards the officer, Sean and I just ride away.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Third Person

A typical summer night in the desert. Two boys walk out of a racquetball court soaking wet and ready to go home. Before the start their trip home, they walk to the drinking fountain to fill their water bottles. They're having a good time, doing what boys do. Mainly smelling and being obnoxious. Meanwhile a stocky art student it trudging along the park, doing his best impression of an escaped mental patient. He thinks his interpretation is successful, the two boys at the drinking fountain have noticed him. The artist turns his tape recorder on, he wants to capture the essence of his act for his fellow students.

He follows them from a distance at first, trying to maintain his patient mentality. The boys jump on their bicycles and ride off. Without thinking much - or rather thinking at all - he grabs his own bicycle.

The boys are clearly having a good time, although when the glance back at the man behind, their mood changes. The artist yells at them. They look passively at each other. Another yell from the artist. The boys split up at the fork in the road. The artist, now completely enveloped in his character, speaks into his jacket. The lone boy clearly thinks he is crazy. The artist is pleased, he has accomplished his goal. Now he just reaches into his jacket to turn off the recorder.

Minutes later the artist was trying to explain himself to the officer.

Peer Review: Group 4: Week Something.

Alyssa: For "Bill T. Jones" your voice still sounds starstruck just writing about it. The story flows very well and the story is very personalized to you. One problem, which is really only an unfortunate chance, is the name Bill T. Jones itself. Repeating the name sounds very redundant and distracted me from the writing, but that's only because on the staccato style of his name. Also, in the first paragraph you used renounced instead of renowned. Small tip for blogging, if you realize you made an error after publishing, you can go back and edit without it effecting the publishing date. I know prompt 25 was a serious piece, but I found myself laughing a bit. The person you're talking to is amusing to me. That said, it's smooth, a bit enthralling and, ironically enough, the point is clear. Prompt 27 - I think creating an opposing essay on your view would be fun to do. I feel when someone writes an opinion piece, it brings out the character in the writing more so than other topics. I believe there were a few grammatical errors in the first paragraph, a few commas and such, but nothing major.

Chelsea: Your grandpa sounds like he could secretly be Macgyver! I like how the piece worked around you and your Grandpa, leaving all other people - sans your parents for a quick drop off - out of the equation. I thought it gave a very personal and sincere atmosphere. For your next prompt, "Hey father..." I liked the story. It was more open than your previous post and therefore had a "wider" perspective. Sorry about the vagueness. From an outsider's point of view, I think your dad was just using the fact the boy is like a nephew as an excuse to take down a perspective interest. lol. Next up, "What is love?" again, like Alyssa's post, I think this would be another fun essay to write against. You seem very embedded in your belief, that much is clear. You almost get to the point of a rant, but never really come close as your points are intelligent and organized. I really enjoyed the emotion you delivered in this one.

Leena: Did not complete assignment.

Calm Persuasion: DON'T PANIC

If you're not familiar with the title, I present a cursory explanation: 42. Good, glad to have you all on board.
DON'T PANIC.
When a person attempts to read that phrase, a chain reaction occurs. First, the eyes fix onto the jumble of letters that are organized into "words". Then, with the proper level of education, our minds harmonize those words into loose meaning. Our brain, with syntaxes firing on all cylinders, then has a quick office meeting.

"What shall we do with these symbols?" The brain meta thinks to itself. "Is that a contraction? D-o-n. Don. Ok, great. Next item of business is that ghastly squiggly up on top there. An apostrophe, I do believe. Progress, good good. And that, judging by years of Sesame Street, is the letter T! Don't! Do not! Great! Do not.. Panic! Well, that sounds agreeable to me. Let's not panic today, shall we body?"
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is your brain in the context of one thousandth of a second. It would be a pity, in most cases, then to lose such a wonderful little device to the creatures that craves it. Zombies

Yes, many people will argue that zombies do not, and cannot exist. Once a person is incapacitated, they stay incapacitated. Of course, these people may very well be right. After all, when has a person died and come back to life who wasn't directly related to God? Hypothesize with me that the real life immortal, HeLa cell, jumps from a petri dish and contaminates a populated city. Humanity would be in a world of hurt. This is a "just in case" reminder as to why a human life is worth living.

One thing we living humans have going for us is the seven deadly sins! I mean, lust is just fun, and sloth is always up for a lazy day. Gluttony and greed? Hell yeah, sign me up for a round trip of that. If you were to become a mindless insentient being, who would watch TMZ all day and where would Ralph Nader get his votes from? Something else, that at least I would sorely miss, is my incredibly comfortable wardrobe. If I were to become zombified, how could I possibly enjoy the coziness of my bathrobe, or my Nike high tops that contains the tears and sweat of small child laborers? Zombies cannot help facilitate those labor camps, zombies cannot even give Charlie Sheen more attention. All they do is look for what makes them happy, without hurting their own kind.

You know, maybe these zombies are on to something...

Dialogue: What's your name again?

An actual conversation

“There came a time in our lives - around the age of eight - when we chose the paths we would travel. Some chose the fiery route, claiming rage over other senses. Some picked the serene water path, resulting in tranquility of mind. Others claimed the natural green life, giving the great gift of philosophy.”

“Dude, our childhood was Pokemon, not some monologue from Zelda.”

“Thee doth protest too much, methinks.”

“No! You’re not allowed to quote Hamlet! It’s part of Godwin’s law, I’m pretty sure.”

“I see you chose Charmander, didn’t you?”

“Duh, all the cool kids picked Charmander”

“If I chose Bulbasaur, Oak’s grandson would choose Charmander. Would that make him cool?”

“No, because Gary is a douche no matter what.”

“So picking Charmander wouldn’t make a kid automatically cool?”

“It may give him some cool points, but he doesn’t get in that easy. If he named his character Red, he was automatically out, for example. Gary‘s a computer anyway and doesn‘t count. Now what really separated us, at age eight, was the color of game you played. Red versus Blue, the Crips and Bloods of elementary school.”

“What was different between the two games”

“Are you kidding me?! Everything! The screen hue was different, there were different Pokemon to capture, and I swear to you the dialogue was a bit different.”

"So between the version and Pokemon, what was your favorite combination?"

"Red, Charmander. You?"

"Red, Bulbasaur. Blue version pretty much sucked all around."

"Here, here!"

Prompt 22: Nerdgasm

“So,” I begin with a hint of mockery, “what’s a night like playing Dungeons and Dragons?” His eyes light up like a child talking to Santa, pausing his new Capcom versus Marvel 3, “Fantastical.” His expressions gives way to interest in the game, “Kinda like when our whole group hangs out. Except with a dungeon master and mildly expensive vodka.” Scotty H. everybody. I nonchalantly comment, “So it’s just the epitome of classy” Nodding his head in agreement, “Yeah man, pretty much.”

Between games of his character Phoenix utterly dominating my ass, I poke further into his world. “Like, is there some kind of super nerd ceremony to start the night?” “Not really.” He takes a moment before selecting Wolverine, “Well, there is this one thing.” He fingers his long curly pirate hair behind his ear and smirks a bit, “When we get the game and everything set up, we all stand and say the name of our character, then down a shot of vodka.” He gets up to demonstrate for me, “Like I would say, ‘Zell the Stalker Shaman!’” Scott held his arm out in a salute, “and drink some of that happy juice.” On the same beat I ask “Semen?” His face turns into a sarcastic sour smile, “Oh yeah semen bro, gotta have my semen.”

“You’re probably gonna ask what we do next, since you’re an asshole like that.” He says with an expressionless gaze. With a shrug and quick giggle I reply, “Well, yeah…” Throughout our conversation, Scott gives his responses as an afterthought. Only perking up when something unusually nerdy slips out. Normally giving a description of D&D would result in a plethora of awkward moments for the listener. Fortunately, I name my blog for a reference to an 80’s movie, so it flows fairly smoothly. “What I’m trying to tell you,” A look of fake enlightenment flashes on his face, “is because I play Dungeons and Dragons, I’m like trendier than you.” Which is probably true. Scott was a hipster before they were trendy. He scoffed at mainstream bands long before they had evolved from their emo phase. Looking at him with his little vest and dick-ish glasses, I reply.

“You're just more cultural than I am."
"Girl, I know it." Scott.

New Group 4 Review

Alyssa - Your first post was very intimate, and through the intimacy voice was established very well. You told a good story while not being overly dramatic. Because it read so personal, I felt like a certain depth in the story was achieved. I loved the photo of Ashbury Williams at the end, it was very redditor of you. In prompt 21, I'm fairly curious how a night on Mill is an escape from the masses. Anywho, the description was good, and the scene was alive. The only problem I had was the beginning of the final paragraphs, "Before you know it," and "Next thing I know," it could be the case that you're trying to finish the essays before midnight, I know that happens to me every week, but I think your story would benefit from a bit more expansive transitions.

Chelsee - "There is no better perfume..." Your description of the first job we all had well. You set a bit of a conflict in the beginning and set to find a solution during the body. It was down to Earth and the story flowed smoothly. "Here you are..." You continued with the same theme, and the post started to evolve into a journal entry near the end. That's not a bad thing at all, it strongly brought out your opinion. Writing about such a strongly opinioned piece is a fine line to walk before it transgresses into a rant. You walked it nicely and stayed in the realm of sanity, thank you.

Leena - Firstly, I didn't think Leena would be recognized as a word, but here it is. I digress, I know the situation of your first post well, being in almost the exact same situation growing up. That gives me a little more insight and connection to your story. Opening up in a story like that almost seems to guarantee a voice for the writer, unless the story is written terribly. I'm not saying this to poke at your essay, but just as a note in general. Your story was given life with the care you presented for your family. "NAU Lecture Hall" I enjoyed the description to open to story, it added another dimension for the story itself. The post progressed well into a fun description of the lecturer and the building. While your second post met the proper length standards, your first post was one paragraph short of requirements. (I think, I could be horribly, horribly wrong)

Observer: Lines of Sanity

On the morning of January 8th, I was visiting my girlfriend in Tucson. I woke up to the sounds of sirens. Under a mile away, an insane individual had fired bullets towards Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords. Christina Taylor Green, John McCarthy, Gabe Zimmerman, Phyllis Schneck, Dorwann Stoddard, and Dorothy Morris all became collateral damage to the shooter. The following hours, news stations would continually update the nation about Gabrielle Giffords condition. The following days, every news station - so it seemed - tried to place the shooter in the opposing party. "Look at his Myspace, he is so obviously influenced by Liberal ideologies!" or "He was inspired by that Conservative map with the cross hairs!" While in Tucson, the people were fed up with this talk and wanted it behind them.

The group walked out from the cafeteria, "Holy sh... There's so many people!" Today President Obama is addressing the nation in Tucson, to help the community cope. Local news stations reported the stadium wouldn't fill up, that the empty seats should be noticeable on television. They were apparently thinking of the other President that's giving a speech in Tucson. The streets were absolutely swarming with people wandering around in a globular cluster claiming to be a line. "Let's just find some sort of an end and see what happens" The group found the end, about a half mile away. Shuffling towards the back of the line, conversations are picked up by those waiting. Most people are talking about what they expect of the speech, or the current political climate in the country. Though, an unhealthy amount of people aren't able to say who Joe Biden is (Fact). Stopping just short of a shady tree, yes somehow the weather is hot in January, the group takes their seat and begins to wait among the crowd.

"They've been saying this speech is suppose to mark his re-election campaign." "I don't really see it that way, I mean, would this really be an appropriate time for sound bites?" "What I want to know is, why are there so many people walking to the front of the line?!" She had a point. Among the crowd, a dramatic shift was seen in direction. Most people are skipping the line and going straight to the entrance. After a brief discussion about ethics, and a long period of laughter, the group sharpens their elbows and goes to deal with the crowd. "Why didn't the city try and actually set up the event?" The voice could barely be heard over the crowd, "Because it's Tucson, Sara, because it's Tucson!" "Oh yeah..."

The entrance is a complete disaster. A gate is set up in front, where two giant lines going opposite directions converge at this one point, resulting in a massive blob of people. Every tiny movement forward makes the crowd more compact. There's no where to go. A sense of uncertainty came over the shorter part of the group, and even the bigger ones. The mass inched little by little, then a large gap opened up in the front. The entire crowd pushed and shoved to get ahead, creating a small stampede that wound up being the worlds largest moshpit. If anyone were to trip, they would be in a world of hurt. Now, everyone is looking worried. They can't stop the ten thousand people behind them. Why aren't they opening the gates? Twenty minutes of invading private spaces later, the gates finally open. It's like popping a balloon, all of the pressure is expelled and people walk freely to the security checkpoints.

Exhausted from the hours of sun bathing, the group makes one last journey to the seats. Everyone has a half discussion about seeing the President, trying to re-orientate themselves, though in the end, fatigue wins out. The group plops down and naps for the next half hour, still waiting for the speech.

Peer Review: Group Two: Week VI

Katie Arrivas -
Strengths: "Bad Brains" Having been to quite a few concerts, I know exactly that feeling. Though I've never exactly been the youngest demographic, so that was fun to read about. I thought you conveyed the events and tone smoothly in your writing. I thought you gave "the punks" strong characteristics that made them unique in your story. "All-American" strengths: Onomonopia! You brought us a scene that we all know very well and you described it beautifully. Short and sweet and ketchupy. A very good overview of an All-American eats.
Weaknesses: The only problem I had was Andrew randomly finding his way into the story, I was under the impression it was only two of you. If I misread it, I'm terribly sorry.

Kimberly Thomas-
Strengths: Your post, "Wild Ride", brought an excellent voice and atmosphere in the writing. The rainy and foggy scene brought a calming element to me, and slowly the danger mounted. The ending was very well played out, if a bit short compared to the build up. Your grammar and sentence structure were both very well done. For "An Ethnic Melody" I never considered the origins of Buffalo Wings, though I was always a bit curious. Thanks to you, I now know! You set the table great in the introduction, and th culture salivated from the writing. The food tied in nicely to the culture. Again, your grammar and structure was exceptional.
Weaknesses: I feel like a failure to constantly come up short of weaknesses, but that's probably a good thing.

Nicola Simmons - Did not complete in time.

Witness: The Final Countdown

My grip was slipping with sweat. My eyes were straining to see the track. One more lap. One more lap to endure. One more lap to prove myself. I hear the cries of engines behind, waiting for their moment.

I trained for this moment the entire summer. Countless hours spent at the track, honing my skill. To me, this race was a passage entering adulthood. I was tired of being looked down on because of age. I needed to be considered equal. Winning this race would prove to everyone I belonged. One more lap.

The cries of engines become howls. They were right behind me. "Come on, come on" I mouthed. The summer of experience told me Yoshi was tiring. The green dinosaur and I had been through too much to lose the Special Cup on the final lap. We had frozen in the icy tundra of Sherbet Island; traveled through the sands of the Kalimari Desert, and finished first against the evil spirits in Bowser's Castle. This was my time, and no mushroom head Toad was going to take it from me. One more lap. However, there was a problem. Toad was controlled by my sister. She and Toad were the Yin to my Yang, my Pokemon Red to Pokemon Blue. If I were going to prove myself, it would be through her. One more lap.

The colorful track of Rainbow Road became an epileptic blur. Toad and the others ready to pass. I made my choice. Entering the large jump, I turned left hard, and hopped over the rails. The next few moments seemed to linger forever as I watched Yoshi free fall into nothingness. Then Yoshi landed. I had never experienced such bliss, I was halfway through the lap with the others far behind. Though, nothing worth having comes easy. My sister inconceivably made the jump. We were neck and neck for the remainder of the course. Trading bandannas and green shells.

The finish line was in sight. The mystery boxes past us, this was a battle of will. What happened next was unimaginable. I inch ahead ready to take the glory. I was ready to burst with ecstasy. Then my sister pauses the race, and quits the game. My hearted stopped. She claimed I cheated on the second lap when I stole her mushrooms with a ghost. With my childhood still intact, I walked away knowing I had it in me.

Cultural Tastes: The Joy of Eating

Let's make a little mountain here. Let's take some black, some blue and a little bit of crimson. Let's say that mountain lives right here.

Five in the morning. Mom needs about fifteen minutes to get ready before we set off. The house has a drowsy feeling. Like everything is covered in a gentle mist, just happily laying on the furniture, not trying to make too much of an impression. Quite possibly my favorite moment of the morning. While I wait, I peel an orange. I let the citrus vapor find it's way onto my face. Enjoying the calming sensation I settle on the couch with a calm man, well into a painting. This is the world of Bob Ross eats.

We like things that are happy here.

Culturally, Bob Ross is a small phenomenon. Not immensely popular during his time, he has captivated later generations with a voice that leaves Morgan Freeman jealous. My time with him was always a special little time, and always seem to be accompanied with certain foods. Happy little foods find their way onto my plate. Oranges are more often than not the focal point in the meal. Just ever so gently finding their way among the patches of grapes and lake of cereal, both minding their own business. It's a happy little breakfast. Now and then, sometimes a change in direction is nice. Just ever so slightly, maybe some cranberry juice finds it's way into a cup. Who doesn't like new juice every once in a while?

Let's take a little halo blue, a little bit of crimson, and we'll just put a little bit of color right here. Just basically blend it into a bit of nothing.

His afro and anecdotes about fury little animals only add to his aura that has increased through decades. Listening to the story about a small squirrel Bob's assistance is mending, I keep eating. A small dash of milk mixed with a generous amount of cereal; sometimes the most accidental spoonfuls can be the best. I let my little fingers meander down towards the purple grapes. It doesn't matter which I choose, they all look so happy. I settle for a modest grape. Not too large, not too flashy. Just a nice little grape, not looking for any trouble. Off in the distance, I hear signs my mom is close to ready. That's all right. I'll enjoy what time I have left.

Now, let's give this guy a friend.

The episodes last for an entire painting, a convenient time frame of fifteen minutes or so. I have a few moments with the painter until my mom is ready, no rush. I switch around from using my spoon to drink the leftover milk and lifting the bowl. Whichever I feel for the new morning. Whichever I feel. I left one happy little orange slice for the last bite. Sometimes I like to have a fun aftertaste, just a bit of citrus vapor I started my day with. I finish my small breakfast, nothing special, just another variety of food in this happy little culture. Now I can begin my day.

Happy painting, and God bless my friend.

Peer Review: Group Two: I Missed a Week Somewhere: Week 5

Katie Arrivas: "A Trip [Not Taken] to My Homeland" I learned something reading this - the seating chart deity is not monotheistic as I previously imagined. In the third paragraph you start with, "I stepped off" and start the next sentence the same way. I'm not sure if this was an accident, but I know a lot of writers try and create a theme with repeating the start of sentences. I feel if you kept that up a little longer, a sub-theme in the paragraph could have been established. (Disregard that if it doesn't make sense) For "A Monsoon" I definitely enjoyed the examples of alliteration. "sloshed and slammed" and a few others. Alliterations are my favorite. For the essay, I enjoyed the atmosphere, we've all been there on the monsoon and you captured it nicely.

Kimberely Thomas: "Prompt 11: 'una donna del patrimonio Siciliano'" First, I loved the description of Siracusa, likening it to a bastard child between two American cities. That allowed even more of your voice to be brought out. Also your variety of sentence structure was very well done. As a reader, I was never lulled into a monotonous trance, but always left enthralled. Sometimes when I re-read my prompts, I like to read the first sentence of each paragraph. That gives me a real sense of the tone and voice of the story. Your prompt works perfectly for this. "Foregrounding Place – 'The Pilgrimage'" You nail the prompt. The descriptions were phenomenal. I've always known and have read about the Japanese prisons, but this groups has really put a face on history for me.

Nicola Simmons: I enjoyed both posts very much. Of course you already know the problem. I'm sure if you had the time, you could have elaborated on the story much more. But sometimes time isn't our best friend.

Writing Prompt 13: The Show That Never Ends

In the desert's summer, heat doesn't abide by the rules of night. Veiled behind a promise of relief from intolerable temperatures, is yet another level of Dante's Hell. Beads of sweat laced with the scent of sunscreen remain instilled in the air, shirts are still cemented to perspiring bodies, and the insufferable sound of flip-flops flopping continue resonating in the dusty atmosphere. Even the purple mountains appear to sag during the brief darkness of summer months. Surviving night in "The Lovin' Spoonfull's" summer is an evolutionary trait acquired only by the cold-blooded residents of Phoenix, Arizona. Some flock to the sizzling swimming pools. Others prefer to protect their homes from the heat like the zombie apocalypse, god forbid you open their front door. I prefer a less drastic route, Diamondbacks baseball.

The crack of the bat is timeless - though maybe serendipitous with the Diamondbacks - and the smell of freshly cut grass is mesmerizing. Munching on peanuts and crackerjacks, enjoying the cool air the stadium has to offer, keeping score just like fans of fifty years ago did. "Root root root for the home team" and all that good stuff. That's fine for the old couple sitting a few rows behind us. But damn it, I'm a fan and I love it. Each Diamondback base hit is treated like VE Day, and each run we score is praised like the second coming of Jesus. Ok, maybe not quite that much celebration. We do have dignity unlike some Red Sox fans I know of.

Baseball is the perfect retreat from the smoldering night. Sitting alongside friends in the cheapest cheap seats possible. We watch the game, of course, but what comes more naturally is the conversations. Some pertain the baseball, but most sound like they belong in a sitcom. "If Pokemon were real, which would one taste the best?" A voice replies, "I'm willing to bet Picachu. I mean you would feel horrible eating it because of the cuteness factor..." Or how awesome it would be to lifeguard at the pool in the stadium. Strangers glance at us with curious looks, half eavesdropping half having their own conversations. Once our seats are taken, we loose ourselves in the past-time.

On summer nights the roof and panels stay closed, protecting us from the inferno outside. Once that 27th out approaches, we find ourselves praying for extra innings. We know the heat is lurking, preparing for us to return. The Diamondbacks aren't exactly doing us any favors. At a record setting speed, they help the stadiums air conditioning by whiffing at-bat after at-bat. The game ends on a low note, and we leave the comfy confines into the big summer shadow.

A Trip Never Taken: In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida

Step One: Desire

Nature was always a gift I cherished. I lived for the fresh smell of autumn shaded forests. Or conquering mountains dotted by squat barrow cacti. If for no other reason than life; nature was captivating. Of course, with this love of nature came a need for exploration. Something new was needed, mankind has stepped on the moon, the least I could do was step outside Arizona.

Step Two: Discourse

"Why was this trip so important?" I was asked many times, friends and family were curious why this was so imperative. To those inquiring minds, California meant beaches, San Diego, Los Angeles, and the soul sucking attraction that is Disneyland. My wholly unsatisfactory explanations told them this trip was my pilgrimage, my Mecca. I literally had dreams of the Redwood Forest through my life. My thought process was if I don't go now, I may get boggled down with this "life" thing I kept hearing about.

For the first time, I had no idea what was next. Fifteen years of schooling was mercifully drawing to a close. Though during those years, I always had the next educational step planned out. Junior high, high school, and the expectation of college, these were safe, predictable choices. Now that step plateaued, leaving an exhilarating landscape for exploration. It was scary. The Redwoods, in my mind, marked the beginning of exploring that plateau.

Step Three: ???

Hour seven into my drive I was seriously questioning my pilgrimage. While it wasn't cold enough to snow, I was in desperate need of a heater. I was wearing three layers of shirts, a jacket, long-johns, and of course sandals. I love me some cold feet. Also the radio was broken, so I had to loop my only tape. Honestly, there's only so many times a man can listen to Pat Benatar before he's convinced the shadows of the night are stalking him. I assume I blacked out during hour nine. I can't remember the rest of the drive.

Step Four: Profit!

Finally I came to, recognized my surroundings as a hotel, located a map and set off. An easy twenty minutes later I spotted a pre-historic sized tree. Then suddenly, as if playing a magical game of peek-a-boo, the trees gave way to the Redwoods.

Walking in Eden

My senses were now thoughts. I saw the unbridled beauty of nature. I tasted the crisp scent unleashed by antiquated trees: heard beams of sunlight navigate branches, and felt all religions God. This was heaven. And it was good.

Drifting through the forest was like exploring Eden. The Redwoods seemed impervious to society, raising to such great heights as to say, "Look at me, I'm older than you can possibly imagine. Who are you to stand next to me?" Every Redwood was more alive than any of us, entire cultures of species called each one home. Perspective is a powerful thing. Unfortunately, there's a reason this post is titled, "A Trip Never Taken."

Peer Review: Group Two: Week Two: The Sequel.. So Week Three

Katie Arrivas - “The Mysterious Burnt Piano” I thoroughly enjoyed the story, although I condemn the burning of a grand piano, regardless of its physical state. The storyline was good, an entire night summed up in a few paragraphs with one or two detailed conversations is impressive. The grammatical offender was in the first paragraph with “they’re”, something which would surely be caught with one more proof read. Your “Best Friendships” is all sorts of bitter-sweet. Very well done establishing mood, voice, tone and whatever other literary devices we were supposed to use. Although, I did find use of alliteration disturbingly low. If there’s one thing I don’t like about all of our pieces, it’s that they’re too short to really establish any merit. But we perform well with the length used.

Kimberley Thomas - “Not Ready to Forget” You put one hell of a voice in this one, and I can clearly see why. Generally when people feel outraged about a subject, they tend to rant and spiel off topic, ceasing to form cohesive sentences. However you walk that line well and use things I like to call “facts” to bolster your point of view. I don’t want to watch that video you posted because I know some tears will form. “You May Find Peace…” Powerful. Your mood, tone, voice, emotion, rhythm, everything was inspiring. I mean, I’m not even a fan of Peter Gabrielle, never grew towards Genesis, but I may just be a fan of his now.

Nicola Simmons - “Proposed Changes” While there’s no way I can fully understand, I try put myself in your position. I can see how having a different government impede on your rights as a sovereign people is infuriating. I try to understand as much as I can. Your heartfelt arguments came through as a rant to me. Which is unfortunate because as a writer like yourself, wonderful arguments can be made that do not place blame on a government when the actions of a twisted individual are to fault.

La La La: Gypsies Tramps and Thieves

You had a charming air
All cheap and debonair

Though I did not speak her language, I understood her sound. One of exhaustion, abandonment, of quit. Yet, the beggar’s plead possessed an air of trickery. Once she gained my full attention, I realized why. She had the appearance of an ancient gypsy. Her body was covered by an old tattered rag that exposed only her shoeless feet and wrinkled head. From her crown emerged a glutinous red texture - unmistakably - her brain. I found this not inconceivable, but incredibly intriguing. The beggar was professional, and she was quite good at her business. Watching the poor tourists forced into her trap amused me. Her eyes would glimpse up and with her shaky hand present the tiny tin can. The tourist would drop the money, pity her, and continue on their tour while she would empty the can. I was inspired by the beggar. I needed to know the city. How alien it all felt I could not help but meander the real grounds.

And so she took you in

I fled the commercial district, left the merchants herding their cattle and set off. The homes raised a great distance over my head, leaving damp shadows on the narrow roads. The streets themselves could hardly be called streets at all. By stretching my arms I would touch buildings on either side at the same time. The stories these roads must hold, I thought with envy. Each decision to turn enveloped me deeper into it’s heart. Tourists did not wander here; they were content gawking at historical sites they’ve all seen many times in pictures and paintings. To me, this was the sight to see. I passed two souls, neither of them well-spirited. I was on my own. I had no direction other than the slightest slope towards the main dock. Lost in the city I was happy.

But, oh! What providence!
What divine intelligence!

I then imagined the gypsy, not as the beggar, but as she lived her life. I created a fictitious character with a strange atmosphere. She existed here; not now, but many years ago with a son whose father left for sea. She was left to piece their lives together, and the gypsy was forged out of desperation. These streets chronicled her deceptive life. This fabricated story would remain with me long after I left that place. Occasionally my mind would refer back to the beggar and her city, but quickly revert back. Until I heard this song. The Mariner's Revenge memorializes the story I created for her, and the life I felt, being lost in the city.

News, News, News..

Taco Bell made fairly small headlines the other day. The reason being; meat is apparently not on their menu. It’s claimed that only 35% of their meat is - well, meat. The lawsuit was eventually met with a defense by the taco chain claiming that their meat is well over 80% FDA approved meat with the remaining bit their “secret recipe”. I always cringe a bit when I hear a major company boast that they have a secret recipe.

If anyone has had the unfortunate occurrence at eating at Taco Bell, this comes to no surprise. I’ve stopped eating there a few years ago, with an exception whenever the Diamondbacks scored six or more runs (shameless advertisement plug). Every time I would eat three of their admittedly delicious soft tacos, my stomach would strongly disagree. Now, I’m not exactly known for my iron stomach, but Taco Bell especially caused me some pain. Maybe I should jump on the lawsuit bandwagon

Through the years of not eating Taco Bell, I’ve been persuaded by Jack in the Box and their tacos. They might posses about 2% more actual meat than Taco Bell. Really, I’m not sure the story here is that Taco Bell doesn’t use people food. To me, the story is more about the state of our fast food. I’m almost afraid to look at the food before I eat the stuff, using the old ignorance is bliss approach. In no way am I advocating a boycott or anything like that, the food they sell is cheap, and cheap things are good things. If anything I’m just deciding for myself to avoid these foods and maybe learn to cook. Though, that is a mighty big maybe.

Peer Review: Group Two: Week Two

Katie Arivas - With prompt #5: Grandpa, I liked how you told what seemed like a fairly busy day, and slowed it down to the voice of your grandpa. I tried to imagine an older voice narrating, but my mind kept reverting back to the little child. Re-reading I managed to get the older voice. In any case my one critique is one I do myself, which is a few too many comas. They can run on the sentences and sometimes lose interest.

I enjoyed your kitchen prompt, I love pets, even cats, so this story was easy for me to connect to. The dialogue about naming the cat was also amusing. That seems about how every conversation about naming a cat goes. They usually have colored feet so socks is always an option. My own cat is called Sneakers. My critique of this prompt is on the second to last paragraph. It’s very short, and while still connected to your subject, the cat, it seems out of the way. If it were elaborated on a bit, I think the story as a whole would benefit.

For your autobiography of… I very much so enjoyed the authenticity of the story. Without getting into too many details, you summed up the experience nicely. I really couldn’t find any improvements. It was very well done.

Kimberly Thomas - The voice in “The autobiography of a Migrant Mother” was absolutely wonderful. I really enjoyed your description of the church, you had seamless transitions. There isn't any helpful advice I can really give you, you're writing is great.

Nicola Simmons - All of your writing was so culturally filling. I remember back in grade school I had a teacher who was Hopi, and she would tell stories from her perspective of birth of a Hopi child. I was reminded of her in both of your prompts. It seems like prompt #7 and #5 can go hand in hand which is good, because both were exceptional. My critique, I suppose, would be to go in depth with a few things. You overview it wonderfully, I’m very interested to hear closer stories.

Mickey Pagel - I really like the voice in your writing, you just have to submit your prompts on time so we can give them the attention the deserve!

Not an assignment.

I started this as the autobiography and realized it didn't quite fit the guidelines. But I was halfway done, so I'm posting it for shiggles. I've heard a few things about this from news networks, so here's my little part.

January 25th
The morning finally wakes him. He had slept in. The man begins his day by opening his eyes; the apathy of sleep still heavy in his mind. He carelessly rolls off the aged mat onto the floor and rises to his feet. He is careful not to wake his fiancé's family during the walk to his drawer. As he dresses for his job, he glances around the room. He is a modern man, but this living arrangement does not reflect it. A cramped two room apartment contains an entire family and the woman he loves. He had hoped to spring her from this life and bring her family out from poverty when he entered the university. Not long after enrolling, tuition bills began piling and loans mounted. To help off-set the debt he sought employment in any form, so he was hired as a part-time driver by a middle class family. They were nice enough and the pay allowed him to further his education. Soon enough he graduate from Cairo University School of Law. His masters diploma is still hanging above the drawer. Yet he had no wasta, no connections into the privileged life and therefore lived with the masses. That was five years ago. Today, he and his future family are hungry.

Making his way from the alley to the peculiarly empty street, he shakes his drowsy apathy and realizes this is the day. The streets have not been this calm since before corruption engulfed his country. He changed direction and hurried his pace. Tensions between the government and citizens have been snapping in the recent weeks, and the revolution in Tunisia has heightened Egypt's security. He and many friends have discussed their views, discussed what should be done and agreed their government cannot provide it. Soon enough he enters a small hardware store and walks to the backroom. The room is filled with familiar faces, all of them angry. He hears one voice over the others, "They are taking the internet, our communication away!" "They are afraid" another face speaks. “We are the ones who are frightened, we are not killing the government, they have been strangling us!" More voices launch into the air. Finally silence comes over them and the man asks, "What has happened?"

The sun is now setting, and throngs of people are in the streets. Facing them are police officers, prepared to shoot rubber bullets. One woman walks closer. Bullets are pelted into the crowd and trucks mounted with water guns are unleashed on the masses. Men are running, shouting, and cameras volley the shooting with their own shots. The hectic scene climaxes and the police retreat, leaving the protestors incensed. The man from the morning is now in front of a camera. Realizing an opportunity for perhaps a national audience he seizes the moment and thrusts his emotions out. "We will not be silenced! Whether you are Christian, whether you are Muslim, whether you are an atheist, you will demand your goddamn rights, and we will have our rights, one way or the other - we will never be silenced!"

Egyptian Revolution Jan 25th 2011 - Take what's Yours! from JoeChaban on Vimeo.

This could very well be horribly inaccurate, but revolt is happening. Egypt is rebelling and by the time most people read this, the plan to protest after Friday’s prayer will have occurred. So far reports are that millions of people will join the protest, could be less, could be more.

The Autobiography of.. Joe Kennedy?

"This varmint belong to you folks?" Joe thought the sheriff looked rather smug with satisfaction. "Him? That's old Luke Evans from across the river, he's always drunk these days. But who ain't?" Replied Al. "Good law abiding people, that's who." The Sheriff said puffing his chest out a bit. "And you'll do nicely to stop your business in this town, Mr. Connor." Joe noticed Al's eyes quickly glance towards the boat, the Sheriff had evidently noticed, too. "I know these are tough times," a dangerous smirk creeps its way onto his face, "So I'd be willing to negotiate a price for a little rule bending."

"You hear that Evans? This straight laced man of the law thinks he can stiff arm a couple of city boys like us." Al, always the agitator.

Now Joe had been in quite a few of these confrontations. A local cop or two would see money to be made and try to bully their way into the bootlegging business. But it's rather hard to bully a bigger bully, Joe had always thought. A sheriff, on the other hand, was something new - something exciting. And Joe knew Al would be hankering to try him out.

A sterner look presented itself on the Sheriff, "I've watched you two for a while now. I know what you are, I know what you do."

"Great! No surprises then!" Al flung out his right hook and landed it square on the the sheriff's jar. "Giddy up Joe, let's go!" Joe raced behind his partner and jumped into the boat. The engine let out a howl and took off just as the sheriff collected himself.

Joe could tell this is what Al lived for. The adrenalin, the rush of life. Joe knew this was only a step in his life. And one hell of a step it's become. The boat's front kicked up as it picked up speed. "Woooo! How about that?!" Al was clearly enjoying himself.

The ride was bumpy, but they were out of harms way with the shipment intact. Another day, another adventure for Joe Kennedy.

Peer Review: Group Two

Katie Arrivas - Your Observation post took me right back to high school in the first two paragraphs, sans the Jamba Juice. I felt the writing introduced me to your surroundings in a very familiar way which helped me understand the tone and atmosphere of your observations. I honestly thought it was a good read and I enjoyed it. Maybe one area of improvement could be to add more depth. The read felt a bit hallow, but for the idea of the post being observations I didn't feel there was a problem with it at all. Your description post was very on topic and very descriptive of his traits. While he's obviously he subject for the post, you say "he" many many times in your post. Any variation on this would help, I think even if you added his name a few times the post would be much smoother.

Kimberly Thomas - Your description post: Thank you for sharing that. Sharing from the heart is always tough, and you absolutely nailed it. Before I knew I was in your group, I read your Observing the Countryside and thought, I like this person. The computer isn't always a place someone would admit to being at all the time. You then talk about outside.. and long story short, you've done one hell of a job.

Nicola Simmons - The significant other post was beyond adorable and also a left me a bit inspired by your child. I'm sure you've read through the post since and found a few grammatical errors which could be easily fixed for next time. Try not to be like me and send your posts in with 5 minutes to spare.

A quick note, I apologize if my critiques are lacking this week. From here on out, this group will have my full attention. A few things were hectic this week and excuses, excuses. Point being, next week I'll be done well before 11:58 pm with much better posts for all of you.

Family: Dead or Alive: Variation 2

The on deck circle can be many things to a batter in baseball. It’s a place to ‘get your hacks in’ and mentally prepare yourself for the ensuring battle. Today that war would be exemplified on both the batter and pitcher. For today they were playing at Yankee Stadium. This was a game for the scouts, to evaluate the players and see who had the talent to make it to the Bigs, where fame and fortune awaited. Jerry is well aware of the stakes while he swings two bats around in the on deck circle, watching the at-bat unfold.
“Strike one!” Jerry hears the ump bellow. His breaking ball is working well today he thinks to himself. “Strike two!” again the umpire yells out. Boy, that curve ball is going to be tough to beat. He watches the pitcher during his windup, ready to walk to the plate anticipating the strike-out. The hurler snaps the ball over to first base, trying to catch the base runner off balance. This gives Jerry an idea, watch his elbow in the delivery, it may dip and tip off the curve. Carefully this time, he studies the pitcher. No dip in the elbow, but the pitch was a straight sailing fastball which sped above the swing of the bat. “Strike three!” The umpire barks to the delight of the other team. Two down, one on. I can beat this guy.
Jerry hustles to the plate; takes two more practice swings, each one deliberately timed for the curve ball. He digs his back foot into the box and glares out towards the pitcher. With this game, Jerry could change his life forever. The pitcher begins his delivery. No elbow dip. “Strike one!” The fastball lived up to its name. Resetting, Jerry zeros onto the ball. The wind-up, and the pitch. The elbow dipped! Jerry takes a mighty rip at the ball with bad intentions! “Strike Two!” He missed the curve. That was it, his golden opportunity at stardom sank faster than a line drive. The sparse crowd “ooh’d” and “aww’d” at the pitch that embarrassed Jerry. He took a moment to gather himself, Three strikes, three outs. That’s baseball. One more chance. He chokes up on the bat ready to become Rod Carew, a notorious contact hitter. Jerry hears the catch shuffle his feet. The pitcher kicks his leg up, no elbow dip, and releases the pitch.
Once the scouts left the stadium after the game, Jerry walked up to home plate. His day ended one for four with three ugly strike outs. The scouts didn’t even bother talking to him. He digs into the box, now in his work jeans and t-shirt, and relives his moment. Jerry again sees the pitcher in his wind-up “He kept his elbow level” he says to the empty stadium. He imagines the fastball coming in faster than ever, closes his eyes and takes the swing. Jerry had slapped the ball to right field. The very short right field, and it carried up and over the wall for a homerun. He trots the bases just like he had done earlier, a hero in the first inning. When he reaches home, no teammates are waiting for him this time. Instead he walks off the field, ready to continue his life.

A Childhood Kitchen

The smell of cookies -- no brownies-- wait! No, that’s the smell of cheese crisp making its way through the house! I think to myself, “Cheese Crisp for breakfast? What a country!” I thank my second family The Simpsons for that quote and scurry towards the kitchen table ready to be supped and nourished. My sister cracks the oven open to check on the tortilla of cheesy goodness. She decides the crisp is not yet ready. In any case, there’s milk to be poured! My eyes watch the liquid fill the glass, alas she never fills it to the top like mom does. I’d do it myself, but pouring milk requires finesse and height to reach the counter. I posses none of these skills. Being of no use to my sister, she shoos me away and I scamper to the kitchen table.
The smell! That cheesy smell! Just one bite, that’s all I need. I can’t take it anymore, my sister is obviously torturing me for some stupid big sister reason. So I devise a plan. Wait for her to leave and take one tiny nibble, no one would know! My eyes go shifty as I scout the kitchen for her. She’s left the room momentarily. This is my time to shine; I dart to the oven, pull the door open, reach into the stove for the cheese crisp, and… “Aaaaaaarghh!”
My plan was so foolproof, but I forgot the glove! These shortcomings only occur in my favorite cartoons, yet here I am screaming in agony over my now roasted hand. The pain is unbearable! Where is my sister, why isn’t she flying to my aid? This was her master plan all along. To lure me in the oven to be rid of me once and for all while she gets to become a spoiled only child!
I feel as if I’ll pass out from this pain , when after what seems like an eternity my sister finally arrives. I cling to her begging for any sort of help, an amputation will do at this point. She briskly walks me to the bathroom sink and runs my scorching hand under the cool water. I meekly ask, “Am I going to be able to keep this hand?” My sister gives out a small laugh and replies, “from the looks of it, I’d say so.” She then dries my burnt little finger and places a power rangers band-aid over it.
Finally we sat and enjoyed a shriveled up cheese crisp, like I always wanted.

The Inn called Abacus: Writing prompt #3

The restaurant is empty, I've come to regard that as business as usual here. How they manage to stay open is a mystery to me. Since I arrived five minutes late I'm the first from the group to arrive. I politely ask for four seats. No need for menus - our orders are practically cooking before we arrive; we come so often. For me it's orange chicken with egg drop soup. It's the best anywhere in my opinion. More often than not, the host seats us at the one booth in the entire restaurant that squeaks. What we did to him in our past lives eludes me. He dyes his hair red for some odd reason. Normally I wouldn't notice the color of a waiter's hair, but red hair looks strange on an Asian man to me. The restaurant itself is small, average in every way. Oriental paintings dot the wall, and local sports heroes adorn the bar scene. Soon I'm sitting, careful not to touch the table and unleash it's dreaded squeak. My favorite worker walks over to ask where my friends are. She's incredibly nice and often protects us from grumpy waiters with red hair. I talk to her for a while about school before they finally show up, late due to invisible traffic, presumably.
She asks our orders and we inevitably reply the usual, despite vowing to try something new this time. The group has time for greetings and we all rip off a few immature jokes like pros before our soup and wontons arrive. Most of us don't finish before the lunch is ready. Steamy, hot, delicious lunch. An occasional story or joke is babbled out by someone, but food is the priority here. Refills can be sparse but today the pitcher of water is left with us. We're moving up in the world now. One by one we finish our plate or throw in the white napkin and ask for a box.
After a meal at Abacus Inn is a favorite time of mine, where tea time rules and shits are simply not given. Our conversations range wildly here. Anywhere in the nerddom kingdom they may roam. My personal favorite is the classic, "What if Pokemon were real?" However, most of the time everyone picks on the favorite "superhero" of a friend, Batman. We only pick on him because we love him, of course, that and he can't defend himself well from jests. The receipt is placed on the table to stop his pain. With fortune cookies! Oh, the glorious reverence we possess for these bringers of future occurrences! Also we enjoy to know how to say "cook" in Chinese - it's zuo cai.
Once the bill is payed with our ten percent off members-only-super-deluxe-happy-time cards, our adventure at this Inn called Abacus draws to a close. We settle for one more immature joke, and part ways. Abacus Inn waits for us for another day.

He is ten years old: Writing prompt #2

He is ten years old. Brown hair, amber colored eyes, and missing most of his teeth. He is and always will be, my boy.
This love for him is not without obstacles. They are often characterized by 2 a.m. wake up calls, obvious attempts at brown nosing for attention, or just a literal brown nose. And despite his very own bed, he still finds his way onto mine every other night, leaving me precious little space to call my own. Though all is forgiven when he snuggles with me, followed by a prompt fart and swift exit through the door.
The backyard is his domain, and all who enter his domain are subject to his will. This could be anything from a game of tag, to an angry outburst of yells. But he always means well and makes it even by looking so damn cute.
One week ago, a veterinarian found a large amount of cancer inside of him. We're told he has one to three months remaining. Everyday the disease makes itself horribly apparent, and every night he struggles in his sleep. We take him for walks that he loved so much to try and reinvigorate him and remind us of what a wonderful companion he is. Soon he is battling for air and his pull on the leash has stopped, but his little nub for a tail keeps rhythmically wagging.
His daughter, Indy, which some of us grudgingly accepted, (cough, cough, Mom) was constantly by her father's side throughout her life. Always letting out a demon yowl whenever they were separated. As of late, she's rarely with him. I think she knows something has gone wrong, and I'm terrified at the prospect of red fern.
His joyous exuberance for life acts as a reminder for everyone, whether they be family, friends, or the always present delivery guy, to loose yourself in the moment and be a kid, just the way he lives his life.
Ten years ago I named a small puppy Apollo, and for the next one to three months, he will be my puppy.
In another ten years, his life will seem like a cameo in mine. Just another perpetual story of a boy and his dog. But right now, he is my snoring best friend.

"There is an idea of Brandon Riddle; some kind of abstraction" -American Psycho

For every class I have to answer a "Who am I" type question, I manage to think of the song Sweet Dreams.
Anywho my name is Brandon Riddle, legally it's Mills but that should be changed shortly. I strongly dislike writing about myself if I can't sensationalize one or two things, but I have a feeling that may be frowned upon here. So doing the best I can, here we have it; I follow rule 32 and enjoy the little things, as well as the show Archer. Unfortunately for many people, I have a knack for making immature jokes. That's not just blurting out "That's what she said" at opportune moments, but also using Pokemon, Star Wars and other nerdy references whenever possible.
Generally I keep my "about me" post short and sweet because I'm really a boring person. It's my ideas which somehow manage to keep friends around. That sounds like a liberal statement but it's more or less accurate.