Creative Writing Project

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The Convict 2019

The warm light of the evening hit me from the side of my face;

–On the side of a hill I stood,

Happiness at the moment ever fleeting me while calm left my body

Through the freeness of my body there in the beauty of nature.

“Why must I leave from such safeness and calmness? Why must I seperate?”

My pained spirit spoke,

Agony struck me as I turned in, hope of fixing him fleeting,

The person in which laid in the cell; the convict; the victim

The thick beige walls showed the shadow of the victim

The victims prison being nothing but a dungeon in disguise

At this sight; I stay still

The outcast being failed by a criminal justice system; pity

His hair dark and not cared for; his back hunched,

His exhales turning into deep sighs,

His wallowing in the loss of his hope for the future

The impending doom of his life being over

Pity and sadness at this sight,

The body and mind dejected from care;

He notices me an anchor for a broken system

This hideous image lay in front me.

He withers emotionally, socially, and physically,

For he wishes he can change the past;

For his crime defines him, overwhelms him, he states

His views darken as for socially he is dead

From the group of those sentencing him,

To his dungeon he was lead by an atrocious malignancy,

All those that can soothe his pain not having the resources,

He lay his sorrows in a cold cell

But in his depression, he is consumed, in his mind he is stuck

His conscience his torture for he cannot bring appease to it,

In his agony he cannot reach tranquility,

His imprisonment being his life’s disease.

At night his soul cannot reach rest while these emotions press on his limbs,

The weight of these emotions being unbearable on his body,

For his sleep lacks actual rest with the memories of his crime haunting,

The wretchedness of the implications of his conviction waying on him

His chains being the walls that confine him and dull his future,

Cold-sweats beat on his skin trying to exude his crime

And terror strikes in his heart

He raises his eyes to meet mine; they sink in, deep into my soul,

A tear slides down his face;

Sorrow and silence is the only motions to occur

He proceeds to ask me why I am there

“Poor convict! In all reality, alone you are…

In comparison to you our states being completely different

For I the warden and you the convict; failed by a system

I am your brother and I share your sorrows”

Compassion fills me, but I cannot do anything by the nature of our roles,

My care cannot do anything, but if I were God it would,

If I had the resources to plant your future you would blossom


William Wordsworth’s “The Convict” is a political statement that tries to bring to light the injustices that come along with the criminal justice system and specifically; with issues regarding imprisonment. In my parody of his work, I attempted to conduct a contemporary approach in which the jailer observing the prisoner is sympathetic towards the prisoners situation due to him knowing that he cannot help the prisoner due to the failure of the structure of the criminal justice system. I wanted to focus on this subject matter due to the fact that back when this was published; this was a very politically controversial subject as it is now. Furthermore, it is one of my favorite poems from Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s & William Wordsworth’s, “Lyrical Ballads 1798 and 1800” and its controversial nature I felt allowed me to communicate how a modern prisoner feels and experiences being imprisoned; but, as stated, with a more modern approach. This parody, like it’s mother poem, I wanted to be emotional by focusing on how Romanticism evokes emotion over reason traditionally, partnered with the employment of Romanticism’s concept of “senses over intellect (lecture notes #8).” What can be explained from my parody is that the jailer, like in the original, feels deep empathy for the jailed; but cannot do anything about the prisoners future and current state. All of this ultimately making the jailer feel trapped emotionally along with the prisoner due to him knowing how the system works by him also being a part of it. Wordsworth piece has notably been taking out of certain additions of the “Lyrical Ballads”; and it is one of the strongest pieces in the book. This being one of the biggest reason why I picked it; it’s controversial nature. This form of protest is powerful due to how it evokes loneliness, pain, and sorrow. With my parody I hope to evoke such emotions about the wrongdoings of the criminal justice system through the eyes of a warden and through a prisoner.
-Isabel P

Sarah always hated poetry in her classes.

The words always jumbled up together, making her want to bury her head in her arms and take a long, deep nap. Long enough to end that particular class, at least.

A loud slap on her plastic desk jarred her, and Sarah shoved herself upright to glare at the one who had rudely interrupted her quick nap. Standing over her was the familiar shape of the class’ A+ student, who was oh-so-perfect at almost everything; Jackson. “I know this class is a bit early, but I’m not sure that means it’s a good time to sleep whenever you’re feeling drowsy.” An easy grin slipped across his face as his attention jumped between Sarah’s blank face and the blank notes that sat in front of her.

“You say that every week, you know.”

“I know. Whatcha got, there?”

Around the duo, the other classmates chatted excitedly about the last poem they had read, called The Mad Mother. For Sarah, the poem had no other meaning than the tale of some crazy croon who stumbled around a forest… So why was everyone else so excited about it?

Jackson plopped down in front of her and held his hand out. “May I?” He asked, and wordlessly she handed over her book. He scanned his eyes through the text only once before laying it down between them, ready to explain.

“I just don’t understand. It’s a crazy woman, so what?”

Jackson chuckled. “That’s the point of poems; to hide meaning throughout its words. Look here.” He pointed to one of the stanzas. “This woman isn’t just crazy; she’s grieving. There’s plenty of examples that run through the poem that prove so, like ‘My little babe! Thy lips are still’. The child that you think she’s carrying is not alive, and she doesn’t understand how to cope with it. The father is probably also dead as well.”

Sarah sat there with her jaw dropped. “But how could you even think of that? Only from a few stanzas?” Another chuckle from Jackson as he leaned back in his seat, his eyes darting up towards the ceiling.

“For me, it’s all about perspective. This woman thinks her child is with her, but what do other people see around her? Does that make sense?”

“Ugh. That’s too difficult.”

You’re the difficult one here, you know.”

Sarah glances down at the poem in front of her once more. “You’re good at this, you know.”

“It’s based off of experience, not just intelligence, you know.”

Sarah glances at him just in time to see a sad smile flitter across his lips. Just as she opened her mouth to pop out another question, professor quickly announces the end of the class, and Jackson is packing away his belongings and rushing out the door.


I decided to use this creative writing project to really focus on my time in this class, as well as the idea of perception when it comes from one another. For this piece of writing, I was inspired by my own difficulty in reading the class’ poetry, since it was in such an old-fashioned language that I am not used to. The Mad Woman is a perfect example to use, since throughout this poem, the woman is seen as a crazy person who is obsessed with finding her husband in order to complete their family. However, with certain stanzas, it can be interpreted that her child is dead, and she is carrying around his carcass in grief, since she is alone and has no one to console her during this hard time in her life.

This is relatable to many, especially those who have lost someone close to them, such as a friend or family member. Without the help of others, one may lose themselves to grief, ending up in them appearing crazy as they try to find a way to accept their loss and continue on with their lives. The protagonist in the story above doesn’t understand that concept, or the concept of what others see versus what you may see. That’s the reason why poems are so influential; they can hide a story that you didn’t even realize was being told. The Rine of the Ancient Mariner is another great example, using metaphors and imagery in order to help the reader visualize the scene and actions throughout the poem, forcing the reader to create their own story as they interpret the poem in a way that they can properly understand.

-Jody Omlin


The Contemporary Dunciad

Dave L.

“The world is dominated by people whose greatest talents are proliferation, incompetence, a keen sense for self-preservation, and the ability to drop members of that tiny minority of the population which is actually capable of solving problems, in the shit.”

-Simon G. Sheppard

What sort of things have The Dunciad’s gotten themselves into today? To answer this, we have to go back a bit. It all starts with what I call, “the Cult of Dulness.” In their formative days, the first thing they did was begin to lie to themselves, deliberately forgetting that was is against truth is both unprofitable and unjust. These lies accumulated, forming a shakey scaffold on which to build their totalitarian empire. Their whole worldview spawned in the self-indulgence of material abundance, making them believe in earnest that milk and honey grew on trees, and were their natural right. They believed they could obtain justice without law and order, wealth without labor, peace without  force, and harmony from deliberate disunity. They believed their material possessions were easy to accrue (for, of course, they shunned their ancestors and forgot their sacrifices), they believed they could tear down every existing order and tradition – the good along with the bad – and that it was their imperative to do so. Since things were actually pretty decent the world over, they had to lie to themselves even further: making a bastardized inversion of what the world is and thus how it should be. Their whole paradigm became about tearing down every semblance of order and social norms: and from this worldview came “Chaos.” The time was right, too: “Night” had descended after the recent fall of the millenia’s last great civilization, and dusk slowly approached the men living amongst the ruins. From Chaos and Night came their offspring, Dullness. And it is this unholy royal family that rules with an iron fist today.

The results are predictable: Science has been halted, shackled down by shouting hordes of cultists: he slowly shuffles, pitiable and importent. Logic had his tongue cut out years ago; and his crazy step-sister, Sophistry, shrilly shouts her “pub-shock arguments” upon which the cult found it worthy to charge six-figure sums to learn in colleges. Morality is kept in the basement, tormented by impish curs who strut about, calling themselves “moral”. And the royal family watches it all: The mother, Dishonesty, watches while holding her daughter, Chaos; together they utter their dry harpy laughs at the incessant pain they cause the world over. Dullness takes herself too seriously to find humor, but is still silently proud of her work nonetheless. She sternly prevents people from saying anything naughty: you can find her censoring people Dishonesty tells her to. She preaches decorum and civility while her co-patriots and cult-adherents run rampant. Night stands alone, solemnly enjoying his reign, enjoying the shroud of lies he swept over the women, who now do his bidding. The heads of the cult frequently offer sacrifices: here’s a few wars, here’s a debt-based currency, here’s more disunity and pain, here’s another social norm we’ve destroyed. The lower members enjoy immense privelege while the common man condemns them.

It would be dramatic to emphasize the fear and danger of living in the Cult of Dullness’s dystopia: and there is reason to be afraid. But once you see past their lies and terror, you only become more jaded, more immune to the sweeping terrors of this destructive facade. Have you ever spent so much time with a known liar that you stop being so angry and start to become bored by his prescence? It’s the same thing here. When I hear about the blatant corporate censorship, the lies percolating throughout our histories, the constant fear-mongering about the cult’s Satan figures (none of which deserve an ounce of hatred they get), I just get really, really fucking bored. I was blessed to find the antidote early in my age: and it is Truth. While truth is chained and enslaved now, it lives forever, so it can wait a long time.

When people try to defy the Law of Gravity, the result is always bruises and broken bones. Similarly, when people defy the laws of ethics and act dishonestly, the result is always the Truth coming back to break their bones. I know how this will end: if we don’t stop it, then the results of the Cult’s experiment will kill them all, brutally, and wipe the slate clean. Truth is angry, and he is waiting for his day to set the world straight again.

“It is worth something to recognize that what is wrong in life is based on emotional unreality and is temporary. What is right in life is part of the reality that unfailingly endures, establishing the principle that might is right.”

– Richard W. Wetherill


I made a few choices that set this short essay apart from its source material, Pope’s “The Dunciad.” The first is obvious: I chose to avoid writing in the same epic form. This was due more towards my admiration of the original’s formula then time constraints or laziness on my end. I simply didn’t think I could replicate it well, and I believe that a short essay was much better for my purposes. The second difference is that I didn’t write exclusively using the allegorical components, only using them sparingly, since it would be redundant and dumb to use so many allegories in an essay format, so I centralized them in one paragraph. The third is more thematic: the settings and subjects are way different. Everyone would find it droll to read an essay about long dead English prudes, so I chose to write mine on a more relevant topic. I avoided naming names because I only had so much room to spell out why I hate them and want them all dead, and I think everyone will find what they want to see in this poem. Finally, I wanted to experiment and see if a creative essay could rival a formal literature of power.

So can you replicate a literature of power? I think not. Mine pales in comparison to Pope’s work, and I doubt only a few would be moved by it today. I think it is possible to achieve similar results (especially if I had the space and captive audience I wanted), but not total replication.

Thanks for the time, and the good year.


Narrative of the Captivity of Beverly Miranda By UC Merced As Told By Beverly Miranda

Through the grace of God, together with her willpower and perseverance (although time to time tested), the captivity and restoration by the University of California Merced of Ms. Beverly Miranda became possible. Her release marked a special time not just for her but for her loved ones as well. Her narrative and story were written by her own hand for her own keeping but now she chooses to share it among her peers on this fascinating English 102 blog, for you all to indulge in her captivity at UC Merced over the course of four years.


In the spring of 2015, the University Chancellor and recruits approached me with great efforts and different tactics to lure me into their grip. They came in great quantities, stopping at nothing to assure they secured my seizure. They came with shirts, posters, financial aid packages that I couldn’t resist, and ultimately they secured my captivity – but as I pressed the SIR button, I saw my freedom and peace of mind escape me. This quick and sudden gesture secured my fate for the next four years, with no knowledge of the excruciating, agonizing and intense years that would await me; with no way of escaping or liberating myself without bringing great shame to my name.

When I first arrived in August of 2015, I saw never ending landscapes, I felt the scorching sun on my back, and was amazed by the lack of buildings – I couldn’t believe Merced would strip me of my liberty. And I couldn’t believe this was the city that they promoted and glorified so heavily. Everyone looks at me like I’m an outsider, a foreigner – because I am. I don’t belong here in this institution designed and created for the elite, designed to keep me out, designed to bury me in debt. I was no longer surrounded by my fellow brown, Latino, Angelenos – the white people had taken me hostage. There were thousands of others who were taken too, who had also fallen into their deception and who also faced the same fate as I did. We were crammed into dorms four at a time in a room built for three, fed food fit for the birds, and were thrown into a system unknown to almost each of us.

I had often said before that if I were ever to be captured by a four year institution I would rather choose to be killed; but when it came to the trial my mind changed; the glittering promises that filled my spirit with hope, changed my mind to not want to end my days. All of my mother’s greatest hopes and dreams for me, lingered over my head and only then was I was able to see the light hidden in this captivity. For the next four years I would embark on an excruciating journey, a journey I would not be freed from until I fulfilled the needs of the university. In the following story to come, I shall speak on the recollection of my time spent at UC Merced and the horrid, agonizing moments I experienced during my time held captive.



My piece for this creative writing project was inspired by Mary Rowlandson’s “Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson.” I decided to write about my “captivity” here at UC Merced for the past four years because personally, I have felt trapped and captive at this institution during my time spent here. It has played a big part in morphing who I am now and it is a statement experience in my life. My parody was based on a very personal point of view and experience therefore, I mimicked Rowlandson’s introduction and conclusion (paragraph before the first remove) paragraphs in order to assure that the point of my piece being a “personal account” got across. Besides directly mimicking the content and style of her paragraphs, I also tried to keep the narrator’s voice alike, starting with the third person intro and followed by the first person narrative. I decided I would follow this stylistic choice from Rowlandson’s narrative because I thought it would be best to introduce that the story was detailed and retold through my personal view before directly jumping into the narrative of my experiences because it would establish the idea that the story would be told in hindsight – just like in Rowlandson’s narrative. I thought this created a similar tone between my piece and Rowlandson’s story. Another choice I had to think about when deciding how to approach my parody, was how I was going to concise a captivity narrative into 500 words. Rowlandson’s narrative had 20 removal paragraphs, as to where my narrative is made up by only four paragraphs. Therefore I decided to only imitate her introductory paragraphs, and not the actual removal ones, therefore this allowed me the freedom to capture a similar essence, and pay tribute, to the captivity narrative without surpassing the word count and introduce a story of four years in a concised, regulated manner. Overall, this assignment taught me how difficult it is to mimic another author’s work – it requires taking risks, making difficult stylistic choices, and choosing how much inspiration as an author you’re going to take and how much of the work will be your own. But it also challenged my creativity in a great sense and allowed me to explore my capability regarding parody/homage of other author’s works which would essentially teach me more about myself as a creator/writer.

Gulliver’s College Travels

The herd of cows ambushed me from the parking lot and pushed my car through the parking lot and. Eventually, I was left alone on what at first seemed to be the uncharted plains of the Vernal Pools Reserve, considering there was not a single trail to be seen for miles. As I paced the tall grasses, I heard several soft popping sounds and a gust of warm wind.

Turning back, I saw a peculiar specimen, a horrendous breed both in physical appearance and etiquette. He was not an upright individual but instead his body bent backwards. So far did it go back that his head was stuck in his anus. Because of this position their vision was compromised and their eyes evolved to sit atop their waist. Similarly, their speech was also impeded and had to communicate through their rears. Every word they uttered was followed by the release of a flatulence, which was not just a release of breath but a genuine fart that smelled of fecal matter and Pavilion burritos.

“I… am… Butkus,” said the Creature. “Who… are… you?” I responded with my name and, the name of my school; I was certain he would recognize the innovation and prestige of “University of California, UC Merced.” The school is after all the youngest university and beacon that will lead the future to success— what with students like me.

The Creature stood still in front of me, his eyes looked up from his groin area where they were located. I asked him if he had heard of the school’s but not even the lightest toot escaped his body. I found it preposterous someone, would be so ignorant as to not know of UC UC Merced and proceeded to educate Butkus on my university.

I began by explaining the diversity of courses we students are required to take and the abundance of knowledge we take in. I couldn’t finish my lecture without mentioning the student body and the campus’ expansion; I gave detail on the new housing buildings, parking area, dining center, and downtown administrative building where the chancellor makes decisions.

Butkus didn’t express the same enthusiasm and apologized for not seeing the greatness of the institution. He admitted he was confused on the practices I described. In regards to the course requirements, Butkus said he did not see the point of students exhausting their intellect on classes that did not align with the future they hoped to pursue. If the students were to lead the future to success, as I had said, and have already selected their path, then he would imagine attention would be given to developing the specialized skills necessary in their desired field, rather than worrying about performing well in a course whose teachings won’t be utilized by them. Butkus argued the yearly influxes of students, and that the overall manner the university was developing, was a disservice to the existing student body already had enough trouble enrolling in necessary courses. The sights of the university’s highest leaders seem to be set on the completion of infrastructure and accumulation of paying students, instead of investing knowledgeable personnel that can resolve student’s educational and mental concerns— and not look out for their own professional interests. I would never dare repeat in either speech or print the insulting words Butkus evacuated from his rear, especially to a university-educated on my level of intellect.

I would not stand for the slander he uttered against my school and myself. I proclaimed that he has not experienced the and, therefore, has no authority to reason that it is a poor system. He turned his bent back to me replied with his usual flatulence, “Neither do your representatives if they experience the university from the comfort of the administrative offices everyday— away from you and your concerns. I may have my head up my arse, but they are the ones who are full of shit.”



For my creative writing post, I decided to do an imitation of Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels that satirizes the effects of a poor administration on a university University heads don’t always cater to the needs of their students as they advertise they do. I admired the way Swift wove his criticism of the English into his work in a fairly discrete manner. To achieve the same effect, I tried to use the same irony and outlandishness scenarios. The encounter between Butkus and proud college Gulliver, for example, is a replication of the scene in the novel where the king of Brobdingnag questions the efficacy of the English government. In my rendition, I use the narration like Swift, where Gulliver reports through his voice what was said by the other character and creates a distance between the criticism and himself. He becomes an ultimately unreliable, unaware narrator that doesn’t realize he is bringing to the attention of the reader he vowed not to repeat. Butkus’ physical appearance, along with his reasoning for looking down at the university system, serves as irony to point out the idiocy of  administrative staff who try to ignore real issues altogether. Butkus may literally have his head up his rear and lacks experience in higher education, but, despite this, he is still able to see the flaws and negligence done by the university heads. It is the administration who has their heads up their behinds because they do not realize the exist of these issues, or refuse to address because they have another agenda to fulfill. Gulliver’s lack of awareness, although he boasts of his intellect and the knowledge he gained from attending university, is a product of the mismanaged and corrupted system as a result. Despite this creative piece being centered around UC Merced, I think this piece, like Swift’s novel, can be applied to any form of leadership, whether social or political; an interest in advancing a person’s own agenda and ignoring, or being oblivious to, the needs of people they are suppose to look out for is not limited to the scenario I presented.

-Wendy Gutierrez

Gully’s Space Travels


This is a parody of an exert from the first chapter of Gulliver’s Travels.

As a most famous space captain, many often ask me my life story, this is typically what I tell them:

“My father had a small animal farm on the North side of Jupiter’s moon Europa: I was the second oldest daughter of 3 sons and 2 daughters.  He sent me to the Space Academy on the South side of Europa at sixteen years old, where I lived for three years, and studied and trained to join the Intergalactic Space Force. During this time and after I had graduated, to earn a little extra cash on the side I was apprentice to Mrs. Nancy Rogers, a pilot of some sort. I was charged with cleaning and maintaining her ship. Often, to help ease the financial burden, my father would send me small amounts of money, this I used to help learn more about flying a ship. When money got too hard to supply, I went up to see my father. Who being supportive and willingly came up enough money to get me by throughout the year.

Soon after my return from the Southern Hemisphere, my good teacher, Mrs. Rogers, recommended me to be a co-pilot to the well-known Space Force Captain, Stevie Liken. Which after accepting, I stayed with for a few years, and who I went on a lot of voyages to the nearby planets and even to other galaxies.  When I came back from my multiple space voyages I decided to live in the city, not with my family. I consulted with Mrs. Rogers, who encouraged me, and told me to do what I thought was best, and also found me job. I bought a small quaint house with my savings and eventually married a friend turned significant other later on in my years.

When Mrs. Rogers died a few years after I moved into the new house, I had to reflect on my life, and all the choices that led up to me being where I was. Thinking, it was best to talk with my husband and the few friends that I had, I decided it was time to go out into space again. I was a co-pilot successfully on more than two ships, and made several voyages, for many years, to the ends of this galaxy and into others, which helped to add to my growing fortune (the pay was good). When I was not piloting and being a leader in an expedition, I read the so-called best Earth authors, both ancient and modern, amongst other authors. It was one of the few things I could do whilst being on the ship for long periods of times. Though it’s not to say that I didn’t do it whilst I was on land.

The last voyage that I co-piloted lasted about a year and a half and at the end, I was tired and ready to come home. However, this final voyage proved to be the most interesting of all of my journeys, and I was more than excited to go off and explore So, I packed up my things, said goodbye to my family, and set off to join the crew. My hard work had finally paid off an I was made Captain Leila Gully of the space ship “Galaxy” (ironic, I know). And finally, set sail from the main Northern city of Europa on March 9th, 2149 of which our voyage was at first very prosperous. Some would say, a little too prosperous.


For this creative project I decided to write a parody of the first chapter of Gulliver’s Travels. In the original story, the author is explaining his life story, from his childhood to his adulthood and how he ended up where he did. I decided to do all that but with a futuristic approach. I took the story and set it in the future where humans no longer only live on Earth but have populated the surrounding planets and have made contact with intelligent life from other galaxies. They work and live together, in this future society, we all coexist peacefully. Within in my interpretation of this story, the main character is a female spaceship pilot who left behind her small life to experience bigger and better things. She joins a space force academy and trains to achieve her dreams of one day flying her own ship. Had this story continued it would have followed her and her crew on their most exciting voyage across the stars, where they encountered new species, and places they never would have thought to uncover. The main character leaves behind a husband and her family, of which wouldn’t not be unheard of in these times since society had advanced, and as she is an independent woman, it wouldn’t be strange. This story—instead of not only being an adventure story, would focus on the relationship the main character has with herself and how she grew and developed whilst on this voyage experiencing things for the first time. I wanted to write something different like this because I thought it would be fun to imagine a Gulliver’s Travels but, in the future, and in space. It’s easy to imagine since in the original book, it basically feels like the main character is exploring new planets because of how different and unlike “normal society” these new places were like.

-Laura Mateo Gallegos

Rime of the Ancient Mariner: The Movie (TM)

Alejandro Joseph Serrano

Professor Garcia Productions.

English 102 Studios

8 May, 2019

Rime of the Ancient Mariner

[EXT. Dock of Maine– The sun is shining on a small town on the coast of Maine. Shops are open and the people lining the streets are enjoying the day. One man in a tuxedo, Steve Carell, is running down the street at breakneck speeds, stumbling over his new shoes. He eventually finds a store, WEDDING GIFTS INC. Just as he is about to enter, a man in wretched, ragged clothing (Jim Carrey) makes his way out of an alley and they both lock eyes.]



Steve- What the-

[Steve gets decked in the face by Jim, knocking him unconscious. When Steve wakes up, we find him lying face up on a bench covered in a mangy blanket. Next to him we see Jim rummaging through a full trash can.]

Steve- What the…

Jim- AH! You’re Awake! Well get ready for storytime, sleepy head, cuz you’re in for a real doozy!

Steve- … What the hell is going on here? I was just about to grab a gift for my daughter’s wedding when you just beat the hell out of me for no reason!

Jim- Well, I wouldn’t say it was for no reason whatsoever. I’d say it was from God’s good graces that I smacked you around for a bit, cuz now I’m gonna tell you a delightful story of why the hell I’m here!

Steve- Oh dear God please don’t tell m-

Jim- It all started long ago…

[Transition from a closeup of Jim Carrey’s face where he looks like a decrepit old man and show him where he’s more middle aged. His clothes turn into those of a sailor, and he looks like he is about to set sail for one of his last major travels across the open sea.]

Jim [Narration]- I was but a younger version of me before I made my way upon the open sea. This was supposed to be my last job on deck, and then I could finally retire. [Camera pans to an older ship that looks like it would fall under the weight of the wind.] Everyone on that ship was prepared to make it across the arctic sea and make it back before anyone could sleep a wink;  but that’s when things started to get gnarly bad!

[Transition to Carrey boarding the ship, and the next shot is of the ship stuck square in the middle of the ocean, no wind in the sky and very little oil in the rig. Jim and the Crew are stuck as far as they can tell. Pan to Jim’s face overlooking the ocean.]

Jim [Narration]- It was all supposed to go so well, but sometime’s things don’t go the way as plan. I remember the crew getting so pent up about the situation that they took a lousy albatross as a sigh of good hope. Now, I won’t lie to you and say that was one smarter ideas the crew had, but I had had my fill of that nonsense and took matters into my own hands. [Shot of Carrey shooting the albatross] But I guess the crew had to have been a little right, because what happened next was really nasty. There was a fog that engulfed our ship, and we couldn’t see farther than a few feet around the ship, but we did see one ship in the distance, and it stank rank of the supernatural…


I wanted to do a movie script of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner because I felt that the source material itself would really lend itself into a style that could really be exciting to see on the big screen. In scenes were the crew is stranded on the sea, the shots that could be done could really accentuate the feelings of claustrophobia when they are stranded in the fog of the sea, or how when they encounter Death and Life After Death the costumes and the actors could really do a fantastic job in bringing to life the full dreadfulness of the situation. Although my script focuses mainly on the less that exciting introduction of the poem, I feel like my interpretation really brings more audience investment when we see how the wacky tale of the Mariner begins; instead of just walking up and talking to the wedding goer, I thought it’d be more interesting if maybe the Mariner actually kidnaps him so that he can tell the tale. I also like to think that my faster pace within the script helps the audience get the the deeper substances within the source material, where later there will be extended scenes about how the crew dies suddenly and how they come back to life with the help of angels to steer the ship again. My interpretation is pretty effective in trying to get the poetic nature of the piece to really stick out more for the audience so that they can really see the amazing details that are within the poem. It is also important to note that my casting choices of Jim Carrey as the Ancient Mariner and Steve Carrel as the Wedding Goer are the best choices as Jim has pretty surprising range when it comes to more serious films and Steve is able to pull off the confusion on the part so well as he’s done many films where he finds himself in weird predicaments. This film is gonna rock everyone to the core, and I hope everyone enjoys it. Thank you and have a nice day.

Alejandro Joseph Serrano

Narrative of the Captivity of a Stereotype Privileged Person by a less-Privileged Person

And now I must part with what little company I had. I had parted with my BFF Tiffany (whom I never saw again till I saw her in Clovis, returned from juvenile), and from every other civil person who could afford decent highlights. Lord only knows what happened to her, sentenced to community service in Fresno with a fine. These people around me, I was nothing like them. I’d only tried to rip off a single Gucci bag from the mall. These thugs around me looked like they could beat me senseless. The animals they called guards are brutal. They’re so rude and they barely treat me like a human being. This was my second court date. I’d been in lock up due to the crowded detention centers for months. This cold, desolate place was hardly fit for someone of my stature and social standing. I’d only needed that purse because the woman at the counter had so unfairly denied my request for a discount. If she knew who I was, she would have begged for my business. In my time here, I didn’t cry a single tear. I watched as children were prodded around like cattle. Those “behavioural issues” these guards talked about were nothing but the true reactions of scared children. Most of them I’d seen grow up. The other inmates I saw had been mostly from the lower income side of Fresno. Not unlike the guards, those hooligans were animalistic themselves. Their smoke-leadened cries of desperation were pathetic. If it had been up to me, I would have sentenced them to the fullest form of punishment. Anything from shoplifting chips to armed robbery would have a life sentence from me. Anything to keep that riff-raff from growing into a full-blown criminal.

I don’t belong here. This cruel injustice, being mixed with people who couldn’t afford to breathe in the same school ground as I walk on from day to day, it is unacceptable. As soon as my parents return to the country, I will be released into their custody and they will find a way to fix all of this. No amount of therapy will ever be enough to cleanse the thoughts of these horrible people. How dare they silence me, an American citizen. I have god-given rights to this country. How could they lump me with the trash that pollutes our nation? My family has been on the top of many food chains for generations? Can half of the people in this hellish place claim that? I doubt half of them even speak the language, let alone possess the ability or knowledge to speak of their worth. Which, if I did say so myself, was not much. I felt pity for those who had potential to be greater simply based on their heritage. They wasted their potential. Now, like those people who lived from welfare check to welfare check, they rotted in here. All I could think of was how sweet it would be to be rid of myself from this awful place. I didn’t belong here. It was only a matter of time before they saw how unjust I was being treated. I was there for seven days.


I chose to parody The Fourth Remove of Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mary Rowlandson by Mary Rowlandson. I thought it would be interesting to take a concept of someone who was dramatizing such a horrible experience but twist it to victimize herself completely. In this parody I greatly emphasized the nature of someone who was far more privileged than perhaps most of the people in my community as a whole or even the community (Clovis) that I chose reference. The satirical emphasis on the degradation of lower socioeconomic position was an aesthetic choice showing that even when the “victim” was clearly at fault, much like the settlers of Rowlandson’s time, they could still set themselves above the rest. Though I preserved the proper and “high-class” tone of Rowlandson’s piece, I chose not to choose religion as the narrator’s salvation but rather social class. I wanted to sneak in subtle hints of just how privileged this girl was, not just in wealth but in social aspects as well. Her parents are clearly wealthy, having been travelling outside of the country presumably for leisure or even business and foreign business trips are often the results of a high-paying career in general. I think most people agreed, within the class as well as amongst historical writers such as William Apess (who wrote his own parody piece), Rowlandson was making a very biased judgement of the natives of her time based on her religion and her race. Even though her people were technically the invaders of that land, they saw the property as their own and the inhabitants as pests and animals. I chose to parody this frame of mind by mimicking the animal analogies as well as casting a light on how she turned a merciful eye on those kids (presumably younger students) who were in the narrator’s social circle. I specifically made a casual mention of therapy in the narrator’s speech to further separate her from the other (minorities? Lower income kids?) inmates who no-doubt felt fear to some extent or even had no remorse but nonetheless would probably never have the opportunity to receive proper counseling.

-Asia Reyna

The Rime of The ancient White Tigers

It is an elder smoking in street,

And we stopped us three.

His white beard and wisdom filled eyes,

‘Now why have you stopped in front of me?’

Us three heard a tale that is not told wide,

And we are curious;

‘My friends come in, a meal is set:

May you come in and feast.’

The three sat in the chair:

No choice but to eat;

And the elder ask which story

The three said ‘The Tigers of White Ruri’

The Tigers that are white live in the Jungle;

That is dense full of trees and leaves.

They are not the same as others though,

For they have brown skin and platinum hair.

Tiger Ruri was deemed the protector,

Since she was the chiefs daughter,

And stood watch of the Hearth;

That stood for courage, dignity, glory, and strength.

Blonde haired pale skin people explored the village,

And was astounded to what they saw.

The chief asked, ‘What are you?’

The response was Aetos Dios.

One took a liking to Ruri,

And hung out with her all day.

He said ‘I will save you from this burden’

And Ruri replied ‘Silly Tenguerian’.

The white tigers began dying, and no one knew why.

‘To blame is the Blondies!

It’s their fault we die!’

The chief told them to stop this foolish blame.

The chief went to Ruri and found her dead,

And saw the Blondie lying there.

He cried for his daughter

And felt truly scared.

He yelled at the Blondie but he died as well,

And he yelled to the others.

‘Get out, leave now, your deeds are done!

You Tenguerians bring nothing but despair !’

The Blondies mourned for the son,

And the Tigers found cause of death.

‘Poor Ruri was attacked

And the Tengu fought it away

She got the most damage,

And prepared to die was he,

But he waited it out

To die together with hand in hand.’

After this, they buried Ruri

And the Tigers died substantially.

Half went into captivity

And the rest never accounted for.

‘Is this why you only see

the white tigers in the controlled cities?’

Maybe so, maybe not

It is only Maybe a story.

For my creative writing project I decided to do a parody of the Rime of the Ancient Mariner. As you can clearly see I do not know how to work a computer, so it looks this way because no matter what I did the lines looked too spaced out and did not show the breaks. Anyway, I did not want to mimic it line-by-line because I think a parody should follow the story in it’s own way and thus I focused more on the crazy story. It is a story I made up of a society that is Human and animal. I wanted to base it off white tigers because they are my favorite animal. I also wanted to add different mythology within the story too. Aetos Dios comes from Greek Mythology and the Tenguerian is a word I made up from the word Tengu which is from Japanese folklore. These could be understood by looking it up online. The meaning of the poem is open to interpretation(s). *Imani Pree*

Captain Cock’s Journal

Captain Cock’s Journal During Another Voyage Around the Girls

Tuesday, 17th. I farted soon as my lids passed the scape of mine eyes. My bed rumbled, wakening stole into me like last night’s stew, and my cabin was at once a jungle of barbarous scents and cheek-flapping echoes. The squall of the fart blew 15 degrees past my left thigh and 43 degrees up my central-buttocks. I felt it tickle mine taint, where I’ve a pimple like a stuffed pinto bean, and I’ve been tempted to pop it, but I suspect the pus might fly 50 some degrees west into the rear of my gentleman’s grain-sacks. I observed this morn how the hair on those bulbous mounds of His Image had grown, and I much thought of my wife Grace and her fascination with shaving my intimacy. The hairs bent at some 5 degrees south, my captain’s fleshy finger bent similarly in the southern direction, and I was much pressed by God to not relieve my white man’s burden in a stupendous arc and spray of some 69 degrees north onto the walls of mine cabin. Instead, I took up my journal, that silly numbers pomposity the King will read, and I took to recording the rest of my much burdened day. And what a burden I had between mine legs. I am loath to enter into disputes, but I would swear that I was as blue as the sea with which we plied 51 miles east and 30 north.

Friday, 20th. ARRIVAL ON UNNAMED ISLAND. Having been incited by the man in the crow’s nest sighting of land – which during he made the mistake of pointing towards said land at a 40-degree angle and not a 45-degree angle – pushed, was I, towards the relief of my rage in the forms that came as they may. God as my witness, the King shall never bear witness, and so I shall not be judged until the Judgement, and who might judge me for that? My Grace? She is at home. She is no witness. I corrected the boy the 5 degrees and bid the men escort me to the village. They took hold of me, exalted as they were in my generosity in leadership, and they forced me to give in to my base temptations. With dark copper in her hair, and some golden native links in her ears, who can blame my member for the 180-degree tilt it took, most horizontal and rigid in our ship’s wood, in response to the back-frontal 90 degree angle that dark temptress took? My thrusts were, as follows, 40-some degrees inward, followed by a declination angle of 20-some degrees outward, followed by another inward of a higher and – from her -shriller 59 degrees, and naturally this followed with a 19 degree exit during which she screamed at an octave of some 80-plus decibels, and I was much irritated with the half-second lengths with which her screams echoed in my cabin. There was blood dripping at some intervals of 2 or 3 seconds, and it fell most divinely straight into a 180-degree verticality. I noted that the chains around her wrists sagged at some arc of 57 degrees and I though that most disenchanting. I found myself overtaken by the savagery within my shipmen, that savagery with which they take these savages, and I found myself striking her at some intervals of 4 or 5 seconds until she had adjusted the chains to my preferred, and uplifting, 60 degrees precisely. I freed her after the act, bid her go, and I took to disciplining the men for having possessed me so. We pressed on, sailing for some 20 miles north and 50-some miles east, and I thought of how Grace lifted mine hidden hairs to such perfect and well-learned degrees of 10s, 15s, 20s, 25s…

Review of Captain’s Cock’s Journal:

By Ivan Sternovich

            The writer of this “parody” article, Ian Sterns, is a liberal fanatic who cannot remove his bias from anything he writes. His choice to adopt the cerebral tone of Captain Cook’s Journal is well-meaning, but even I, the esteemed reviewer Ivan Sternovich, cannot decipher his point in the constant referencing of numbers. It’s almost as though he was making fun of Captain Cooks obsession with numbers – how they seem to represent the progress of the expedition and are somehow a ridiculous commodity, a value, showing to his audience, the King, how far Cook has gone – but that couldn’t be it; the writer of this parody isn’t that good. No way is that bald dummy Sterns alleging that Cook was concealing the horrors of his journey by summarizing journeys in “miles” and reducing actions to “degrees.” Sterns couldn’t see that Cook was a liar – who probably left out evil actions by himself and crew to spare his reputation – if Cook smacked Sterns in the face with a longboat. Sterns is a pretentious idiot who is anti-feminist. How dare he conceal the horrors of colonization and rape with descriptions of sexual assault through “degrees” and “intervals!” Is he trying to say that the short distance involved in the sexual act and the vast distances of Cook’s travels are one and the same – that both are somehow inherently damaging, and that both can be reduced to numbers and terse description? Is Sterns alleging that Cook uses language as some kind of veil? And do I even need to talk about that introduction? Do we really need lengthy descriptions of Captain Cook’s genital habits? What is even the point of that? Could Sterns be pointing to the inherent humanity in such intimate actions and thoughts? Could he be setting up the strange brutality of his next paragraph by implying that the reader could, possibly, share an embarrassing connection with Cook? Is Sterns even writing about Cook? Or is he writing about Captain Cock? Does Sterns even know what he’s writing about?

Sternovich’s Grade: F+. Radical liberal propaganda with a smattering of white guilt. Just go see the Green Book instead of reading this anti-woman drivel.

Ivan Sternovich, Editor-At-Large,