Lukeman Exercise Part One | Tawn Jewkes

This is the original version. It probably doesn't make sense at all because it's just a chunk out of a story. The punctuation isn't horrible, but I found inserting and removing a few punctuation marks here and there made it easier to read. I also found that the flow was better and it seemed to be less choppy and jump from sentence to sentence.

I am not a morning person, definitely not a morning person. I showered quickly like I had to most every morning because I always sleep in. I threw on a little eye make-up because wearing anything more than that is such a waste of time and then slicked my hair into a bun. Jeans and a school t-shirt was what I wore that day—in other words, my scrounge clothes. I had to eat breakfast on the go.

Considering it took me twenty minutes to drive to school every day I had plenty of time to put lotion on and finish up all the little touches I didn’t have time to do because I never woke up early enough.

This is the revised version.

I am not a morning person, definitely not a morning person. I showered quickly like I had to most every morning because I always sleep in. I threw on a little eye make-up because wearing anything more than that is such a waste of time and then slicked my hair into a bun. Jeans and a school t-shirt was what I wore that day—in other words, my scrounge clothes. I had to have breakfast on the go.

Considering it took me twenty minutes to drive to school every day I had plenty of time to put lotion on and finish up all the little touches I didn’t have time to do because I never woke up early enough.

Just revising a few sentences changed it enough to give it a better flow. It helped with the overall understanding and made it more simple and straightforward.

Lukeman Exercise Part One | Chase Ferguson

I knew after getting up today that I would soon have to dress myself only after showering in the hot water, which would rinse off the soap of which I had scrubbed my dirty self with in the attempt to get clean. If I didn't go through this daily routine, I might not have the opportunity for another twenty four hours and thus remain stinky and grimy feeling for the whole day, not to mention get even dirtier.

A character who thought in such long sentences as this would be someone who looked into things very deeply. Someone who had to analyze every decision under a telescope to decide on its affects, good or bad. I think this character would most naturally be a stress freak. Reading his thought process made me want to scream, "Just get in the freaking shower and get on with it!". But I discovered from this activity that if I wanted to portray a character who had the stressful mentality on life, that drawing out longer sentences would really help convey that. If I would have typed something like, "I got up today, and got in the shower as usual." It would have made the character seem way to care free, or just depressed. But filling in his more detailed thought process and putting the period further out there helped a great deal.

This exercise indeed has taught me something that can be used in my other writings, by keeping the sentence length appropriate with the feeling of the message to be communicated.

Lukeman Exercise Part One | Chris Tash

I decided to try one of the first assignments. I tend to make my sentences long and wanted to try the other side. This task was that of only making my sentences about 6-7 words in length. To be honest, it was fun. I found I was given the opportunity to cut some words or even attempt to use two sentences to describe a single idea. I really liked reading it back out loud. It might just be me but I found myself trying to read faster to find the outcome but also having to slow a bit as I hurdled over the periods. This created an almost.. hungry sensation within me. I wanted to read more. Faster.

Triela walked briskly down the hall. A glance back suggested she was alone. A second glance confirmed this. Her eyes narrowed along with her step. Quicker. One foot in front of the other. Up, down; her chest rose and fell. Running, she began to run. Shadows began to betray confidence. Her sight told her she was alone. Fear welled inside her small frame. It whispered someone was near. Which to follow. Turn. Down a new hall. Her muscled screamed. But she couldn’t stop. Not now. Her breathing was met. Other steps began to echo. The sounds chased her down. Like ravenous dogs that found a meal. Faster. Biting her lip she continued. Can’t stop. She knew she was the last one. With her own eyes she saw. The other picked off. One by one. Around another turn. Light danced though the near door. She slammed into it. Opening it and rushing out. She met fresh air. The steps had stopped. Replaced by the sound of birds. Trees swayed lazily. Her eyes closed. Triela felt safe for a moment. Wait. No. No!

After doing this assignment I noticed I started constructing shorter sentences. I may not fully implement the idea of many short sentences in any writing but I will definitely be looking at the structure of my work more carefully.

Lukeman Exercise Part One | Celeste Johnson

I gave my paper to Adell to read and she made some good suggestions. There were so many exercises to choose from. It was hard for me to dissect my sentences to see which could stay smaller and which needed to be connected. I kinda did two exercises in one. Exercise two in the comma section and exercise two in the semicolon section. In some parts the commas worked well while others I believe needed semi-colons. I hope morphing two exercises was ok. Here is how the section originally read:

I was sixteen. I was invincible. Late one night I snuck out. I began running down the street to my friend's house. Up ahead I saw headlights. My stomach dropped. My town was small and I was out past curfew. I couldn't get caught. My heart started racing, pulse rocketing high, as sweat burst through my skin. I made a snap decision. I jumped. Uncomfortably landing in a bushy area at the bottom of a pepper tree. As luck would have it, this Saviour of a tree was directly across the street from my friend's house. In a sitting up fetal position, I snuggled my legs and plastered myself against the tree trunk. Hidden well.

Here is my attempt to fix/correct this section:

I was sixteen and invincible. Late one night I snuck out. I began running down the street to my friend's house. Up ahead I saw headlights; my stomach dropped. My town was small, I was out past curfew, and I couldn't get caught. My heart raced and pulse rocketed high; sweat burst through my skin. I made a snap decision, I jumped. I uncomfortably landed in a bushy area at the bottom of a pepper tree. As luck would have it, this Saviour of a tree was directly across the street from my friend's house. In a sitting up fetal position, I snuggled my legs, plastered myself against the tree trunk, and hide well.

Lukeman Exercise Part One | Robin Cole

A small cry. Waves, and again, a cry. Siryha sat up and they both looked towards the ocean. A scream.

I really like the punctuation I chose in these few sentences, but I believe that my intent didn't transcend the text. This section signals a major turn in the story, but I think that it came on almost too strong. The initial cry is supposed to be quiet, but definitely distinct.

A small cry, waves, and again a cry. Siryha sat up and they both looked towards the ocean. A scream.

When the first two sentences flow together with commas the sound of the cry flows into the sounds of the waves. The scream, however, stands apart and picks up the pace.

Lukeman Exercise Part One | Kimberly Bennett

I thought that this exercise was surprisingly difficult. I chose the exercise where you try to have one big long sentence, or rather, no period for an entire page. I found I could only do this at first with a stream of thought. However, as I decided to invoke the power of semicolons, which I can only pray I used correctly, stream of thought wasn't quite enough. So, I came up with something a little bizarre which turned out to be a very lengthy inroduction for a personification of Hope. So, here it is!

Moving through the wind and trees like night on the tails of dusk, I shift into the shadows of your soul and wait for you to see; wait for you to see me standing there like the adventure of a life time, like the mystery that become the storm, like the ever present monumental calling of the wind to the sea; Then, I, moving like the race of days and nights that forgot the agony of tearstained eyes, and dried with those fingers of dawn the salted faces of the lost and friendless, I will take the lead, comforting those in my path as a queen; a silent queen that stalks the day and moves in silence, but causes all who see her to blush in the openness of their souls as, with the all the serenity of the calm before the storm, I make my way into your minds, unforgettable in the ease with which I pierce the masks of your eyes, because I see; I see right through you and the way in which you wish to manipulate your world, but I remain untouched and that is why you choose not to see me; that is also why some day you will have no choice but to open up and see yourself in my eyes, that is why I am unforgettable: I hide in the very nature you try to keep hidden, in your shadows, in your darkness; I am not darkness, but I know it well; I know yours because I am the bit of light that lives there, disguised in my refuse, and when you fall into that darkness and open up your eyes to see me standing there you are saved from it, you can break free, I will guide you to the light on your visionary journey; I am your adventure, I am Hope. Welcome to the other side.

I found this to be a very interesting experience. I think it's very useful for making sure that your sentences are appropriately connected. It was an adventure.

Lukeman Exercise, Part One | Rayla Gomez

When I thought about it, people were so cautious, so aware of what might have happened instead of what actually would happen, that it was like they had a second pair of instincts that could react to any slight hint of danger.

Although this sentence only contains one main idea, it is a little wordy. In my writing, I tend to get too flowery with my descriptions and that can take away from the actual point of my telling the story. When I shortened this sentence, I realized that the paragraph sounded a little better because the reader has a chance to catch his/her breath. The reader is also able to understand the material without so many useless phrases.

Truth be told, living in old country times was sleepy, innocent in a way (especially if you were a child)- yet not naïve. People protected themselves with rifles that were perched above the fireplaces, a constant peace falling over them when they saw the arms. When I thought about it, people were so cautious and aware of what might happen that it was like they had a second pair of instincts, reacting to any slight hint of danger. On the other hand, I never thought it strange to be protected. I remember my mother owning a rifle just to keep the coyotes and wild cats away from the ranch house at night.

Lukeman Excercise Part One | Brian Wall

Surely another winter blizzard was eminent.

Surely another winter blizzard was eminent, the boy thought as he gazed at the dark clouds of the far hills, and felt the cold, piercing wind bite at his bare skin.

Lengthening my sentences and harvesting them for all they are worth is definitely something that I can improve on in my writing. Oftentimes I find myself writing very short sentences and not giving enough description.

Lukeman Exercise Assignments | Dr. P

As I mentioned in class, please choose one assignment from each section of the Lukeman book and complete an exercise for each section. They are due by midnight of the day they are due.

Monday • 10/1 = Part One
Wednesday • 10/3 = Part Two
Friday • 10/5 = Part Three

This means you'll be submitting three posts to Stranger Than Wal-Mart this week. You'll receive a separate grade for each one.

Please don't just pick the shortest exercise. Really try to make it fit your needs and interests. The best entries (meaning, of course, the highest grades) will show us something. We'll be able to look at your entry and learn something about your writing. You'll be sharing a weakness, I know. That's what makes it worth reading. Hopefully, when you read other entries (and you should) you won't feel so alone or whipped by punctuation. Misery loves company, don't you think?

Take care to proofread your entries.

Your titles should look like this: Lukeman Exercise Part One | Your Name
Your labels should be (at least): Lukeman, punctuation, Your Name

Good luck out there.

In Stupor| Corinn B. Sessions

IN STUPOR

Deomons in shadow beckong to play,

Battling against eidolon children

Tapping on glass for one last favor.

The Old Serpent tinkers in recesses,

Molding one aspiration to fault,

One desire to obsession.

The workshop where nightmares forge,

The playground of dimentia

Cast for the apprentice of idols.

One throw for redemption, a toss

Of thought in element of rescue-

At what blood price to pay for redemption?

In essence of gray matter, an act of salvage

For one lost entity in expanses of speculation.

Fred At the Fair | Bree Seely

There was once a little boy, let’s just say his name was Fred, who loved to go to rodeos. He would go to the fairs every year and watch the men ride the bulls. One year he decided he wanted to ride one too. Upon inquiry, Fred found out he was allowed to ride a calf. Which, being 7 years old, was good enough for him. His turn came and he climbed on the calf’s back and rode it. His face was filled with disappointment when he climbed off the beast and walked slowly to his father. The ride had been boring and uneventful, not like the bull rides he’d seen the cowboys do.

A year or two later, Fred and his friend Tommy were at the fair together when Tommy decided that HE wanted to ride a calf. Fred didn’t want to endure the slow pain-staking ride again so he told Tommy just to go. Tommy wouldn’t go unless Fred did; little boys always need the moral support from their friends. Fred conceded and they got in line. When they got to the front Tommy got a little calf and Fred, who was a bit bigger than Tommy, got a big cow.

Now this ride was a lot more interesting! Fred got on the cow and was let out into the arena. The cow bucked and flailed until Fred was off it’s back. He landed in the dust, hitting his tailbone hard on the ground. He crawled to the fence and tried climbing out of the arena. While he was trying to pull himself out he slipped and he felt his shoulder pop. His shoulder hurt but his butt hurt a lot more. By the time the adrenaline had run through and pain started to register he was limping to his dad complaining about his butt.

Fred was too macho to whine about his injury so he held it in as they walked around the fairgrounds. About an hour later his shoulder was piercing with pain. He finally couldn’t take it any longer. His dad drove him quickly to the hospital while his dutiful friend Tommy stayed at the fair to enjoy the carnival. Fred was taken in to see a doctor. The doctor did a couple procedures and determined that Fred had broken his collar bone! Fred was baffled by this because his butt and hip had hurt much worse than his shoulder and yet there was nothing wrong with his bottom and his collar bone was broken.

The Flying Squirrel

It was a damp, gray, February day in Detroit, exactly like the twenty-one days before it and the sky hung heavy, somewhere between sleet and snow. The city bus pulled in front of Immaculata High School and Barb Cunningham and I stepped out over the blackened slush onto the sidewalk. It was definitely a Monday, but Barb's wired smile glinted beneath her hood. I'd seen that smile before. It would be a day to remember.

The principal was an older nun of the order of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. Her office was filled with dead animals--stuffed wildlife contorted in quasi-natural poses provided courtesy of her father, a dismally mediocre taxidermist. A henna fox with a toothy grin stood guard over the outer office. A glass wall with a centered oak half-door divided the public space of the outer office from the inner sanctum. Through the glass wall, Sister Marguerita's desk was visible--a neat pile of papers and record books, a public address microphone and a stuffed snowy owl whose face was frozen forever in distorted mid-screech. A smallish badger with disproportionately huge curved claws, a snarling wolverine--the state animal--and a red flying squirrel whose arms and legs were outstretched as if in midair, but who was actually perched on a log, monitored the comings and goings of students from the window ledge. The two of us entered the building beneath their dead gazes.

Barb and I shared a locker and much of the same class schedule, but she was inexplicably absent from Calculus. Likewise, in Chemistry she was nowhere to be found. I excused myself to get a drink of water and caught a glimpse of her down the hall, in the principal's outer office. Suddenly, her head disappeared and I ran toward the office, impelled as much by fear as by curiosity. There was Barb, on the floor, crawling into the inner sanctum like a foot soldier crawls through enemy fields. To my horror, Sister Marguerita sat at her desk, not six feet from the crawling Barb, writing in one of her record books, obviously oblivious to the invasion. Like a rocket, Barb's arm shot up through the air, snatching the squirrel and the log to which it was eternally attached and brought them to her flattened chest. Fear and disbelief shot through me and I weighed for an instant whether I wanted to be even a witness to this crime.

Almost as stealthily as she came in, Barb wriggled out of the inner office and back into public space, which was surprising considering the bulk of her heist. She rolled her body up to a stand and nonchalantly tried to hide the quarry under her uniform blazer, which, frankly, didn't work very well. She walked briskly past me as if I were invisible, but I swear I could hear her heart beating from where I stood. Then she disappeared down the hall.

I returned to Chemistry, having been gone long enough to have imbibed twenty gallons of water. But Sister Rodriga, about four feet tall and four feet wide, faced the chalkboard and was engrossed in her explanation of covalent solutions and the atomic number of sodium and didn't even notice me. Not five minutes later Barb rushed in, out of breath.

"Sister, there's a squirrel in the chapel!"

Sister Rodriga's eyes grew wide for a moment as the realization of the words dawned on her. She flew into a flurry of navy and white, ranting something about those "pesky rascals" and how they're so difficult to catch and how they'll surely shred the new chapel curtains, and it took over two years to get the requisition for them through the archdiocese, and she whirlwinded from the classroom. Stunned silence was all that was left in the vacuum of her wake.

Incredibly, nothing more was ever heard or mentioned of the incident--it was as if it never happened. The only evidence was unveiled to us insiders three days later when we saw Barb, scrubbing three floors of stairs in four different stairwells with a toothbrush--a wired smile glinting beneath her hair.

A Man and His Daughter

A man stood on his porch
hidden from the rain.
The rain was dancing
upon the earth.
This man reached out a hand,
shaped into a cup,
fingers squeezed together,
palm bent down.
He caught a few drops.
In his palm.
Examined the crystallized rain,
then, carelessly wiped it on his
pant leg.
Squealing and giggling, his
daughter came bouncing out.
Screen door swinging behind her.
She ran, past her daddy
Out, to the pooring rain.
The man gazed, as his
Daughter.
Jumped!
Splashed!
Spinned!
And laughed!
As the rain poored down.
Drenching the earth.
Soaking his
daughter.
The man
Turned, on his heels,
And walked revently back
Inside.

Venture #2 | Forever Adult

A beautiful baby,
my mother says.
Fresh and pink
in ugly sunlight,
she said I was a beautiful baby.
I was
never
a baby.

A brilliant toddler,
my father says.
Tripping and content
in stupid frills,
he said I was a brilliant toddler.
I was
never
a toddler.

A confident schoolgirl,
my grandma says.
Sure and purposeful
in awkward braces,
she said I was a confident schoolgirl.
I was
never
a schoolgirl.

A supporting lifeline,
my best friend says.
Constant and solid
in my manic tears,
she said I was a supporting lifeline.
I was
never
a lifeline.

A tender angel,
my lover says.
Graceful and light
in my demonic hate,
He said I was a tender angel.
I was
never
an angel.

I have been forever adult,
I say.
Scared to death
at the prospect
of being looked to.
Eldest of eight
role model
of seven.
I will forever be
the cringing
adult.

Introduction | Klynton Jessup

I like to work. I have had a job continuously since I was 12. It started with the family and their farm and them moved on to the food service industry. I worked as a dishwasher at a Mexican Restaurant in Beaver for 4 years before moving on to work full time at a truck stop doing the graveyard "thing".
Currently I work at Convergys as an Associate Trainer, I work upwards of 50 hours per week and I go to school full time. I have been in my position as a trainer since October of last year, making this coming month my 1 year anniversary. Late but still done.

Venture #2

Sitting in the peaceful canyon was very calming to all of the chatter constantly going on in my head. As i look up at the beautiful imperfect cliff i realize just how insignificant my problems in life are. I think back to all that I have been stressing about, all of my worries, doubts, and family problems and realize that it doesn't really matter as much as i thought it did. They are all important and i will need to deal with them, but i don't need to stress about them. My life is really quite small compared to the far reaching cliff.
That cliff has been there for who knows how long, and it has cracks and markings. I've only been here for eighteen years, who am i to really be striving for such perfection in my life? The cliff looks as if it has fallen on its side, and is resting on its the hill of dirt to its side. Who do i rest against? Who do i let hold me up when I can't hold myself up? We can't always be the person who others lean on. We all need someone.

Slightly Imperfect

It was a slightly groggy Thursday, and just slightly raining. The sun was just slightly peaking through the clouds and I was slightly tired. If you have ever been slightly tired then you understand the slight clumsiness one can experience.
My roommate and I were fumbling around the local Thrift Store, Deseret Industries. Our quest was to find a table to place our make-shift television. I say ‘makeshift’ because our television is actually a very portable lap-top. It was currently resting on an upside down basket meant for a bike. The lap-top/television protested strongly against its metal wicker stand, so upon the lap-tops request, we were rummaging through the dusty knick-knacks of D.I. in an attempt to find a real stand for our makeshift entertainment machine.
First we found a beautiful, slightly imperfect, white toilet. The idea that a slightly imperfect toilet could be transformed into a stand for a makeshift television, to me, was genius. In my excitement I squealed and said, “It’s perfect! (Slightly) Nancy, this is it! This is the stand!” But to my disappointment she didn’t say anything. She just laughed loudly and scrunched up her noise like a rabbit and opened her eyes slightly wider. Giving the same kind of expression one gets when offering them food they are not craving, or that sounds utterly disgusting. Yet if you focused on her eyes you could see fear rapidly growing too. Maybe Nancy was afraid that a guest would come into our apartment, suddenly loose bowl control and rush to the nearest slightly imperfect toilet. Being that our makeshift television stand was once a slightly imperfect toilet, they would obviously use that toilet. In a mad, animal like rush, our uncomfortable guest would yank their paints down, throw the lap-top/television across the room and proceed to release whatever was once inside their digestive system onto the floor under the toilet. Understanding her fear of having to clean up the mess a toilet TV stand could very possibly make, I stopped longingly staring at the toilet and followed her to the couch section.
In the couch section, actually it was not really a section it was more of an area that all the couches have gathered, Nancy found a wonderfully comfortable recliner. I joined her on a recliner next to her and chatted about the slight clumsily and grogginess I was feeling at the moment. I believe that I was feeling this way on account of several things. One being the groggy look all these couches had. Every couch in the ‘Couch Gathering Area’ had only one thing in common, dust. They were all covered “I’m an abandoned couch” dust. It was as if a long time ago fifty or so people all sat on these couches daily, but then for some unexplained reason, they stopped coming and are now left to gather dust and look groggy. I sat pondering what a couch might be saying to one another as they wait for a new revival of couch sitters to come, when Nancy said, “Maybe there is something upstairs?”, so we got up and walked up the stairs to the clothing area of D.I.
The clothing section of D.I. is the most brilliant area of D.I. (except for the slightly imperfect toilet). There seems to be clothing from every generation, for every age and they were all once wore by someone else! I wondered how many lucky shirts, socks, ties or trousers are in one rack of clothing. There is even wedding dresses! A few of them looked like Jane Austin could have worn it and looked smashing. Nancy and I entertained ourselves with the endless Halloween costume possibilities for a while, absorbing the shear humor of some of the styles and colors. We were about to leave, giving up on finding our makeshift lap-top/TV stand, when I saw a package of underwear that had a sticker saying, “Slightly Imperfect”, this sticker struck out at me. This sticker was absolutely confusing. Did the sticker mean that the underwear was once used, but the person who used them never had over active bladder problem or mad rushes to slightly imperfect toilets? Or, did the sicker mean that a rich, silly person didn’t like the color of the underwear because it didn’t perfectly match their perfectly matching outfit, which was not bought at D.I. by the way. So the rich, silly person placed it in a large, black, garbage bag with other slightly imperfect items and sent them to D.I. never to be seen again.
That is when I realized that I related to the “Slightly Imperfect” bag of underwear. The underwear didn’t really do anything that could cause a terrible consequence of its dreaded fate of thrift shopping. Unlike the wedding dresses, the wedding dresses could have done terrible things to a wedding and all the blamed could be passed onto the dresses. The dresses were then punished to the thrift store to be sold for $15, only a fraction of what it was originally paid for. The dresses didn’t even have a sticker of warning, like the underwear, saying something like, “This Dress Will Destroy Your Wedding”. Actually, nothing in the entire D.I. store held any kind of warning except the bags of underwear. Warning you of their slight imperfection, like it’s clandestinely saying, “Slightly Imperfect, Not What You Want because It’s Not All Perfectly Imperfect”. Now the underwear is entirely out of place no matter where you try to sale it.
I realized that I have a “Slightly Imperfect” sticker too. I’ve done nothing dramatically terrible to be punished with my own tragedies. Yet I’m still suffering from them daily. Like the bag of underwear, I’m not complaining about my fate, I just hope for someone to come along feel pity on me and determine that they will properly use me. I need someone who would not disregard me because I don’t match or barely use me enough that I can still be placed back where I came from. I don’t want to be reconsidered over and over again, until there is nothing but left but the dust that has gathered on my underused heart. Yet, at the same time the very thought of being overused scares me back to my dusty submission.
I stood in front of these bags of underwear pondering my trivial imperfections for some time. Completely enthralled in my own trance of thoughts, mentally I wasn’t even in D.I. but in a slightly imperfect world of my own creation. Suddenly Nancy’s voice brought my attention back to reality.
“Amber... Amber... earth to Amber! Are we done here, or is their anything else you want to look at?”
I jumped in surprise; she had been trying to get my attention for some time now, so I stuttered in answering her.
“Hum... yeah... yeah... Well, can we get the toilet? I think that is our only option.”
I rubbed my eyes as if to change my perspective of the thrift store. My mind kept trying to pull me back to the underwear. I started to consider buying a bag, determined commit my self fully to the poor bag of panties. When Nancy asked, “Are you going to buy that underwear? You don’t know who has worn them and what they did in them. It’s like buying used lingerie!” A part of me shuddered at the thought of that, but at the same time I could almost hear the bags of underwear weeping, because of the comparison Nancy had made between an innocent bag of panties and lingerie. Lingerie was used for very personal, very sexually activities, using used lingerie would be like attending one of Shakespeare’s orgies but in clothing form. Obviously Nancy didn’t understand slight imperfection means the panties are virgins, unlike used lingerie. Nonetheless, here was this naive girl comparing slightly imperfect underwear to used lingerie! Too embarrassed to explain my obsession with the underwear and the mad reasoning I had to buy them, I nodded my head in agreement and walked away.
Nancy followed me; I assumed that she wanted to leave so I headed for the door. She trailed after me as we walked out of the D.I., I felt guilty for not buying the panties. I also still felt groggy, tired and clumsy, like had not fully woken up yet. As a result of that I accidentally smashed into a woman walking into the store, causing her to drop her purse and spill its contents. I hastily apologized and helped her gather her things, blushing with embarrassment the entire time. As she walked into the store I watched her do something that most people would normally laugh about. She quickly reached with her left hand behind her and tugged her underwear out of her butt crack, or more commonly know as ‘picking a wedgie’.
That is when I knew the “Slightly Imperfect” bags of underwear were meant for this woman. She might not have known it then, but as she was pushing open the door to the clothing section of D.I. she was destined to buy a bag of used underwear. This would happen after she remembered her own uncooperative underwear and would happily buy a perfectly imperfect bag of underwear. Fulfilling not only the woman’s needs but the underwear’s needs too. Secretly, I was listing to the weeping of the underwear slow to a stop as this woman made her way though the dusty racks of clothing, subconsciously drawn to the bags of Slightly Imperfect underpants.

Venture #2 | Christopher Tash

When I see a creek, river, or any body of flowing water I end up thinking about one of two things. The first is a large herd of wild horses. With wind ruffled mains and dirt dusted hides they travel close and along carved valley. The cramped space spooks the poor animals and they always begin to charge ahead faster when the walls get closer. Muscles fire off and they let out cries when they drag their skin across the rock beds and each other. Surging onward with a frightened pace so intense that there is no time to avoid any obstacles; the herd slams into rocks, logs, other anything in their way, several topple over each and others swell up over them without stopping. The earth slowly gets pulled away from their friends and family. The dirt and minerals are stripped from their calm and enjoyable lives like those drafted into surprise wars. Where do they go? To the end of the stream, when it broadens and the horses have more space to roam. They're dropped on their face, used, they have no more purpose and sit in the slower, shallow pools for the remainder of their existence. Sometimes the pebbles tell stories to each other, of their ride with the horses.

The other image that comes to mind is that of architects from ancient civilizations. They see the stone river bed and devour it like a starving artist devours a white open canvas. Each worker has a true passion for forming the old stone. They were all employed by some force that no one knows. All they truly know is that it's their job, their life, to conform the ancient stone. The earth is one way, right? It was created that way. The architects, water, want to change it to something more efficient and they work tirelessly to complete the job set for them. Each has a hammer and a chisel; tools as old and primitive as ever, but it works. One stroke at a time, one ring of the rustic hammer at a time. Each stripping a tiny bit more from the rock. The chips of rock fall to their feet, and when the old men shift their weight they kick the pebbles and stones to their neighbor, who, in turn, kick it a bit further. As they slide along the polished floor the chips themselves begin to smooth out. Some even start to bare precious metals and gems. The worth of the rock means nothing to the carvers though. They don't want it, they want to rid the world of these flaws. To them, it's not what the rock is, it's what the rock is hiding. They never end or tire. With a hammer in one hand and a chisel in the other the men happily sing while they wither away the flaws of their world. You can hear their chat. It changes constant. Some roar and boast while they carve waterfalls. Others quietly babble in shallow brooks.

Listen..

Venture # 2| Kimberly Bennett

The night has eyes that burn in ways
that man can never understand.
Perhaps that’s where the fear comes in
when darkness falls across the land.
Night masks distractions of the day,
that pretend we’re bigger than we are,
and opens doors to unknown worlds
that once seemed way too far.
We hear the wind that speaks in ways
that are different from the day,
It does not laugh in mockery
But lets strange music play.
It echoes of a different world,
a time that man forgot,
that left behind a silent epitaph,
but did so all for naught.
Until we open up our souls
To see beyond the doubt,
The wisdom that they left behind
We will have to live without.
But when we let the night come in
And show the greatness of a star
It won’t really matter
How small we really are.
A different star a different dream
our sky no longer holds us down,
we look beyond our own storm tossed souls
to see the eternal crown.
Night frightens many wearied souls
for, it’s hard to feel so small
when compared to so great a universe.
And our God made it all.
Some fear the night because they can’t see
what’s always told them where they are,
for in the night time your only guide
is a distant burning star.
A star that burns in gratitude
that tells us stories old,
that fills the rift of misery
and makes our hearts grow bold.
Sometimes we don’t know where to go,
we’re lost in endless night,
but maybe what we need to see
is our own inner light.
I cannot pretend to know for sure
what happens when I let go,
when I step into the darkness
and hope that I will glow.
But night is not what we should fear,
for night is just like day,
it has its time, it does its work,
it glories then goes away.
What we fear is the unknown,
and how vast the unfamiliar night,
but sometimes seeing is what really happens
when we loose the gift of sight.

Lizard Lunging, Venture #2 | Klynton Jessup

A lizard is lunging back and forward on a rock. It has been years since I have seen a lizard, what a subtle un-looked-for surprise. Just sitting here watching the jerky movements that he makes as he looks for the shadiest place under the sage brush to lay.
Ever warily, he scans, right to left and back. He quickly moves under a branch of the bush when I shift sitting positions. Seeing him there, hiding, in the bushes takes me back to long days in the summer when I was a child.
As child I loved the outdoors one of my favorite past times was spending long hours riding my bicycle with my friend to his farm. The heat swept over me then as it does now, sweating long hours up to the farm 3 miles away. Some days we would get lucky and get to take his Dad's four wheeler.
Once we were at the farm there was always a contest to see who could catch the most lizards without losing any pieces. As any lizard expert knows, they throw their tails when they are frightened to trick their predators. We, being bright children, were only tricked a couple of times.
The lizard moves back to a hole in the brush allowing me a better visual, I snap back. Things have changed, I no longer enjoy being outside the heat irritates me and reminds me of things I could be doing back in civilization.
I am surprised that my eyes are still sharp enough to, without glasses, see a lizard in the brush.

Venture #2 | Tawn Jewkes

(It was definitely a hot day. Too hot to be walking around Canyon Park looking for a college class might I add? The whole time I was walking around I was wondering if it was some sort of sick joke the class was playing on us freshman. Ok, now since that is out of the way…)

In a quiet trance, I stare at a family having a barbecue luncheon. The sizzle of the juicy burgers and the smell of the beef from the rising, steam vapors fills my nostrils. I hear a drip from the one of the burgers into the orange flame below, followed by a quick, split second sizzle. My attention is turned to three teenaged girls sitting on a blanket in the shade giggling, probably about boys. All three faces are smiling and lit up with laughter. I then notice the parents and grandparents. One father takes a baby from her mother and tosses her into the air over and over again as she squeals and grins with her two baby teeth coming into her soft, baby gums. I never knew so much went on at a simple family barbecue.

Venture #2 | Benjamin Dowse

About halfway up the red rock face, the telltale white-washing of their droppings on the rock gives away the nest's location. Its location is the first clue as to the incredible lives these creatures lead. Although not one of them is in sight, enough can be gathered simply from observing their home.
Two boulders jut from the side of the mountain and the patterns of white on their faces show exactly their favorite spots to sit on the rock, as they use their incredible eyes to survey their territory.
Their territory. Clearly this includes the sky. Only absolute masters of the air could even manage to reach the nest, let alone live there. The falcon owns the sky. It is the fastest animal on the earth. Looking up onto the majestic mountains that are its home, it is clear that I am merely a visitor.

The Hunter

The snow covered the valley like a thick, white blanket, interrupted only where clumps of trees poked through. Kyle stood alone on the mountain peak. There was nothing but silence, a silence that seemed to penetrate into every inch of the valley. He took a deep breath of the cool morning air, feeling it sting his throat as it filled his lungs. It felt good to get away from all the work at home. It was difficult trying to start a new life out west. Since they moved out here three months ago, Kyle felt like he hadn't had a chance to breathe. He enjoyed the break from all the hard work. As he looked over the valley far below, he felt a twinge of excitement, knowing that he was probably the first one to ever look on it. He took a step forward toward the valley; the first on his long journey.
He couldn't help but smile as he walked, knowing that his parents weren't expecting him back for a couple days. He was free -- free to go where he wanted and do what he wanted. The pack on his back seemed to lighten with each step he took. He kept his eyes peeled, searching for the movement of one animal. His family was counting on him to return with his kill, and they had given him all they could spare in hopes that he wouldn't fail. He walked lightly, trying not to disturb the silence that surrounded him. As he stepped next to a short, fat bush a rabbit darted out and ran across the snow, leaving a trail behind it. Kyle was startled and jumped, but kept his cool, knowing his prize was much bigger and more valuable. He quietly watched the rabbit run off into the distance, then continued walking toward the valley. As he continued his descent, the trees grew larger and a river in the distance got bigger.
Suddenly he heard the sound of twigs cracking ahead of him. He reached up behind his head and pulled out an arrow. He quietly grabbed his bow and knocked the arrow. Then he saw it emerge from the trees a few yards ahead of him. It's brown body seemed to gleam in the sun, while it's big antlers brushed the underside of the lowest branch. It seemed to stand perfectly still, ensuring there was no danger around before it took another step. Kyle lifted the arrow and pointed it straight at enormous beast. Silently he drew in a breath then released the arrow. He watched it glide toward his target and easily penetrate the soft skin. The beast fell where it had been shot. Kyle walked toward it, another arrow drawn in case it moved. With a smile he realized he would be able to sustain his family for a little longer.

Venture #2 | Celeste Johnson

(NOTE to Dr P - After today's class, I realize that I misunderstood the assignment and wrote a story revolving around an object I saw instead of just describing what I saw. So here is a different thing I saw and wrote about. Hope you understand!)

Soft brush strokes, followed by a few dainty smatterings, are just part of the painted canvas in the Cedar canyons. Like a sponge, I try to soak in all I can see. One in particular is a majestic mountain side which caught my eye. The coarse red rocks jut out here and there in askew angles. Some of the etched grooves look like the inside of a half-eaten Butterfinger. Other parts look crumbled, from years of varying weathers. Sparsely dotting the side of this mountainous face are little green fluffs. It kind of looks like Mother Nature took her paintbrush and flung green globs of paint at the canvas. Mother Nature's artist ability constantly astounds me.

Venture #2 | Janette Jones

As I sit in the hot, hot sun
I ponder about what I have done
As I sit and bake my skin
I think about how I have been

I think about how I'm so small
Compared to the world around me now
I see the sky so blue and bright
Without boundaries or limits in sight

I often think "Why did God pick blue?"
Why not red, pink or a golden hue?
There is so much blue, and so much sky
If I stare too long it makes me cry

Oh, how my eyes do burn
For the cool shade I do yern
Am I getting delusional
This heat makes me feel unusual

Venture #2 | Marjorie Riches

Leaves twinkle joyfully in the lazy blue daylight
Bouncing bright sunbeams off their faces,
Shining, trying to stand out in a sea of millions.
Wanting to be the biggest most beautiful on the tree,
The most important
Yearning for the sky to notice them and tell them,
You are a very special leaf.
Not realizing that they are only one leaf
Just one leaf on a huge tree
Just one leaf on one tree in the middle of the forest.
The sky, with the whole world to explore
Will never notice one little leaf.

A Survivor

Sage brush clings to the shallow earth a swirl of roots a branches twisted by some unseen hand. Tiny blue gray leaves with leather skin are the only hallmark of life on the plant. It sits hardly moving in the light breeze. An existence of struggle fought against the wind and the lack of water and rich soil. Leafless breaches represent more hopeful times and a failed investment. Drinking up the sun the small brush pushes its roots deep, long fingers finding strength in the immovable mountain. These labors will be the ones that ensure a longer life than the lizards or spiders that borrow its shade. The animals need the help of the brush and help is willingly given. After all they will soon pass on but like the mountain the small sage brush will remain, a survivor.

venture #2 | Naiomi Hoggan

Red cliffs surround me. Jagged and rocky luming above me. The many cracks I see, makes me think that there could be something in these cliffs, or a hidden cave that waiting to be discovered. These red cliffs seem to becon me to come and explore, but do i dare? Standing next to any cliff, I don't dare to set a foot on them try and climb. I fear too greatly of falling to my death. I also feel as small as an ant next to a cliff. So for safety's sake I'll keep my feet firml y planted on the ground.
I love to be in the mountains and see the natural beauty of the world. The quietness of the mountains that calms the troubled noise of everyday life, sooths the soul and quiets the loudness of the city that ring endlessly in the ears. Give me the gentle breeze in the trees, the trickle of a stream, and the shatterless quiet that only gets disturbed by birds singing in the trees and I'm a happy person.

introduction | Naiomi Hoggan

I am the only one in my family that is born outside the United States. Every silbing I have is all born in the U.S.A. I was not, I was born in Japan. The reason because I was born in Japan is because my dad was and still is in the navy. Also because of this, everyone in my family was born in a different place. My older brother was born in Flordia, My sister was born here in Utah, and my little brother was born in Hawaii.

Venture 2 | Katrina Cox

The sound of multiple cars passing by this canyon in which we students sit in brings many questions to my mind. Human society in general is so caught up in their own lives that such places as this canyon are often passed by. Why stop in a natural park when there are other places--like clubs, bars, and cinemas--in which one could enjoy themselves? It makes me wonder if the passersby even notice our c ars parked alongside the road. Do they even have curiousity for why so many people are here at the canyon at this specific hour? Do they even care at all? How blind society is with all the rampant, technological advances and inventions! All anybody really needs to do is turn off their engines, open the door, and step out into what God has put on this planet. Listen to the flowing river, watch the trees and desert sage sway in the wind, watch the insects go about their daily routines, and just be . . . .

Venture #2/ Cherity Prince-Phillips

How Does One Conquer a Mountain?

I hate talking about big things. Those things that keep you up at night because they are impassable, immovable , impossible. But, you like thinking about it, looking at it, dreaming of it. Although it may be terrifying it’s beautiful. Maybe terribly beautiful things are not meant to be conquered, kept, defined . They are revered, admired, respected.

Stepping inside an attitude of altitude, I find myself lost and found at the same time. Lost in conclusions and found in thought. My fellow thinkers are beside me in coming to general class conclusiveness. Collectively we are lying, sitting, standing on different levels of the same tier. Together we plot.

Each of the thinkers wants a piece of the place and they have plotted to plunder. Each eats a piece of the hypothetical pie and it becomes an empty pie tin. An inspiring empty pie tin? When they have finished digesting the memories the thinkers kept are only brief thoughts on how it tasted. One insisted it tasted of iron flavored dirt, and another of pine, and yet another of changing seasons; but none could quite agree.

So we created our own mountain with paper and pen. Each different, distinct, diverse. Standing together in “The Great Stranger than Walmart Range”.

Venture 2 | Nancy Grisel

The crimson peaks mount toward the sky as if built by giant red ants. Notched with trees, pitted by absent boulders, their surfaces would make billion-black-diamond ski slopes if only it were winter. Elsewhere, the slopes are gentler, masked by haze and distance, colors muted as if seen through a screen door. Have their surfaces ever felt the pressure of human foot? The trees blend into one another, creating a swash of navy green over any land that is not completely vertical. Eons ago, some cataclysmic landslide sheared off the gentle slope, leaving sandstone cliffs like gaping wounds from accidental amputations. But nature has started to heal herself with piney scabs.

The river gushes forth cascading near my feet into a clay-brown pool twelve or twenty feet below. The rushing sound of the water sounds somehow like the static that remained after the late-night TV national anthem. But in these days of cable and eight hundred channels (and still nothing to watch), that river reminder is no longer available. The water in the pool drifts down, sieved through rocks and bigger rocks. Goldenrod and pre-tumbling tumbleweed flank the path that itself cascades to the waterfall pool.

Shadows from the reeds behind me fall on dust and ants. They think the sun has disappeared and that it is twilight. The shadow from the quarter-pebble creates a haven for mites and the smallest of beings. Twigs, micro-mini logs, would provide barriers to the smallest of creatures. Is this why their feet and legs were engineered to propel them up straight surfaces?

Venture #2/ On the Scale of things

The sky is a blue hue with a hint of white in it, not because there are clouds in the sky, but just because. I wonder to myself at this moment while my eyes are put into a lock. My eyes can't move away from what is above me. How small I really am, and how big the whole world is. I realize that in this moment, I am just a tiny speck to the world, and when the world looks back at me with an interested eye, I bet she could smash me in just one second. CRUNCH!!! GONE!!! Within a blink of an eye.

My thoughts begin to drift to the smaller things that are underneath my feet. Upon the dark, musky, dusty, dirty pavement I notice little creatures that look like black dots. When I took a closer glance through my focused eye I watch the smaller things wander around like lost souls searching for a meaning to life. Do they have feelings like I do? Do they see what I can see? Can they see me staring back at them, and do they wonder if I am going to kill, eat, or destroy them? Are they scared? I know if I was put in that kind of situation, I would think that I was screwed! And maybe run around just like them screaming to the top of my lungs, while I run into walls.

I continue to look at the grand scale of things. The beauty that I don't look at enough so that I can grow to appreciate it, and indulge myself with life, adventure, and little walks with the Mother of all nature. But alas, I must be honest. Maybe one day.

Latoya Rhodes

Venture #2 | Life Like A Rock | Chase Ferguson

Less than a half mile away sits an incredible huge walk wall. Where did it come from and why does it sit there? However after closer observation it appears not to be sitting but leaning. I wonder if it once stood straight and simply got tired of it. Like each of our lives it has a story to tell.
It has beautiful colors to show its’ diversity. The shades of red and orange that face this cliff are so deep no human mind could have created them. On the edges of the cliff are white streaks. Like many of us after years of stress and life’s weather beating upon us causing our edges to turn grey or white. Years of erosion have caused this cliff to take on its’ own shape. It is interesting how cliffs and mountains vary so much with geographical location. Even while in the same location you can never find two that are exact. And so it is with us. We all come from different walks of life and no two of us are the same. The erosion has also caused many cracks on this cliffs surface. I’m sure each tell its’ own story, some go deeper then others. Like an old persons’ face tells a goofy story as their wrinkles crinkle so does this cliff. And yet it seems that wisdom comes with these gray lines and cracks.
Should we go through so much trouble trying to shade and shelter ourselves from life’s storms? I have yet to find a cliff build a wall around itself or apply wrinkle cream to its surfaces. To me I think beauty comes with wisdom. So like a rock I’m going to stand up strong for whatever life throws at me.

Pebble | Bree Seely

Tiny pebble in my shoe-
What am I to do with you?
Take you back to your home?
Or leave you here, all alone?
Where are you from? What's your name?
Are you tired of playing this little game?
My pebbly friend, how I envy you-
To go where you want, to do what you do.
To see the world one crick at a time.
To never worry about a time line.
To show your beauty so people can see.
To live your life as if you were me.

O how I envy you.

Venture #2 | Rachael Fawcett

Its gentle slopes caress the brilliant cerulean sky above. It reaches a mighty height, reaching for clouds that today do not grace the sky. Its pristine beauty surrounds, and feels like new Earth. Its colors are great and dazzling. Sunset reds and oranges. The cliff face is almost serenely placed, straight and forward. Upon its sides rest small patches of green, great big trees and grass unseen. Its sheer faces smile down upon the road below. Where cars go zipping to and fro. They do not see what is up above, that soars up through the Autumn sky. Its wings caressing colorless air. It swirls in circles way up there. Its magestic beauty only matched by its cousin who is bald. It is alone and if one knows, it'll go on alone in that unending blue. Its a startaling black against the bright blue sky. So small it rises, by and by.

Today the sky is different, so covered by the clouds. The mountains don't look as pretty, and neither does the ground. The lovely hawk or eagle that I saw the other day. Has now but taken refuge from the thunderstorm today. Oh I wish it was like the other day, so clean and bright and pure. But that's the way the world works and I am sure there will be more. For clouds drift away someday and again the sky is bright. The rain brings up new life, and restores the Earth again.

But what will happen tomorrow? Nobody can fortell. For tomorrow could be a sunny day or wetter than today. It is for life that all is done. Its mighty forces loom. And to the mountains we must go to face the utter gloom. But then new life comes again, with springtime growing near. And sunny days do come again, to lighten up our fear. So let us learn from mighty mountain and hawk who soars so high, that tomorrow is another day to live and never die.

The Car Door - Venture #2 | Celeste Johnson

There it sits, lonely and bored, wishing for human contact. A boy walks over and carefully touches the paint. It feels smooth to his touch. “Dad, come here, I found one I want!” Dad walks over, sees the numbers listed on the glossy window; perfectly priced. The boy gets in to drive it off the lot.

*SLAM* The door closes and the car is excited to have its human counterpart.

“Hey everyone, I got it!” the boy shouts out the window as he drives up to school the next day. His friends rush over and excitedly chatter. “Awesome man! I love the sweet paint job!” The car beams with pride.

*SLAM* The boy gets out and goes to class.

A couple of years go by. The boy washes his car everyday after school, whether it needs it or not. The car knows his owner loves him. The boy goes many places and on many dates. Time keeps rolling on like a fast freight train.

*SLAM* The boy steps out in his high school graduation robes.

The boy goes off to college. The boy and the car share many adventures. The car has taken him to the mountains, the beach, friends’ houses, and on many dates. The boy makes a bad decision one night. The car is sad, how can the boy he loves and who loves him, make such a stupid choice. The car tried to stop him by not starting, but the boy was insistent and kept turning the ignition over and over until finally, the car started and reluctantly drove away from the curb.

*SLAM* The boy staggers out of the car with a bright light shined on his face.

The policeman asks him to walk a straight line. The boy can barely keep his knees from buckling but attempts to walk the simple lined course. The car sadly watches as the boy looks like a newborn deer trying to walk for the first time.

*SLAM* The boy is put into another car with handcuffs around his wrists.

The car despondently watches as the police car take away the boy. A tow truck comes, hooks him up, and takes him away to a place where he sits, for days and days, getting dirtier and dirtier. The car starts to give up hope of ever seeing his boy again.

*SLAM* The car is awoken from its glum existence as the boy gets in and drives away.

They are finally together again. The car runs smooth and is practically shining with excitement. The happy moment is cut short as the boy drives the car with less care and love than before. He hears the boy muttering to himself but can’t quite make out what he is saying. The car feels a few splashes on the leather upholstery, the boy is crying. With reckless abandonment the boy takes the curves in the canyon a little too fast. Suddenly….

*SLAM* The car door crashes against a big rock and is ripped from the car with sheer force.

The car flips over and over again until it finally stops upside-down a good distance from its door. The car realizes that the door wasn’t the only thing thrown from it. In the dirt across the road he sees a mangled mess. The car watches as another car with bright flashing lights comes and stops near the boy. There is nothing the car can do as he silently watches.

*SLAM* The doors of a hearse close, taking the body of the boy to his final resting place.

To this day, the car door still sits on the side of the road, all worn out and decrepit; a reminder of the reality of our choices.

Fleeting*| Venture #2 Cassidy Maxwell

A delicate, white butterfly fleets in and out of the contrasted deep green sage brush. The sage blooms with luminous yellow flowers that overwhelm the bush. The butterfly seems overwhelmed too with the copious amount of blooms. I assume the butterfly is a female because of her beauty.
she floats over the blooms trying to decide which one has the sweetest nectar. Deciding which one can tempt her to land. After tedious searching, she lands. A sudden pause which catches me by surprise. she sits still on the flower, (one of the only times a butterfly is still) extracting nectar from the internal bloom. As she is distracted by sweet I attempt to move in closer. Her white silhouette last only a moment against the sage. Moment now gone I stare at the once occupied space. The wind has picked up and she moves with it; for ever more fluttering about, collecting sweet nectar. In order to survive she must keep drinking.

Venture #2 | Brian Wall

The muddy water splashed up against the banks of the river as it hurriedly rushed through the overhanging trees. The water was not so fierce as to move a person or large animal, but enough to carry away stray branches and it filled the grove with music. One branch hung so low that its leaves brushed the surface of the stream and broke it into brown crests of water. Broken twigs and leaves flowed swiftly down the river bend.
Over the years the river had cut a gorge through the valley. High rocky outcroppings towered over the river like sentinels. They clearly stood out in the valley against the thick green foliage that was nourished by the small river. Beyond the valley lie barren desert and hot sand, but here protected by the high cliffs, the valley was an oasis.
The stream issued forth from the lone mountain peak miles away, and flowed down into the small valley providing much-needed sustenance to both plant and animal.

Venture # 2 | Samantha Gay

The amazing red mountains soared into the sky, standing silent and tall. Underneath the giants’ stoic and watchful gaze, a winding canyon road raced along their base. Mirroring the road was a river, babbling and prattling on, oblivious to the world beyond its high riverbanks. Bright green trees and shrubs lined the water bed, creating small but relieving patches of shade from the hot afternoon sun along a pathway made of cement that walked alongside the river. The trail branched out occasionally to create an overlook of the stream. On one such overlook there sat a bench. A normal bench by most standards, but the extraordinary environment added an allure to the bench, giving it a sense of greater purpose. This bench was bright green, a contrast to the red rock landscape surrounding it. It sat on a small hill facing the mountains, providing a beautiful and impressive view. A small tree grew next to it, providing a small portion of shade from the sun. It sat there; as afternoon turned to the coolness of evening, lengthening shadows and nature added crickets to the gentle soothing music of the river. Soon, up the empty pathway, came an old married couple. They walked slowly, swinging their joined hands gently and talking quietly about life and tiredness. They came to the bench and sighed as they sat down, easing the complaints from their tired legs and feet. The old man put his arm around her and the old woman leaned against his shoulder. They gazed at the beautiful and impressive view, the sky as it darkened and the stars as they came out, completely content in each others silent company.

Venture #2 | Robin Cole

Our little feats
of whatever miracle technology,
have nothing
on this, this upheaved slab of sandstone.
Something big, a very
big something happened here.

It was a chilling moment,
to be pulled back millenia
to the big event, a moment
pulled out of the car engine,
computer tower, TagHeuer swiss
mechanics ticking away on
my tiny wrist.
Unfocused on literature,
checkbooks and dog training,
writing and words, numbers
and science.

Here was a point where it happened.
The earth shifted, grated, lifted.

And here was a cracked face created,
a stretch broken into a vertical stance.
We found the pocket, ledges,
and holds. Our skitterty hands
and feet clung fearlessly

with chaulk bags, harnesses, ropes,
figure eights, biners, shoes,
and belayed egos. But it took

Instinct,quick pops, and jerky
demands. To top out,
our hands were unrecognizable
as they locked into stone, each
fingerprint ridge wedged, each
nail retreated and flushing
white then red. Shoes
smearing the rock with a
dime's worth of rubber. Each
head rush bringing up far too much
logic, each muscle clench
draining the blood back down
to go up, reach, step, go,
step, move, go. Up the face,
over the crux, upon the rock
we stand still.

Venture #2 | Tyson Pulsipher

Some things go unappreciated in life. From where I am sitting I can see two of these unappreciated “workers” going about their daily business. Though usually regarded as a pest or nuisance, it is quite seldom that we take the time to understand and appreciated the importance of these creatures. I remember my dad teaching their importance in our small garden as a boy. “If they did not come and pollinate the blossoms, then we would have to do it by hand with a Q-tip” he said. It’s thanks to them that we ever had delicious home grown tomatoes and squash, or that we enjoy the blooming of flowers in the spring.

Not only do they help with the blossoms on plants, they make our lives a little sweeter. I have always wanted to know what honeycomb tastes like…

Venture 2 | Melissa Erickson

It was hot. Not as beastly as some days, but still hot nonetheless. Beauty was everywhere, and we were to spend a rare moment of appreciation for the exquisiteness surrounding us. It truly was breathtaking. I walked along the pebbled pathway and found a small, secluded area under the shade of a leafy tree. It was cooler under there, and I sat down to observe the nature around me. Birds chirped, bushes rustled, mountains towered; it was incredible. A small buzzing filled my ear. Under the mindset of admiring all of Mother Nature’s children, the small buzzing in my ear was like a masterpiece for me. I listened for a moment, and gave the small fly a chance to sing its melody before gently swatting it away. Seconds later, it came back. Not yet annoyed, I kindly guided it away. I again tried to focus until the little demon came back a split moment later. He landed on my wrist, and began the long climb up my arm. He was tiny, and his microscopic legs tickled my skin as he maneuvered his way across it.

Looking closely, I could see his eyes; giant compared to the rest of him proportionately, anyway. His tiny wings fluttered as he gave up on his hike, and instead flew up to my shoulder. Agitated now, I flicked him away, only to have him return yet again. More violent this time, I angrily swatted at him, hoping to send the subtle message: “Leave me alone dangit! Don’t you understand that I’m trying to find an appreciation for nature?! Go away! I hate you!”

He seemed to understand for a fraction of a minute; but only that. Again he returned, now the only purpose in his short, measly little life to annoy the hell out of me. Not only that, but within his last departure, he rounded up all of his other buzzing little friends who came to crawl in my ear, across my forehead, and down my arms. This was ridiculous. The buzzing that was once harmonic now morphed into an obnoxious roar. Each miniature insect had looked very similar to the fly I had become acquainted with in the beginning. Small round bodies, tiny skinny legs, buzzing wings, and giant eyes, they all swarmed around me, distracting me from my purpose of enjoying the wonders around me.

Finally, it was time to go. With once happy, turned homicidal thoughts, I set out down the pebbled path lined with bushes, flowers, and trees. Our task was to appreciate nature. It had been a very productive experience.

Tyson Pulsipher | Introduction

Unfortunately I was a little late to class the first day when we were supposed to write down an interesting thing about ourselves. I asked the girl next to me what we were supposed to do, and she said, “Write your name, address, email, and something interesting about yourself.” “Great,” I thought, “a ‘Get-to-know-you’ game.”

Well, I searched my dull and uneventful life for a few moments, and the most interesting fact I could come up with was this: “I have never broken a bone in my body.” Lame. There are hundreds of people who have never broken a bone! And let’s be honest here, what is cool about not breaking a bone? You can’t just jump into a conversation where everyone is talking about broken arms from climbing accidents, and broken legs from motorcycle accidents and say, “Oh yeah, well this one time, I jumped off this gnarly ramp on my bike….and, uh…landed it!”

I was hoping that only the teacher would be aware of my ‘un’interesting fact, but now the whole class will know that I am pretty darn boring!

All the same though, I do count myself pretty lucky. I have had a few “crazy” things happen to me, and have been able to emerge with only scratches or a sprained ankle. I played sports all four years in high school, and you’d think I would have something to show for it…but I don’t. I sprained my ankle once in basketball, and in football I was just a wimp. The only time I wasn’t afraid to hit was when we were practicing on the tackling dummy. Perhaps if I was a little more aggressive I would have something to “show and tell.”

Not breaking a bone is not cool, but it is less painful. After sharing with someone that I had never broken anything, I have yet to hear the response, “Man, you’re missing out! Excruciating pain is the bomb!”

Venture 2 | Keisha McGovern

Have you ever wondered why things are so beautiful to us when we actually take a look around us to discover the beauty that our eyes deceive? Well I have, and just let me tell you the place that I have found that is so beautiful that I couldn't take my eyes off of it just for a second. Now I'm not going to say what this place is, please just imagine what I'm talking about, with the details that I will give you and let your mine venture. This thing has a unique structure to it, it has a point like a witches nose, the slope has humps like a camels back, there are at least five humps, and its color is a cross between a reddish- brownish color. Many will probably not think that this thing is that beautiful, but once one takes a few minutes to actually look at this thing they may just discover exactly what I have. It took away my breath, I have never really looked at nature and its uniqueness. This thing also has many trees and bushes that are surrounding, along with trails and cars passing through the area. This venture was a good experience for one to go deeper than they usually do when they are writing. Hopefully the details will explain what I have seen and let everyone else figure out just what I am talking about. Enjoy and good luck with your imaginations.

Venture #2| Craig Vernon

Upon returning to my full conciseness I was instantly overwhelmed by the enormity of the sandstone mountain directly in front of me. In my mind I could hear Perry Ferrell singing, "I wish I were mountain size, no one moves you man no one tries." This is no plain mountain it is awash with the colors of life. This giant creation, in accordance with the time of mountain, the sand had become infused with Iron Oxide coloring the rock a thousand different shades of red and probably just as many shades of orange. The cedar pine and the sage brush give the hill side green freckles. The shadows are scarce here in the mid day sun, however the discriminating eye will pick out one or two defining the vertical crevices. A soft wind blows in my ear and the serene majesty of this rock near lulls me back to my meditative state. In the grand presence of nature's masterpiece, I have achieved serenity.

Venture #2 | Little

Did someone cause you pain and strife?
Retained on your fascade: the scars of life.

Do you hurt with all your lines?
You've been mounted, carved and pierced with time.

For each scar that you now bear,
where did they come from, can you tell me where?

I want to know if you feel like me
Standing tall for the world to see

On display, yet no one cares
to visit you in your despair.

What do you do in times like these?
You have no voice, or knees like me.

But then again I don't know
what is inside, what you don't show.

You let me sit inside your home
no complaining, not a single moan.

And it's with the same respect I'd give
a chance for you to observe where I live.

But once your sight is through my eyes
you will know how closely we live our lives.

Wanting scant, but giving spare
just hoping for the world to care.

And maybe by example we can try
show that nature isn't that different from mankind.

Venture #2 | Kaytlen Bennett

How would it be to stand on top of the world? When looking out would it be humbling? That is to say if one could stand on top of the world. Where would the top be? What would determine it the top of the world? I assume you could get pretty close when standing on top of a mountain, and then when on top of the mountain you could search for a lone tree to get higher off of the ground. It may take a while to find a tree depending on the height of the mountain. When that tree is found standing proudly at the top of his world (for that mountain would be the only world he would know), with his branches stretched forth into the sky and out into the surrounding area around him. He’s sat on top of that mountain and seen the rest of the world from a view from the top.

When you arrive at this strong tree you reach up and lift yourself into the first layer of braches and leaves. The bark is thick and matured with age. Steadily moving upwards you make your way up into the tree. You stop to take a break half way up the tree and sit and listen to the light breeze bring the leaves to life. After a moment you begin your climb again, once or twice you may scrape your skin, but you’ll keep going. Finally you emerge from the leaves. The sun caresses your skin with her warmth and you look out. You are alone at the top of the world. You are away from the cares of your everyday life. The gentle wind does not care about your graying hair, it blows through it happily.

But what would you see as you gazed out into the world? Would you be amazed at the beauty or would you see the scars left by people such as yourself? Would a smile fill your face or would tears flee your eyes? I cannot tell you’d what you would see. It is not for me to tell you. You must experience it for yourself to truly know what you would see.

Venture #2 / Karrie Gull

The water flowed continually through the mountains, it had done so for many, many years. Some years had brought forth a greater abundance of water while other years only supplied enough water to trickle down through the mountain paths. Many droughts had encumbered the land and effected the water abundance, but the course of the water was unchanging running free and true. The water is not and was never selfish for it gives freely to all who desire it's fresh cool taste. Many nearby trees have pulled their roots up from the dry soil in pursuit of the water below; though many had not as yet to reach the cool and quench their thirst. The life around the water is strong, it is the greatest friend of the fellow ant who scurries this way and that. The greenery is lush and colorful along the water's edge, and creates if you will a mini paradise for the insects who crawl and climb below. One by one all creation comes to and depend on the water, and one by one all thrive and live from it's juices. The water helps bring and sustain life.

Grand Canyon Introduction | Benjamin Dowse

Having enjoyed climbing and boulder-hopping and those types of things my entire life, it may be safe to say that I didn't really respect heights. I didn't respect gravity either. I could, of course, feel its pull in my everyday movements, but I never figured it was strong enough to overpower me. Notice all of this is in the past tense. This was how I felt before my experience in the Grand Canyon.
Along with my friend Mike, his dad and a group of about 14 young boy scouts, I was headed off to the wilds of the Grand Canyon, to hike in and out again and live to tell the tale. That was the goal, and I had not doubt I would accomplish it. As I mentioned, I had no respect for, let alone fear of heights.
We came to our first major drop, about a 40 foot cliff, and I quickly descended, finding a suitable path, and then climbing back up again to guide the boy scouts along their way. I took a post about half-way down the cliff face, Mike was about 10 feet below me. As I showed one scout where to put his feet and get down to where Mike was waiting, I looked up and that saw Larry, an obese young man who was already sweating profusely, was coming down towards me. I immediately realized that I was going to have to find new footing for myself to make room for him.
Reaching over and grabbing onto a new handhold, I quickly, and without thinking, put my weight onto that handhold to adjust my feet. As I did so something happened that I had never really experienced before. Gravity took over. As the rock broke away in my hand, I fell backwards the 20 feet to the floor of the cliff below. In falling, I didn't have a "life flashing before my eyes" experience at all. I probably would have been disappointed if it weren't for the fact that taking the place of my life-flashing experience were my survival instincts. I could only think, Don't let your head hit! I gradually manipulated my body and struck the ground with my upper back, rolling as it hit so the impact spread throughout my back and into my hips.
I laid there for a minute, trying to make sense of what had happened. I wasn't unconcious. I wasn't dead. In fact, I felt pretty good. I got up and brushed myself off. Besides a few cuts and bruises, I was just fine! Mike, who had watched me fall straight past him and I'm sure had given me up for dead, dropped down next to me and looked at me as if he were seeing a ghost. I returned his stare.
"Thanks for catching me!" I said, then I grinned and headed back up the cliff.

Venture #2 | Suzanne Christensen

For many years people have come and stared at this mountain. Every person who comes to look at nature sees something different and feels differently about the things they are looking at. Even the different times of the day cause the mountain to change making it bright and beautiful or dark and foreboding. It is just after twelve o’clock and I find myself sitting on the dirt across the street from this magnificent mountain side. As the sun shines down on the side of the mountain it changes the color to a reddish orange with a slight hint of brown. This side of the mountain that I am facing has deep cuts that go in different angles, the cuts travel from the very top all the way to the base where it begins to touch the ground. When looking up at the top it seems to change colors. It is not the same reddish orange but a darker red with more brown. The sky provides a background of deep blue which accents the top even more. As I begin to look more closely at this mountains beauty I begin to see the many different things that make this particular spot so amazing. Every imperfection tells a tale. There are even small green bushes that seem determined to reach the top. They have their own trail they follow. The trail begins at the bottom on the ground. This bush is not too big but knew that he wanted to see the world from the top. So he began slowly to climb, sending little seeds farther up with each new growth clinging to the rocks strength when threatened by other forces of nature. Growing stronger and more determined this bush began to get bigger as it reached the top. Finding a source of life he never thought imaginable when he was down on the ground. Wanting people to see the obstacles he has over come the bushes are still there showing the path in which he traveled.
This mountain has seen many hardships. Not just its own but others as well. He has seen mountain climbers trying to climb to the top using ropes and metal handles. Some climbers have succeeded, others have not. He would try to warn the less experienced ones so they wouldn’t get hurt but it was usually to no avail, they never listened. Sometimes they would get hurt very badly and then sometimes it was just a minor scrap or bruise. He always felt those were the lucky who should be more careful. The wind, rain, snow, fire, humans and sometimes even the animals would try to break him apart. They would beat against him breaking off tiny bits of rocks but they could not break the rock. When humans came with their dynamite and guns the rock would shake and tremble. They would try so hard to blow him up but, he wouldn’t let them. They might have gotten more than the other elements of the earth but he would not give in so easily. At times he didn’t mind being altered, especially if it was an artist who would come and transform part of him into something spectacular or when they would leave messages for each other he was glad to be apart of those things. I must admit I think this mountain is kind of smug, I think it stood up straighter when people were taking its picture.
This mountain has been here for many years, all the while developing certain qualities such as: honor, strength, courage, wisdom, and friendship. It has been these qualities that have made this mountain into a magnificent structure. Through its long suffering this structure still stands and will continue to stand for many years to come. It will continue to watch over the rivers, the trees, the many small plants, the birds, deer, people, and the many other creatures that are out there. Many will travel from near and far just to see this magnificent mountain, just so they too can feel this mountains strength, wisdom and even love. When they are near this mountain they feel as if they too can become a mountain, that they may also have the same strength and wisdom, so when they return to their world they may go back wiser and stronger than whence they came.

Taken | Jessica Flory

Rivers don't laugh or chuckle, I thought. Rivers belch and complain as they roll over the rocks. Rivers, on occasion, roar with the stresses of life, and sometimes take sorry souls whom they think can't take life anymore.
My brother was such a person. Taken by this exact river. My brother was not, however, a person who gave up on life. He was the kind of person who let out a loud, appreciated laugh at everything that was said. He was the kind of person who could tell one was upset and he would pat their back or give them a hug and let them know it was okay.
He was two years old.

Rivers don't laugh or chuckle, I thought. Rivers belch and complain as they roll over the rocks. Rivers, on occasion, roar with the stresses of life, and sometimes take sorry souls whom they think can't take life anymore.
My brother was such a person. Taken by this exact river. My brother was not, however, a person who gave up on life. He was the kind of person who let out a loud, appreciated laugh at everything that was said. He was the kind of person who could tell one was upset and he would pat their back or give them a hug and let them know it was okay.
He was two years old.

Introduction | Bree Seely

Last year, two days before Thanksgiving, I was life flighted to the UMC Hospital in Las Vegas, NV. I had fallen 25 feet off a cliff while I was hiking with my boyfriend. I landed feet first in gravel. The force of the fall rammed my legs upwards causing my L1 vertebrae to combust. The pieces of bone shot into my nerve cord, causing my legs to completely lose feeling. I thought I was paralyzed until a few minutes later when the feeling came back. It was like getting hit by lightning.... constantly. It wouldn't stop. Even amidst all the pain though, I was still grateful. I could feel them. I would walk again. My boyfriend had miraculously gotten enough cell service to call 911 and help was on their way. An ambulance arrived but we were too far out in the desert for it to make it. So a big truck came out and I was loaded into the back of it, wrapped on a board.

A helicopter flew out from Vegas, landed, and I was boarded. By this time I was in shock and my body wasn't responding very well. I remember the man in the helicopter was very calm and told me everything was going to be okay. It's funny how much you trust a stranger when your life is in their hands. I remember landing and being loaded onto a gurney, heading into the hospital... then I lost a couple days. The next thing I remember I was in ICU on Thanksgiving day. My family was all there, along with my boyfriend, his parents, and a few of my friends. I was so on drugs, I'd had major surgery performed on me about 12 hours before and I wasn't even sure where I was. It was the scariest, most traumatizing thing I've ever had to endure.

A day later I found out that during my surgery they had hit a lymphatic system and fluids had surrounded and collapsed my lung. You would think a person would notice if one of their lungs was deflated but I had no idea. A chest tube was put into my side to pump the lymphatic fluid out. Because of this I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything for 5 days. It started out being a couple days. Then a couple more. Then a couple more. I ended up being in the hospital for two weeks. By then my legs had atrophied so badly it took all of my strength and two people on each side of me to walk to the bathroom, which was about 5 feet away from my bed. I pretty much had to learn to walk again, step by step. There was something wrong with my heart, they say it was stress from the trauma, but it would rocket to 160 bpm whenever I exerted any energy. The average persons heart rate is around 60. Needless to say this scared me a lot! It still happens from time to time but they did every test possible and said that my heart is fine.

Pretty much, this event in my life has almost solely created the person I am today. Sure my family and friends and all that made my personality, but this gave me perspective. I lost my legs, now I take advantage of them. I rejoice every time I walk, every time I run a little longer than a minute. I've learned to live life now, as it's happening because you never know when something crazy like falling off a cliff and breaking your back can change all of that. I was almost a paraplegic, I am so grateful now that I have the chance to change my life and to be stronger than I ever was. I don't get mad and ask "Why me?" I am grateful for this life changing experience to help me appreciate the good things in life. Now I know I can be strong.

Venture #2 | Kelly Cannon

The green bench had been there for many, many years. Many people had come by and taken a rest on him. He had heard dozens of languages and seen countless number of people of different nationalities. He had seen children come and go, watched them grow up into adulthood and bring their children. He was content in his own little world. Doug was one of those children the green bench had seen grow up. The green bench could remember Doug's parents resting on him with Doug in their arms. Doug had climbed all over the green bench playing various games with other children his age. The green bench didn't mind because he was strong and made of metal. The green bench had picked him out of a mass of school children at the park on a field trip. Doug had sat with countless girlfriends on the green bench. He had told his future wife, Stacy, for the first time that he loved her. Doug had even proposed to Stacy on the green bench. The green bench had always felt especially close to Doug. Doug had brought his children and had them play on the green bench. So when the green bench spied Doug in the middle of the night coming toward him, he was excited and happy yet concerned and frightened. Why was Doug here in the middle of the night? Where were Stacy and the kids? As Doug drew closer the green bench noticed that Doug's eyes were red and his nose runny, like he had been crying for hours. Doug sat down with such weariness that even the bench felt absolute hopelessness. The green bench noticed something heavy in Doug's pocket but didn't think about it because Doug was crying again. The green bench tried his hardest to comfort Doug but it didn't seem to be working. Doug took out his wallet and pulled out each and every picture he had of his wife and kids. He set them in a pile on the green bench but he kept one picture of Stacy separate than the rest. He then took out any stray piece of paper that had something to do with his life, an appointment card, a business card, an old movie ticket. He set them in piles as well. Doug then put his wallet back in his pocket. The green bench was dying of curiosity as to why Doug was taking out all of these prized things. Doug then took out a cheap gas station lighter and began to burn each piece of paper methodically. He let them burn in his hand until he could hold it no more and set it down on the bench. The bench felt the hot flame on him and saw the burn marks and knew this is what Doug must be feeling. Then Doug began to burn the pictures. As he lit each picture, sobs would rack his body into convulsions. The bench felt each one burn into him but refused to do anything about it. When all that was left was the one picture of Stacy, Doug took out a pen and wrote something on the back of the picture. Doug held the picture in one had and with the other pulled out a black gun out of his pocket. The bench began to panic. This couldn't be happening. Not to Doug! Not to the bench's friend. The bench wanted to do something so badly but he couldn't. He was just a spectator. Doug was weeping again at this point. He held the gun up to his head, let out a heavy sigh, and pulled the trigger. The shot rang through the night as birds flew everywhere. Doug slumped over and lay on the green bench. The green bench, covered in the blood and brains of Doug silently wept to himself. It was only then that the bench noticed what Doug had written on the back of the picture: "I will love her till I die."

Introduction | Marjorie Riches

I grew up in a small town in Alaska where everyone pretty much keeps to themselves. My nearest neighbor was about 10 miles away and the trees became my best friends. From this, you may think that I had a pretty boring childhood. If you think this, however, you are wrong. I had a very exciting childhood, full of all of the insane little things that my parents did and forced on me. One such thing is riding motorcycles. My Dad is a traditional Harley Rider. He's big, has wavy long hair, wears every Harley t-shirt that ever existed, and is, simply put, crazy. He even has a fumanchu for gosh sakes. My dad has been riding motorcycles since he was 15 and he will be riding motorcycles until the day that he dies and possibly even past that. He's kindly informed us all that when he dies he wants to be strapped to his motorcycle and driven into a river. You may find this a little disturbing, but you'd have to know my Dad to understand. My mom isn't quite as hard core. She didn't even know how to ride a bicycle until she was 30. This is when she met my Dad. He, of course, had to convince her to start riding motorcycles and riding a bike seemed to be the first step. She has learned very well, and now this tiny little woman rides a motorcycle that is bigger than my Dad's. You may be asking where I fit in to all of this. Well, when my parents started having kids, they had to figure out how to keep riding motorcycles. I was the youngest so by my time they had it all figured out. As a baby they would bundle me up in a tiny leather jacket, with tiny little boots and a tiny helmet (Owning a leather store helped them out in this). Then, my Dad would put my on the gas tank of his Harley and hold me there in front of him with one arm while he used his other arm to steer. You may be wondering how I survived my childhood. All I have to say in response to this is that someone was watching out for me. When I was old enough to sit up and hold on for myself, I was moved to the back of my mom's motorcycle where she, as any loving mother would, asked me to sing all of the time so that she could hear me and know that I was still there. I guess that it is good that she instilled in me a love for singing. When you have to sing for hours on end, you start to make up crazy songs, but that was her way of knowing that I was safe. Ever since that time, I have continued to be a biker. I still enjoy going on trips with my parents, although all of their old biker buddies have switched from calling me "little Margie" to "biker babe". I guess the main point I am trying to get across is that through their love of motorcycles, my parents instilled in me a sense of adventure. And of course, of creativity when you have to bring along your kids.