Beautiful Wisdom | Katrina Cox

On violence: Hitting someone will only result in a bruise.

Lukeman Exercise 3 | Katrina Cox

I didn't see any exercises at the conclusion of part three of the book, but I thought I'd give writing with a colon another shot and using italics.

The ring around her neck almost seemed to mock her. She reached behind her neck and undid the clasp, letting the smooth metal pool together in her hand. She ran her fingertips around the ring, imitating the circle. She thought about what it used to mean. It meant that she was his, that they were in love, that nothing would get between them.

She slipped the ring on her finger and sighed. The day he had given her the ring was a day she would never forget. He had looked her in the eyes and opened the small case on one bended knee. She had teared up, throwing her arms around his neck and saying how much she loved him.

She set the ring down on the table, stopping the memories she had held so precious to her heart. How happy she had been was more than she could bear. She had to admit that what he had said didn't mean what she had thought it meant. It was merely a ring, no longer a symbol of the promises they had made to each other.

Tears ran down her cheeks. The heartache of his unfaithfulness was like a knife, mercilessly massacring what was left of her heart. The thought of him chosing another woman, or two others for that matter, plagued her mind. Not a night had gone by since she had found out where she had slept peacefully without nightmare or night terror.

The telephone rang, startling her out of her morose reverie. She looked down at the caller ID felt the world spin around her: it was him.

Lukeman Exercise 2 | Katrina Cox

I usually go out of my way to avoid using colons in my writing, whether writing prose or poetry. I chose an exerise that had me look at an ending of one of my writings and try ending it with a colon. The difference was absolutely stunning! When I used a colon at the end, I also revised some of the words as well.

Original:

I remember standing at the coffin side, my Uncle Sean from my mother’s side of the family gazing at me in sympathy. His eyes held so much concern, so much sorrow. He looked so miserable at the helplessness of the situation. He, too, looked so old. The shine had left his clear blue eyes, leaving his normally beautiful eyes hard and dead. He reflected the attitude of the flowers. He reflected how I was so dead inside as I gazed in numbness at that horrible coffin. The wind tangled my hair in every direction and chilled my insides. My fingers were a pale purple and all feeling from my knees down had been lost. My nose was deepening to a fine crimson color and tears strained my exhausted and sore eyes. I just stared at the sealed lid. I just stared at the cruel flowers. I stared. I barely heard myself as my lips uttered those hollow words that still haunt me these many years later. Those words, which made me into the young poet and novelist I am. Those words, which gave me another area of fine arts that Granni was so proud of before Gramps passed away. Those horrible, horrible words. The tears flowed freely then. I didn’t even bother to raise my hand and wipe them away. They just streamed from my red eyes and down my frozen cheeks, finally dripping to the dead, frozen earth. They froze instantly, marking the spot where the one who so greatly lifted the family up would lie after the viewing the following morning. Those icy words…those horrible, horrible words.

“God, be with you until we meet again. I love you, Gramps.”


With using a colon:

I remember standing at the coffin side, my Uncle Sean from my mother’s side of the family gazing at me in sympathy. His eyes held so much concern, so much sorrow. He looked so miserable at the helplessness of the situation. He, too, looked so old. The shine had left his clear blue eyes, leaving his normally beautiful eyes hard and dead. He reflected the attitude of the flowers. He reflected how I was so dead inside as I gazed in numbness at that horrible coffin. The wind tangled my hair in every direction and chilled my insides. My fingers were a pale purple and all feeling from my knees down had been lost. My nose was deepening to a fine crimson color and tears strained my exhausted and sore eyes. I just stared at the sealed lid. I just stared at the cruel flowers. I stared. The tears flowed freely; I didn’t even bother to raise my hand and wipe them away. They just streamed from my red eyes and down my frozen cheeks, finally dripping to the dead, frozen earth. They crystalized instantly, marking the spot where the one who so greatly lifted the family up would lie after the viewing the following morning. I barely heard myself utter the words that meant he was truly gone. The words that have continued to haunt me throughout these many years: “God, be with you until we meet again. I love you, Gramps.”

Lukeman Exercise One | Katrina Cox

This is from the exercise where I'm supposed to think of a character who thinks in long sentences. That said, here is how I've decided to portray her:

Look at her, that smug little brat who stares at me behind bushy bangs with the scowl across her face. Who does she think she is, openly mocking and judging me every chance she gets. How dare she have such audacity as to scrutinize me every morning, every afternoon, every evening, every time I walk by her, every time I think of her, and every time she wants to see me. Look at her with her hands at her hips, pulling down the horribly plain, gray sweater over her midrift--as if that will save her from everyone knowing that she's a whore! Anyone can tell she's a whore just by the way she slumps as she walks from class to class, holding her binders up close to her flat chest with her chin resting atop, her eyes avidly averting to the floor.

She disgusts me with her plaid skirt that reaches past her ankles and drags on the floor due to her vertically-challenged height. Her baggy, ugly sweater that hangs limply from her child-like shoulders droops down past her waist and hips, hiding any chance of her to prove she's older than a thirteen-year-old via curves.

I don't know why she bothers plastering her ashen-white skin with makeup by CoverGirl or Mary Kay. Go ahead, girly, wipe that eyeshadow across your eyelids and draw eyeliner on both top and bottom of those same eyelids. Plump up your already full crimson lips with lip liner and lip stick while making them shine with lip gloss.

Run your fingers through your long, thick, coarse mane of hair. Uh, Rapunzel called; she'd like her rug back, please. Another bad hair day it seems, you're pulling the scrunchy from your wrist and flicking your head down and up, holding that mane in your hands. One, two, three times wrapped around that hair, tighten ever so slightly, and now you're wearing a ponytail.
I can't stand seeing that girl every morning, every evening, and every chance she gets to find me. I hate watching her fake a smile and pretend she's an accepted one; someone popular and loved. She makes my stomach twist up in knots when I think of her walking out into the REAL world, where she'd have to face the reality of who she really is and how she REALLY doesn't belong anywhere.

I can't stand it anymore!

Girl in my mirror...who are you kidding?

Katrina Cox | Introduction

I remember how my hands were shaking as I opened up the letter. I remember the thoughts that went rushing through my mind--daydreams of how my time had come, and I finally had a chance to prove to everyone that I was someone.

At the young age of sixteen years old, I received a letter from a representatitive of the United States of America, introducing me to a program that has become known as "People to People: Student Ambassadors." Based on the ideas of President Dwight D. Eisenhower's belief of international peace, I had received an invitation to represent my country and the entire state of Nevada. Someone, somewhere, had nominated me to be a student ambassador and representative of the United States of America. I received the letter late in the year of 2004; and in June of 2005 I would board a plane along with forty-and-some other teenagers from across the nation to go to Fiji, New Zealand, and Australia to live their cultures and promote democracy.

The process of preparing for the journey was long and strenuous. Weekly meetings were held, and I had to do X Amount of research on Fijian, Kiwi, and Aussie culture--ethnicity, religion, current events, sports, likes, weather, dislikes, etc--and prove that I was worthy of being sent over. I had to fundraise my plane tickets, which were anything but cheap (total of around $6k). But the day when I checked in at McCarren International Airport and met together with my delegation leader...it was all worth it. Saying goodbye to my family was anything but easy, as that was my first time leaving the country and I was to be utterly seperated from them, but I remember the pride I held inside my heart. I remember thinking just how unique of an opportunity I had been given and how I meant to enjoy it to the fullest.

We flew first to the air terminal in Los Angeles, California and then boarded a Red-Eye flight to Sigatoka, Fiji. The flight was a VERY long fourteen-hour venture, and due to both my nerves and inability to get comfortable in the upright seats, sleep did not befall my eyelids. Fourteen hours really gives way for deep introspection. I thought about the fact that I would be crossing the International Dateline in X-Amount of hours. I thought about how I would be losing a day traveling and then gaining it again when returning to the USA.

We were greeted with a very warm welcome at the Fijian Airport at the early hour of 3am. There was a group of men wearing flowered necklaces, strumming guitars and singing their hello to us. We met up with a native who was to be a delegation leader in that country, and he immediately greeted us with the native word, "Bula!" He taught us a little about their customs, their languages, and their history. Fiji was once the Canibal Islands, and my fellow ambassadors and I were more than intrigued to hear it all. I fell in love with the island of Fiji, and I was minorly bereft to leave its paradasical glory.

New Zealand was cold and wet with the highest temperature being eight degrees Celcius. I stayed with a famiy, the Clarke family, and attended a public all-girls high school with the eldest daughter. I was excited to attend her English class and utterly shocked when the teacher marked my grade down when I expressed a negative opinion of lowering the drinking age.

Australia was a bit warmer, but the company wasn't as friendly as the previous two islands. Most Aussies weren't the nicest when they discovered Americans were in their midsts. But, I also met some of the friendliest natives. I was able to go inside the Sydney Opera House and learn about its architectural structures and accoustics. I was able to get on a yacht and sail out to Tituva Island -- the island where "Scooby Doo: Mystery Island" was filmed.

Returning to the United States was heart-wrenching. Many of the other teenagers I traveled with were equally heartbroken at the notion. We had been away from our families for three weeks, but yet it had seemed more like three days. We all had matured and grown up while abroad. We had all experienced the journey of a lifetime.