Treatment

Ordinary World: The city of Atlanta before the meteor hits.

Call to Adventure: The meteor hits, everyone dies, now Ulgoth needs to find a way to get out.

Refusal of the Call: Ulgoth, out of sorrow, refuses to leave.

Meeting with the Mentor: Ulgoth meets Zanzi and Zanzi gives him the encouragement and information on what to do to get out.

Crossing the Threshold: Ulgoth and Zanzi meet Lara and the three of them steal a spaceship and take off.

Tests, Allies, and Enemies: Tests: Using the rocket ship, their adventures in space, and the fight with Lord Recto on planet Mesa.
Allies: Zanzi and Lara
Enemies: Lord Recto, the Spiranox

Approach: After the group passes through a giant electrical cloud in space, the ship loses power. Zanzi has to restore power, rekindling their drive.

Ordeal: Ulgoth is knocked out cold by Lord Recto, and his friends throw water on him, only to find out that water from Earth has special powers, and Ulgoth is revived, stronger than ever.

Reward: Ulgoth beats the crap out of Lord Recto, and then he gets with Lara.

The Road Back: Ulgoth and the gang make their way back to the ship and fly off.

Ressurection: Lord Recto catches up with them and they have a chase scene. Lord Recto ends up flying into a giant rock and dies. They go and kill the Spiranox.

Return with Elixir: Since the Spiranox was the connection to the deaths of the people, the destruction of the Spiranox revived the people.

Hero: Ulgoth, Zanzi

Mentor: Zanzi

Threshold Guardian: The Spiranox

Herald: Lara

Shapeshifter: Lord Recto

Shadow: The Spiranox, Lord Recto

Trickster: Lord Recto

Hero's Journey for The Departed

Ordinary World: The story begins when Colin Sullivan and Billy Costigan both join the police force.

Call to Adventure: Sullivan is called to SIU, and Costigan is called to be an undercover agent.

Refusal of the Call: Both of the main characters are slightly unsure of going through their operations.

Meeting with the Mentor: Sullivan meets Costello as a kid, and Costigan Meets Costello in the bar after being accepted into the force.

Crossing the Threshold: Costigan finally becomes a member of Costello's group, and Sullivan becomes the leader of the investigation of the rat in the force.

Tests, Allies, Enemies: Tests-various crimes Costello forces Costigan to perform, and Sullivan trying to track down the rat.
Allies-Costello(to Sullivan), Dignam/Queenan (Costigan)
Enemies-The cops (Sullivan), Mr. French and Costello (Costigan)

Approach: Both Sullivan and Costigan are suspected of being rats on each end. They have to try convince them both that they are actually on their side.

Ordeal: When Queenan gets killed, Costigan's desire to send the criminals to justice reaches a new high.

Reward: Sullivan has brought justice to everyone, and betrayed everyone, and he thought he got away with it--until Staff Sargeant Dignam caps him at the end.

The Road Back: Sullivan returns to his home. Everything seems normal.

Resurrection: Costello pulls a gun on Sullivan, but Sullivan caps him first.

Return with Elixir: Sullivan, the snake, goes home, and he takes the feeling that everything is okay with him, which everyone else believes, as well. However, Dignam putting a bullet in his head really just satisfies everyone's needs.


Hero: Costigan, Sullivan, Dignam, Queenan

Mentor: Queenan, Costello

Threshold Guardian: Mr. French, Sgt. Dignam

Herald: Queenan, Sullivan

Shapeshifter: Costigan, Sullivan, Costello

Shadow: Barrigan

Trickster: Basically Everyone. No but really it's Costigan, Sullivan, Costello, and Barrigan

Final Draft of "Gift I'd Like to Give"

Few were like him. He could move mountains with his vocabulary. He could make children cry with his metaphors. He is also the proud father of several works of poetry. No one knows how he does it, but most can agree with one thing: he is one of the greatest English instructors the world has ever seen.

Ever since I began to read, I have always wanted to write. I can’t explain why, but I always had a huge desire for the paper and pen. It’s so fascinating to me how one could just go into their own little world and leave all the rest behind, to express thoughts, emotions, and experiences with only a stick in your hand.

I moved up in the ranks—ran through elementary school, dragged myself through middle school, then I finally made it—the teenage drama smorgasbord they call high school. I was just another bit of plaque clogging the arteries of Lone Peak. I arrived at school bright and early, and I was prepared for a long first day.

That is, until I showed up to English class.

The moment I entered the classroom I knew I was in for a ride. I was early, and I don’t think I could have arrived at a better time. The desks were all arranged in a circle, and the teacher was sitting on a single desk in the middle of the room, letting his feet dangle. He was younger, and he had a little five o’ clock shadow sported on his chin.

I looked at him, he looked at me. I knew him from the football field, and it was strange to see him in the classroom teaching rather than coaching. He told me to have a seat. I did so, knowing little about what was to come in the year to come. After all, he was only a football coach right? I mean, how much can he actually know about teaching?

Kyle Nelson was just another guy out of the U of U, but to me he was much more. He was a mentor, a leader, a friend, a co-worker. He knew the right way to teach. He knew some things were easier to inspire than to assign. And most of all, he knew how to develop each of our own specialized voices. His goal, it seemed, was to mold (through us) creativity by getting us thinking. None of us could have ever really gotten much out of any other class than Mr. Nelson’s course.

Mr. Nelson, here’s my gift I’d like to give to you (which may not seem like much); my thanks.

Every day we would walk into his room with a frown glued on our faces, and we would see the title of the daily journal prompt on the board. Instantly, our depression, stress and fatigue were all washed away with feelings of wonder, thought and excitement. No one would know what exactly it was we were about to write about, until he told us. Well, there was one time when… no, never mind.

The assignments in the class were thrilling. I could taste my excitement. I could hear my ideas screaming at me, yearning to be written on a blank page. I could write with confidence, realizing why I appreciated the art for so long. I could finally write the novels I always desired to.

The creativity juices were flowing. Writing, after so many years of being assignment after assignment, had finally become enjoyable and fun for me once more. I could feel myself let go of all the textbook-defined essays and just let go. My quality of work was improving dramatically. I knew exactly how to put my ideas down on paper.

I didn’t need all those rules. I didn’t need strict teachers breathing down my neck, making writing feel like much more of a chore than a work of art. Mr. Nelson solved those problems with his innovative methods of teaching. Without them, I would be lost. I’d be stuck. I’d still just be another bit of plaque clogging arteries.

So in the end, I think it all comes down to this: I’d like to thank Mr. Nelson for the voice I have begun to discover within myself. Nelson, continue with your work. Writing will never die.

“A Gift I’d Like to Give”

Few were like him. He could move mountains with his vocabulary. He could make children cry with his metaphors. And on Fridays, he could start a forest fire with the sparks of his detailed descriptions. Some could say he knew his way around the writing world. Others would say he was a genius. To me, however, he was my teacher.

Mr. Kyle Nelson has always been an inspiration to me and my writing—well, ever since my sophomore year at Lone Peak High School. I was on the football team, and he turned out to be one of the coaches. He seemed very knowledgeable, and I was impressed. When I walked into my English class, there he was, sitting on top of a desk in the middle of the classroom.

Many have considered the man as an easy teacher, one that would give you a decent grade if you simply did the work. However, I can say that without him, my writing would be bland, stupid and unoriginal. During that year, my outlook on writing has drastically changed for the better.

No man can say simply that he was just another teacher. Yes, he did have his flaws, and sometimes questionable teaching styles, but in the end, his students' imagination was created, not just improved upon. No one could ever bring him down. No one could diminish his legacy. No one could ever teach like Mr. Nelson.

Yeah, It's a Green Stop Sign.

How can I tell her?

How, in my inferior being
can I articulate the burning
deep within my heart?

Insurmountable beauty radiates
from her entirety
No man can ignore it

a smile so radiant
a laugh so contagious
a love so pure
so perfect

I can't tell her
No, no I can't tell her
the truth
the way i feel.

I don't fear action
I fear a consequence

I'm hopeless
I'm the frog, not the prince
She's the princess

I'm sitting here
wasting my time
wishing I knew
what to do.

I'm sitting here
without a paddle.

Blinked

Memory Lane's a rough place
misery, love, and hurt
tagged on street signs.

Visiting for the weekend,
walking down the alleyway
I found my past.

I nearly remembered
my youth.

Rough as it was,
I stopped
and looked around.

Life, progress, confusion,
holidays, trips, siblings,
baseball, birthdays, guitar,
strange thoughts, crushes... driving

No one knows me
no one cares to know me
no one can make me care if they care
no one can stop me
Now or forever.

Memory Lane's a rough place
misery, love, and hurt
helps me become...
Me.

I Remember

I remember birth.

I remember innocence.

I remember the days of old; rather, the days of youth.

I remember preschool, the pool, and popcorn chicken.

I remember swimming lessons. Mom was so proud.

I remember beating up defenseless children

as the bully of the playground, the respected.

I remember the best show ever, Blues Clues.

I remember my stash of matchbox cars and hot wheels.

I remember innocence.

I remember leaving Ohio.

I remember getting my sisters in trouble.

I remember my phobia of rollercoasters.

I remember innocence.

I remember young love.

I remember young love as pointless.

I remember sixth grade.

I remember innocence.

I remember junior high racing past as I briefly closed my eyes.

I remember missing a good lunch.

I remember choir.

I remember my first sister leaving.

I remember the second one leaving.

I remember being alone.

I remember guitar.

I remember the desire I had to learn songs that I now know.

I remember my tastes in music as they progressed.

I remember the first Metallica song I heard.

I remember getting turned on.

I almost remember innocence.

I remember chasing my dreams.

I remember waking up this morning

wondering if it's worth it

wondering if I can make it through the day

wondering what people think of me

I remember the words of my father.

I remember rebirth.

Journal Entry

The Scientist # 12

How could he get over what just happened? He broke into silent sobs, fighting to control his emotions. He couldn't think about his wrist right now. He had experienced a great loss. It wasn't long before the man fell to his knees. Smoke was ascending high into the air. The heat from the flames was incredible. He was gasping for breath.

What just happened? It all went so fast. With the force of an atomic bomb, the research lab finally detonated along with everyone inside it. He leaped with all his might away from the building to the cold, hard ground. Sprinting from the building, his strength finally gave out.

He reached the door, and he kicked it open violently. He could see it—the exit. In desperation, he flew down the last fight of stairs. Three quarters, now. He was halfway there. Those horrible people, he thought. Why would they do this? Trying to get as far as he could from the situation at hand, he began his hurried journey. About twenty flights, he wasn't sure if he could make it. There were the stairs. In his hysteria, he lost his mind; which way was the exit?

Tears filling his eyes, he regrettably turned from them all and ran away, away, away... "Okay," he said, "but you've left me no choice. I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry about us, just go! It's better for one of us to live than for all of us to go up in smoke!"

"I can't leave all of you!" he yelled.

"You have to go," one of them told him.

His friends and coworkers at the lab looked at him solemnly. Apparently, those people had kept their word... A loud computerized voice on the intercom rang out, telling them all that they had one minute prior to detonation. He wondered if those criminals had done what they said they would do. The man had been told to stand and keep watch, not to move. This was as bad of a situation as you could get. As he stood there, he thought of his wife and his son.

The Menu Guy

Menu Guy (MG): Man, I wish I could read. (Puts down menu)
Pam: You're illiterate?
MG: No, I said I can't read.
Pam: Umm... It's the same thing.
MG: Is it, now?
(SiLeNcE)
Pam: I wish the waiter would hurry up.
MG: What? Why?
Pam: I'm ready to order.
MG: Do you want to play cards?
Pam: No, not really.
MG: I'm really good at "Go Fish".
Pam: Congratulations.
MG: It's a cool game because I don't have a job, and it's only way for me to relax.
Pam: You don't have a job?
MG: I have to poop. Excuse me.
(MG leaves)
Pam: Waiter? Waiter! Anyone!
Waiter: Yes?
Pam: I need my cappuccino to go, please. And make it fast.
Waiter: Yes, of course.
(3 or so minutes pass. MG returns)
MG: Pam! I missed you!
Pam: Uhhhh....
MG: Pam, dear, I have something I need to ask you.
Pam: (Oh, no..) Yes?
(MG gets down on one knee)
MG: I know we haven't known each other long, but..(pulls out a ring from his pocket) will you marry me?
(Pam finally snaps.)
Pam: No! You won't, nor ever will be, my husband. You're annoying, you don't have a job, and you can't even read! Anything else that I need to know?
(MG looks away somberly)
MG: Well, I do live in my mother's base—
Pam: Goodbye, Menu Guy!
(Pam grabs the coffee from the waiter on his way to their table. She storms out the door and never saw him again.)

Goop

Beneath a forboding bridge lies the silent killer, also known as the Goop. Angered, the green beast slips along the ground, smoothly, quietly, like a cobra. It spots its target, the man, and delves into the ground, silent, deadly, preparing to strike. The creeping Goop senses a halt in the mans movement. The creature violently pushes upward, and surfaced. Undetected, it attacks. He is engulfed by the monster, and the Goop sadistically suffocates the unsuspecting man.

Death Country

Jerry: (Nothing)
Driver: What? Did you say something?
Jerry: Um, no.
(Silence)
Jerry: Do you think we can change the station?
Driver: Why?
Jerry: Well, first of all, we were just at a Slayer concert; secondly, nothing is more depressing than listening to a static-infested country song while driving in the rain.
Driver: What if I like it?
Jerry: Hey, come on, really. Change it.
Driver: I'm not sure if I want to.
(Silence)
Jerry: Please, change it. I can't stand country.
Driver: No, I can enjoy country on a night like this, especially after my eardrums have been roasted at a concert.
(Jerry reaches for the radio, Driver grabs his wrist.)
Driver: Hey, I wouldn't do that if I were you. Try that again and you're out.
Jerry: Grrrr...
(Driver lets go)
Jerry: You know, they say country can kill you, or make you deaf if you listen to it for long with this much static.
Driver: Oh yeah?
Jerry: Yes, it's more dangerous than Kermit the Frog with a baseball bat, they say.
Driver: Well, that is a story. Cool to know.
(Silence)
Jerry: Okay, I can't stand it anymore!
(Jerry reaches once more for the tuning knob, Driver puts his arm in front of him once again, but not to stop him. Jerry heard the door handle click, and was kicked violently out of the vehicle.)
Driver: See you later, Jerry... hahaha, or not...
(Jerry fell down the edge of the cliff on the side of the road, and was never seen again.)

Little Tortilla Boy

"Shut up." replied Arnold. "There's only one man in this whole town who would be able to sell these things, and make a decent living, and that's me."

"Go for it then," replied Roberto. "If you think you can do it."

Tepoztlán was a city where you had to fight to survive. Killings, thefts, and rapes were but a few of the many hardships you would find in the small town on the mountainside. It seemed hard to make a living in any occupation there. Most people appeared to rob others houses as if they were simply going to the store. It was a tough life, but it was accepted because it was so consistently bad.

The only hope for the hopeless city lied in the little tortilla stands on every street corner. Now, most vendors did it for the money. None of them could be trusted. Most people knew them as "The Corrupt Crew," or simply "The Crew". The tortillas were cheap, so families low on money (which was the majority of the town, considering the crime rate) chose them over, say, an ear of corn. However, they weren't particularly tasty a lot of the time--which is why Arnold had the desire to make a difference.

"Don't worry about me, Roberto," said Arnold. " I can do this. And I'll take down anyone that gets in my way."

Arnold Mejito was a hulk of a man. He could be mistaken for a sasquatch. He worked out every day until he vomited. He had a thick Austrian accent, but no one could understand why, considering he lived in Mexico for his whole life. He intimidated everyone, although he couldn't figure out why. His friends strangely called him the "Terminator".

"Mejito, you go get 'em! That's the spirit."

Roberto was quite another story. Arnold found him on the side of the street one morning while he was on a jog (carrying two three hundred pound dumbells and doing a handstand), and he took him in as an almost little brother. Roberto was a small, thin man and had no family to turn to, because his family all died in a tragic accident involving a clown, four whipped pies, and a very large pair of shoes. He was very humble, and scared quite easily.

He said, "But Mejito, are you sure you have the skill to do this sort of thing?"

"Listen to me; you've tasted my tortillas," replied Arnold. "They are perfect. How can you tell me I don't have the skill?"

Roberto stared at him for a second with his bright, blue eyes. "You're right. It's just that no one else, except for Brantley, has made a good tortilla stand, and still, Brantley charges so much money for only one tortilla. Then again, yours are very good, Mejito. I'm behind you all the way on this."

Arnold tossed away the fifty pound medicine ball that he was twirling on his finger and hugged the tiny man. "I thank you for your kindness, brother. However, what will my parents think of me? They don't approve of this business... if they find out there will be nothing but trouble."

"Don't worry, man, what Mom and Pops don't know won't hurt 'em, eh? I mean, what kind of trouble can a little tortilla stand get us in?"

Intro

Many years have passed since humans started living on the earth. Many opinions, personalities and cultures have all surfed on the wave of time. However, the human race could never unanimously decide on the ultimate question that withstands the test of time--reading or writing: which is better?

For me, my answer would have to be writing. Now, don't get me wrong, I can enjoy a good book from time to time, but if you had to ask me, I would easily take the ability to write rather than the trial of reading.

I feel that ever since I was a little kid, I was a pretty good writer. I have always corrected people on their spelling (although I probably shouldn't), and my teachers usually comment on my good voice.

When I'm reading a book, I tend to get bored-or tired-and I just don't want to look at any more words on the page. When writing, I feel different. I want to finish. If I have to, I'll stay up all night to figure out how to get that happily ever after.

I would characterize a writer as someone that likes to be alone, for the most part. They need patience and a deep desire to share what's in their mind to the rest of the reading world. This is what makes the controversy between reading and writing so strange. Without reading, writing would be pointless. Without writing, books wouldn't exist and we couldn't read anything even if we wanted to.

For me, I enjoy writing fictional stories. I love coming up with new ideas that no one has thought of before. I like being different, and taking a giant step out of the real world and creating new characters, with their own personality and appearance. If I could, it wouldn't be too bad writing a book. I don't know if anyone would like it, but I would try to make it not so dry and descriptive--I would make it humorous, if I could.

I don't necessarily write on my own, unless it's for school. However, it really just depends on the assignment for school. I don't exactly enjoy research papers or random "Get to know you" crap. I simply enjoy making really good stories, and trying to perfect them. There aren't many better feelings than knowing that you made a really good story to share with everyone.

All in all, my choice would have to be writing, as before, but under no circumstances do I dislike reading. It could be that I don't read as much as some people, so I can't appreciate it as much. Either way, if I can write it, reading becomes much more fun to me. Therefore, writing is superior to writing in my mind. My case rests.