Social Media Remix

Twitter mockup I made using an alternate account.

1. Choose your platform, and explain why you think this platform would be effective for the GSR and your submission. Consider choosing the platform that you are familiar with, but that will also address a specific audience of the Greenspring Review. Who might be interested in reading your piece, and what platforms do they interact with most?

I mostly chose Twitter as the platform for my mockup because I knew my way around the website, and it’s significantly easier to post on a desktop/laptop than websites like Instagram. Also, I know a lot of my friends and peers use Twitter and have a profile, as well as Stevenson and their library. This allows the promotion of my drafted submission, as liking and retweeting the post would share it to their followers. Students from Stevenson specifically may be interested in reading, especially ones who are involved with the Greenspring Review or the English department.

2. Craft a pitch that fits the constraints of the platform. Consider the common conventions for that site. Will you use text as a caption or an overlay? Do you have a character or space limit? Can you manipulate the font or color of the text? Should you include emojis and punctuation?

There is a rather restrictive character limit for tweets, but instead of describing what my creative work was about I was able to post an image of an excerpt from my submission, along with the first picture that is embedded into my work. There are no font options, but there are tags you can add to the post so that when someone searches for a specific word like #creative or #COVID19 they will see the post as they scroll through. Even though the character limit is small, most users aren’t very receptive to walls of text, so I incorporated spacing and two short sentences to get my point across.

3. Craft media for your post. Should you use an image? A video? A screenshot? A GIF? What works best for this platform?

Adding the pictures may prompt the user to click and scroll through them so they can read the excerpt, and posting the link to the Greenspring Review will attract more attention to the website itself if users are interested. Images are practically a staple for Twitter, especially as a workaround for the limited characters you can have, so the screenshot of my excerpt is very useful in describing what my work is about. This can also attract anyone interested in photography, as the first image in my mockup and the images in my submission are pictures I took myself.

4. Consider when and how often to post. What time of day does your audience use this platform? How can you increase likes and comments? How can you get more views?

For my audience, which is mostly anyone who is affiliated with Stevenson University and the Greenspring Review in any way, or anyone who is a photographer or author themselves, I would say that early afternoon in Eastern Standard Time would be best. That way, across United States, and other time zones across the world that are during the day at this time, would be able to see this post. It might be more beneficial to post this on other sites like Instagram or Facebook as well, since Stevenson University also has a following on their profiles as well. There’s also a possibility that Stevenson might post/repost/like/retweet my post to reach more people, because their social media accounts are very interactive with their students.

Social Media

Choose your platform, and explain why you think this platform would be effective for the GSR and your submission. Consider choosing the platform that you are familiar with, but that will also address a specific audience of the Greenspring Review. Who might be interested in reading your piece, and what platforms do they interact with most?

I choose to use Instagram because people are used to seeing and clicking on advertisements. Also, it is easy to advertise because you can post a link directly to the website. I am using Instagram because I know that a lot of people who are my age, creative, and who go to Stevenson follow me so they will see the message and be receptive.

Craft a pitch that fits the constraints of the platform. Consider the common conventions for that site. Will you use text as a caption or an overlay? Do you have a character or space limit? Can you manipulate the font or color of the text? Should you include emojis and punctuation?

There is a character limit in Instagram, however, it is very long and I do not think that it will be a problem. Also, I will be posting on my Instagram story so I can manipulate the colors, font size and font style of the words. I will be including emojis also because it is a good way to grab people’s attention. Another way that I will grab peoples attention is by using both a picture and text.

Craft media for your post. Should you use an image? A video? A screenshot? A GIF? What works best for this platform?

I used a link to a video of the COVID-19 contest that was on the English departments Instagram account.

Consider when and how often to post. What time of day does your audience use this platform? How can you increase likes and comments? How can you get more views?

I would make mid-day post for social media, around 12pm, and then another one in the evening between 4-5pm. This is because most students check their social media as soon as they wake up but because of the online schooling most students are waking up between 10am-12pm. I will post around 5pm because this is usually when most students are done with classes and are getting bored so they will check their social medias. To increase my views of the post my goal would be to get other SU students to share the post.

GSR Submission

https://youtu.be/y3Rxi_zwxnM

Princess

Elizabeth ran around her house, or as she liked to call it, her castle. Weaving in between the different rooms and exploring for hidden treasure, Elizabeth, with an ever-present smile on her face, was set on having a good day. Her laugh echoed through her kingdom as she marched through the halls. Her head tilted proudly upwards like she’d seen all the kings do in her cartoons. She was dressed in her royal attire with her ruby cape and a luxurious golden crown on her head. When she walked into her father’s office, she greeted him as any 6-year-old royal would.

“Bow peasant.” She folded her arms and looked at her father with an unwavering gaze. Her lips pressed together into a thin line as she attempted to stop herself from smiling. Her father turned slightly in his office chair to look at her. He merely raised an eyebrow at her as he paused in his work. His fingers still hovering over the keyboard. His eyes, a similar shade of brown as her own, held a hint of amusement as he noticed the long red blanket and burger king crown she wore.

“Gasp. My own daughter dares speak to her king that way.” He placed a hand on his chest as if she had somehow wounded him, which was ridiculous. If she was going to attack him, she would have gone for the legs.

“You are not the king. I am, and as king, I need a throne.” Her finger pointed towards the office chair as if to provide a clarification for the simple peasant. The office chair was the perfect throne. She loved to spin in it, and even though whenever she sat in it, her feet never touched the ground, she still managed to feel mature and powerful.

“Well,” he said slowly as he rose from her soon to be throne, “then where am I going to sit?”

She shrugged her shoulders as she looked up at him. “The floor.” She walked towards the chair and stopped in front of her father, waiting patiently for him to move.

“There is just one thing though,” he looked thoughtful with one hand stroking his beard like she had seen all those old wizards on TV do before they said something wise, so she paid close attention to what her father had to say next. “In order to gain the throne, you must defeat the tickle monster.” She paled at his words. The dreaded tickle monster was one of her greatest foes. She looked up at her once father and knew what she had to do. She discarded her long ruby cape and made a run for it. Unfortunately for her, her legs were short, and in a few seconds, the tickle monster caught her in its grasp. It was merciless.

She couldn’t stop laughing and there were tears in her eyes. The tickle monster tickled her sides, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe. She heard the demonic laugh of the tickle monster as she was tortured.

“Alright! I have been defeated.” She managed to wheeze out and look up at the tickle monster, her father. Despite her defeat, there was a smile on her face. She took off her crown and placed it on top of her father’s head. His smile was warm and gentle as he bent his head down so she could place the crown on him.

“As king, my first decree,” he picked her up and slowly walked back to his office, “is to share my throne with the princess of this kingdom.” He placed her on the office chair as she beamed at him. He placed the crown she had just given him back on her head and handed back her discarded cape. “Your highness.” He said with a small bow and a smile on his lips. Elizabeth smiled at him from her throne. It was good to be the princess.

If I Could

I visit this coffee shop a lot. The building never changes, but the people do. Every year or so new college-bound students come here in search of a job and a new beginning. To start fresh and meet new people.

When I first came here, I had my new beginning. But my new beginning quickly became my end. I’m stuck here, and I don’t have the energy to leave. My friends have all left after they graduated to pursue their dreams, and I’m still here.

I met him on our first day of an overseas trip. A group of twenty students, current and graduated, including me were taking a plane to Europe where we would explore Germany, Italy, and Switzerland for ten days. He walked up to me as we were waiting to board our plane, and I could barely hold a conversation with the bubble of anxiety strangling my thoughts.

I would say we hit it off immediately, but that isn’t true.

Back then, I’d say my mental health was the worst it ever was. Standing in the middle of the airport in a T-shirt and sweatpants, my backpack over my shoulders and my hands strangling my phone, fingers mindlessly scrolling to keep myself busy. Strangers bustled around me in every direction, the only thing I could focus on as I struggled to breathe through my anxiousness. This was the longest I would have been away from home at the time, and being surrounded by people I didn’t know sent my social anxiety at an all time high. And then he came.

As I was fiddling with my phone for the fiftieth time, I paid no attention to movement in my peripheral vision until he began talking, his voice deep and curious, starting off with “So…” I glanced up, hardly processing who was in front of me; looking, but not seeing as he asked if I had ever been on a plane before. I told him not since I was eight, and he asked to see my plane ticket.

Such a creative way to learn my name.

Gesturing with his hands, he described where my seat would be and I smiled in gratitude, too anxious to talk with the lump in my throat, and the shuffling of my feet that couldn’t stand still. He asked about my name, and I told him it was from a show. An unexpected laugh that was rich and smooth sounded from him, mixing in with the chatter around us, and yet very distinct. He said his name probably came from a baby book, and all I did was smile tensely. The anxiety I felt prevented me from seeing the obvious cue to ask what his name was, so it remained a mystery for days.

Now, I wring my hands together, taking deep breaths to calm the crushing feeling in my chest. The anticipation is building as I sit in the same place where we had talked many times before. It’s been three years since then, after we had failed to say goodbye as he walked out of the airport to see his mom, and as I stood by mine. We had each other’s numbers, and throughout those years we kept contact on and off, as often as my moods bounced between horribly anxious and feeling content. He was tired of my fickleness, and I was tired of being misunderstood. We haven’t spoken since then.

Until I texted him yesterday.

The sound of a bell rang through the air, a sign that the door opened. I stiffened in response, waiting to see if it was him as I stared down at the lukewarm espresso in front of me. The stool across from me moved slightly as he sat down, and I immediately felt nauseous at the thought of the conversation we had to have.

Anxiety washed over my body as I pursed my lips. His hands appeared on the table, fingers lacing together. I started to remember how his dark, rough skin glided across my tan, smooth hands. How we held them as we walked across Venice together.

That day we had driven there from our hotel in Switzerland early in the morning, days had passed after we had first met. A little less after he sat next to me on the bus after someone sat in his seat. Even less after he first held my hand under my blanket that we shared. I had begun to look forward to our talks about nothing and everything. But that morning he wasn’t in a great mood, and after he sat next to me there was silence. I plugged my earphones in and my walls built stronger around me.

After the bus ride we went to a glass-blowing building, where we watched demonstrations and gazed at sculptures in their displays. He had tried to talk to me a few times, and I responded with a small, polite small smile and kept walking. It was then that I really felt alone, because I had turned him into my safety net over the course of the trip. Without him, I was just me. Anxious and lonely.

I didn’t really speak until we got to roam around the city after our chaperone let us go. He had grabbed my hand and pulled me with him, persistent in getting through the barrier I built around myself. I remember we went to a museum and rode in a Gondola, traveling in the blazing heat filled with crowds of tourists talking and taking pictures.

I remember how I sat on a low stone wall in the shade where he stood between my legs, the same hands resting beside either of my thighs before we left the city back to our hotel. Those same hands that caressed me face at sunset, sitting in front of a bonfire before he kissed me. Dark, brown eyes lit up by the fire behind us filled with warmth and adoration.

I remember how I pushed him away for years when I wanted to be alone. And now we’re here.

I slowly looked up at him, to see that he’s already looking at me. A black jacket encased his arms over a light grey shirt, full lips pulled into a tight line, nose wide and slightly flared, dark eyes staring back at me. No anger, no regret, no contempt. His eyes were filled with love and hurt, and I hated myself for causing the latter.

“Thank you for meeting me.”

He nodded.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I just – I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

“For?”

His pained, deep voice sent shudders down my spine. Tears formed in my eyes as I remembered how we stayed up on the phone at night talking, how we would steal glances at each other when we were near, how his infectious laugh made me fall in love with him.

How it was all about to end.

“Everything,” I spoke. I took a sip of my cold, black coffee to soothe my painfully dry throat before I looked back into his brown eyes. “I was terrible to you; pushing you away because I couldn’t trust you, pulling you back in when I thought I was okay. I’m sorry for never opening up to you; for never telling you how much I loved you.” I cast my gaze down toward the table, fiddling with my nails.

A moment passed before his hand reached out and held mine. “You know I hate that,” he said with the tiniest bit of amusement. I gave him a small, forced smile and he moved his hands away and asked “Why did you leave?”

I let out a sigh at the expected question. “I didn’t want to.” He waited for me as I gathered my thoughts.

“Ever since middle school, I’ve been kind of…emotionally compromised, I guess you could say. I’ve always been bullied when I was younger – by my own friends too – and when I was finally fed up with it I held everyone at a distance. Hell, I was going to, you know, in seventh grade and all my mom said was ‘You think you’d go to Heaven if you did that?’ Typical Black-Parent Syndrome. All I felt since then was pure defeat. The only person I’ve ever had as a constant in my life was me, and I learned to cope with the endless anxiety and loneliness, I guess. And I felt – feel – like I have no one. I couldn’t – I can’t trust anybody.” I drank more coffee to push down the enormous bubble floating in my chest.

Before I continued, he cut me off. “I tried so hard to get you to trust me – to trust someone after all you’ve been through-”

“You can’t fix me,” I whispered. “You can’t save everyone,” he shook his head, about to reject the idea but I continued, “you have this hero complex. You’ve been trying to fix me, you tried to fix your last girlfriend before she cheated on you – multiple times, you tried to fix the relationship with your Mom who never really bothered to give you the time of day.” The faintest outline of a tear rolled down his cheek before he wiped it away quickly. “You’re trying to fix your best friend who was assaulted months ago, even though he hasn’t talked to you since then. You can’t fix anyone unless they want to fix themselves.”

A troubled breath left his lips and I sniffed in response. “You have such a kind and generous heart, but that will be your downfall if you don’t put yourself first.”

“Is this what you brought me here for?”

I smiled ruefully. “No, that’s not why I brought you here.” I glanced around the small café, taking in the sweet and bitter smell of coffee and the sound of the silent chatter as I gathered my thoughts. “I just – I feel so alone all the time. Anything and everything makes me so anxious that sometimes I can’t even breathe and most days I don’t even want to. I stopped talking to my friends because I know it’s draining being around me, and they’ve even said it themselves. They don’t and they will never understand me, no matter how many times I explain to them how my mind works. Either that or they just don’t care. So I stopped opening up to people because no one will ever care or understand or care to understand me-”

“All I’ve ever done is care to understand you.”

I held back a sob as I responded, voice watery with emotion. “I know that now. You are, by far, the kindest, most thoughtful person I’ve ever met. And even though it was fleeting, I did – I do – trust you. I never want you to think that I didn’t. I don’t want you to think that I never loved you either, because I always will.” He reached out to hold my hand and I let him. My chest tightened unbearably and threatened to suffocate me. “I knew you loved me and I took advantage of that, and I am so sorry.”

He wiped a tear that fell from my eye. “I will always love you, too. You deserve so much more than what you got; you deserve to be happy, and I’m sorry I couldn’t give that to you.”

I shook my head. “You did, even when we weren’t together.” I breathed out. “Whenever I pushed you away, I threw myself into work to try and ignore everything and everyone, which obviously isn’t healthy. So I decided to take your advice and start going to therapy. But I think we should both try to move on. You deserve more than what I can give right now.”

The corner of his lips quirked up a little, his hand still on my cheek. “Is that a ‘one day’?”

Biting back a sad laugh, I said, “It’s maybe one day. If, somehow, we meet again in the future, and we’re both in better places, maybe we can try again.” He stands up and I follow as he immediately reaches for a hug. We stand there for a while, breathing each other in one last time before we part ways. Once he pulled back, he planted a light kiss on my cheek before he reached in his pocket, took out a five-dollar bill and placed it on the table. Knowing what I’m about to say, he sends me a look before I start talking. An easy, grateful smile stretches across my face as he starts to leave.

“See you.”

“See you,” I called back to him.

The bell rang again as he walked out the door, and I felt myself drowning.

The Deterioration (GSR final submission)

Sitting in a fort of blankets and pillows, Zuri was reading a book. During those times, it helped to escape reality to stay sane, though one couldn’t afford to escape for too long. It wasn’t safe.

Zuri’s friend, Nova, trudged over, interrupting Zuri’s flow. “Somebody came here to see you. . .” Nova pointed behind her, to the door.

“Girl, what?” Zuri strained to hear her amidst all the noise in the shipping container. She and the other bionics were on the run and in isolation, dodging scrappers.

Nova bent down, her purple hair falling onto her face, contrasting well with her brown skin. “Some dude is here to see you, Z.”

Zuri furrowed her eyebrows, sliding her bookmark in between the pages of the novel then stood up and started for the door. “Who?”

“Girl, I have no idea. Myles is standing guard and he said some dude rolled up in an old truck and asked for you.” Nova shrugged.

“That’s weird. . .” The two friends began the trek to the door, stepping over other refugees’ bags, blankets, and pillows.

“Mhmm. You want me to come witchu?”

“Nah, I’m good.” A pang of bravery struck her. Zuri was curious.

“You sure, Z?”

“Yeah, yeah . . . I’m good.”

“Okay,” Nova sounded unsure in her friend, but she branched off to a few others playing some card game in the corner.

Zuri reached the end of the container and pushed open the door. Myles—muscular and unwavering—stood outside, eying the man. Zuri followed his gaze and their eyes magnetically connected. How the fu—? she thought.

“You know dis guy?” Myles asked her, gawking at the mysterious man.
He seemed familiar—felt familiar. Déjà vu washed over Zuri, but she wasn’t sure where or how she knew him. . . Perhaps a dream. . . I’ve definitely seen him before. . . I think.

“Yeah,” Zuri said reluctantly.

Myles didn’t question her as he began patrolling their surroundings. They couldn’t be too careful in those dilapidated and barren areas. Desperation will make people do crazy things there.

Zuri sensed the man was older than her—way older. By like 20 years, she guessed. But the energy that passed between them—the unusual attraction—suggested that age wasn’t a factor. Age didn’t scare either away.

After all, he found her. Zuri didn’t know how, but he did. This man’s blind faith scared her . . . but she’d be lying if she said it didn’t intrigue her as well. She yearned to know more about him, but she knew to be cautious, for someone this ambitious was dangerous. Ambition could get you killed.

After all, he did find her and she knew—only instinctively—of his existence, but nothing more. She never knew of anyone this committed, this determined. He must’ve used all his resources to find her. This mission, one of pilgrimage proportions, was odd—unusual, but again, piqued her interest, one she didn’t know she had until now.

This scared Zuri. She needed to be careful. She needn’t fall under any trance to overlook this behavior. This was beyond weird.

He parted his mouth to speak, but no words flowed out. She stood speechless, too, the air around her was choked out by mystery man’s overwhelming presence. He didn’t appear powerful, of affluence, but his presence was strong like rich cologne. He was tall, wearing a yellow corduroy jacket, cargo pants, and boots. An everyman. A grey beanie fit snug on his head as plaits sprouted underneath. His face was square-shaped and he sported an unfinished beard, but it was his eyes that really caught her attention. His eyes were piercing—intense, seeing past her soul if that was possible.

Moments passed as they both assessed each other’s person and soon he decided to take careful steps towards her. His stride exuded certainty, something she wished she possessed in that moment.

Once in front of her, she noticed that the steady rise and fall of their breaths fell in tandem. It was unusual to be this in sync with someone she didn’t really know. Although her heart didn’t quicken, her mind zoomed with a thousand thoughts, ransacking her memory bank of any possible recollection of this man. It frightened her how comfortable she was around him.

She searched the depths of his light eyes and found nothing but confidence. He knew who she was.

“Come ‘ere,” he gently commanded. His voice was gruff yet smooth.
He brushed past her and she turned around, finding him walking towards the shipping container fashioned as a bathroom. Mystery man pushed down on the door’s rusty lever until it budged open. He gestured for her to walk through first as he held the door open.

Zuri flicked the light switch on, nearly blinded by the white interior. The container had stalls with portable toilets, a mirror, and a long counter with hand sanitizer stations. Running water was scarce during The Deterioration. It seemed like only the rich people who could afford the bionic parts had access to running water.

He pushed the door closed, the sudden sound startling her, then she swiveled around to face him. Before he could speak, she interjected, “DTV?”
He stared at Zuri then nodded. She wasn’t sure how she knew that, but she just did.

“How’d you find me?”

DTV stepped closer to her, rolling up the sleeve covering his right arm. He flexed his muscles and a holographic downward arrow appeared in the crease of his elbow. He tapped it and a keypad appeared, prompting him to enter his PIN. Most people would turn away when entering their code, but not him. A list of commands materialized, and he tapped the first entry. “My link already had your PIN in it.” He turned his arm so Zuri could see.

“But how? We’ve been running and have been in isolation for weeks. The connections aren’t stable enough to receive information out here—let alone someone else’s codes.”

He typed his PIN on his keypad, flexed his arm, and rolled his jacket sleeve down before shrugging his shoulders.

She started pacing. “What’s your full name?”

“Daven Tobias Vaughn. DTV,” he answered immediately, standing with his feet shoulder-width apart.

She nodded. “I’m guessing you already know mine, huh?” Skeptical, Zuri crossed her arms over her chest.

Daven carefully walked over to her. “Zuri Kaleela Mercer.”

He stared at her and uncrossed her arms. She stared back, offended and uncertain. Silence overtook them. Then, in a swift motion, he gripped her thighs and lifted her onto the counter. Her hands planted on his broad shoulders, breathing hitched as they held simmering eye contact. Then their lips smashed into each other, an unexplainable passion exploded—an intensity neither could explain. They gripped and groped one another, their lips and tongues intertwined as they sucked in the same hot air. Want turned into necessity. His hand slipped up her shirt, grazing the slit of her USB po—

“Aye! Unlock this muhfucka! I gotta pee!” Zuri recognized that voice as her friend, Tavian.

Zuri pushed Daven off of her and hopped off the counter. She ushered him into a stall and turned around to adjust her clothes before opening the door.

“Hey,” she chirped.

“Hey nothing. The fuck you got this door locked for?” He didn’t let her answer before he brushed past her, beelining for one of the stalls to relieve himself.

Zuri left the shipping container and waited on the side for Daven. She saw Tavian leave and enter their temporary living quarters then Daven emerged from the container moments later. He circled the corner to find her posted up on the wall. A smile spread on both of their faces as they continued where they left off: his hands on her waist and her arms cradling his face.
But abruptly, he stopped.

“What?” Zuri asked, concerned.

His head hung low. “They’re coming after you—all of you.”

“Who?”

“Those rich, fat fucks.”

Zuri let her arms fall off of his body and Daven stepped back. With several feet between them now, they searched each other’s eyes. “You’re a scrapper, aren’t you?” She asked with the conviction of an oracle.

Daven simply nodded.

Zuri’s face hardened. “So, what’s this?” She motioned between them, referencing their unusual attraction.

“I ‘on’t know.”

“Are you gonna kill me?” she asked with eyes as thin as blades.

“No,” he answered definitively. If his voice had a foot, he put his foot down.

“Originally, I was supposed to—you know, for your parts. But this,” he gestured between them, “is too strong. Honestly, it would’ve felt wrong to complete the job.”

“Sooo—,”

“So, I came to warn you all. They’re coming—others like me are coming, other scrappers.”

Zuri seized her head, pacing again. “Shit!” she hissed. “We should run, huh?”

“I ‘on’t know any other options.” He shrugged.

She side-eyed him. “Why should I trust you?”

Daven smiled. He knew she was going to ask. “Because you know me.”

“How do I know you?” He began to walk towards her, Zuri retreated until her back hit the cold metal of the shipping container.

“I ‘on’t know.” Daven brushed her hair out of her face.

“You ‘on’t know nothin’!” They both laughed. “But this is crazy.”

“I know,” a low chuckle tumbled out of his mouth, “but I rather not question the Divine.”

“There is no Divine,” she mocked him. “Only divine wealth,” she stared off at nothing in particular, the weight of their situation finally settling on her, “and from what you said, they’re trying to kill us. I mean I knew that, but damn. There’s more? It’s that bad out there, huh?”

Crestfallen, Daven nodded and said, “You have what they desperately need and they’re willin’ to do whatever it takes to survive. They’re not used to that, Zuri.” She finds another spot to stare at behind Daven. He tipped her chin up to make her look at him. “But we are. We know how to survive. We’re going to fight this thing and we’re gonna be okay.”

His words were confident like everything else about him, but Zuri couldn’t afford that level of certainty. “I ‘on’t know.” She shook her head and crossed her arms.

Daven smiled. “Trust me.”

Zuri immediately gazed up at him, finding solace and comfort in his familiar eyes. “I do.”

Let Me

Let Me

Let me place eggshells beneath your feet.

Let me give you little room to speak.

Let me claim I care –

Let me never be there.

Let me drain, but never replenish.

Let me begin, but never finish.

Let me swear, but never do –

Let me protect, and hurt you too.

But it’s okay.

I’m family right?

Can I Ask You For Dinner?

Ring! Ring! Ring! Slap

I still try to maintain a daily routine, even during these hard times of this new coronavirus ordeal. Things have been awfully quiet around the neighborhood, especially here in Brooklyn as many people have fallen ill due to how fast this virus spreads. Hospitals are overcrowded and schools have closed to prevent the spread of this contagion. Even my job has closed down and asked us to start working from home, allowing me to care for my younger brother Terrance, though he’s been driving me crazy as well.

“Why do you still have that loud ass alarm clock going off this early? It’s been two weeks since you stopped working, learn to chill a little bro,” said Terrence as he barges through the door.

“Routines are important to stay in touch with the world,” I replied. “There’s always something to do, can’t just sit around on your ass all day, let’s see what school work you got going on today-”

“N-O-T-H-I-N-G, I’m trying to get my team more wins in this game and-”

“Did you finish your math from yesterday?” I said cutting him off.

“Yo, you’re not mom or dad Allen,” says Terrence with a little sass in his voice while walking away. “so just chill stop being annoying. You are barely here and just because mom and dad aren’t here doesn’t make you have to ‘step up.’”

Getting Terrence to buckle down and do his work has been like pulling teeth. Our parents travel often between mission work and business trips, leaving our parents quarantined over in Africa until cases begin to die down enough to allow air travel in their country. We still talk to them, recently just celebrating my 21st birthday over FaceTime while learning about what things needed to be done at our home here in the states. Though schools have been out, I have been trying to express to him how this is a good time to get ahead of everyone else and give yourself an advantage in school. But what 14 year old wants to hear this now, especially in times like these? I have to ease into the routine with him and hope he follows.

I begin getting ready for the day while saying to Terrence, “Alright, first of all, watch your tone. Second, let’s do our morning workout, eat breakfast, and then finish whatever schoolwork you gotta do and I’ll do whatever work that I have to do. Then we can chill the rest of the day. Sound good?”

“I mean, I guess,” says Terrence begrudgingly.

We begin tackling our day with our newfound ‘quarantine exercise regimen’ that we compiled with all the workouts we learned throughout the years, beginning with our legs. Normally, our neighbors wouldn’t fare well with the noticeable banging from our movements on the floor, but given the circumstances, I think they have begun to take a liking to our noise to feel less alone.

Following the workout, we have breakfast while watching Netflix. We have a running tradition of exchanging who gets to select the show to watch. This time, Terrence put on The Office, a show that pretty much anyone can get on board with. As we watch a few episodes, I began to realize that Terrence is starting to get into some of his “work-time” thinking that I’d forget, but I stop the show and get him into his work.

Though I have work on my own that I have to do, I sneaked outside for a quick smoke on our balcony before I got started, trying to not let Terrence notice my sudden disappearance. While on the balcony, I noticed a woman on a rooftop across the street doing morning stretches. They weren’t ordinary stretches from a power lifter, or athlete, but looked like stretches of a dancer of some sorts. She was bundled up to start, but throughout the routine took off layer after layer until she seems to be doing her routine at full speed, doing angelic jumps and high leg kicks all on a rooftop. She noticed me observing, and gave me a wave. I decided not to stick around much any longer as I felt that I might have been creeping a little bit., I responded with a wave and headed back inside.

Later throughout the day, I began helping Terrence with his math work. Pre-calculus is an area that I barely remember myself, but luckily Terrence is smart enough where I just am a means for him to make sense of what he is learning. While Terrence is working, I notice that the same woman is outside still, now on a blanket while reading a book. It’s unusual that I have been in this apartment for so long, yet I am just now noticing people being on a rooftop. Terrence notices me giving him a half-ass ear toward his work and says, “Why are you eyeing that lady down?”

“What you mean?” I replied. “Tell me about this matrix-”

“Nah nah, we gonna be locked up in this house for the next few months, so you might as well shoot your shot with her.”

“How?’ I asked in pure confusion. “We supposed to be social distancing, not knocking on each other’s doors.”

“You give her your number-”

“T, how?”

“I can put your number on my drone, fly it over, and you guys can figure it out from there.” Terrence doesn’t have a bad idea quite frankly, and honestly, I have nothing better to do… the worst that can happen is rejection.

Terrence got his drone and I got a sheet of paper to put my phone number and a little message on and tape to the drone. Luckily, she was still on the rooftop and I eagerly ran out hoping she still was at least looking out for me. While all this is being done, Terrence fires up the drone and gets it in the air.

“Hurry up, I forgot that it is kind of illegal to be flying drones in Brooklyn without a permit, but maybe cops aren’t out trying to arrest us for this right now,” I said with calming humor.

“I am the pilot, shush,” said Terrence.

The drone slowly approached her and landed peacefully on her rooftop. She approached the drone and took the paper, looked at it, and gathered her things and went back inside.

“Well that was embarrassing,” I said.

“Just wait,” said Terrence.

I give him the benefit of the doubt as he’s retrieving his drone. Moments later, I get a FaceTime from a random ‘917’ number, a New York number.

“Hello?’

On the other end answers the woman. “Hey, um, I’m Sandra- from the rooftop,” said Sandra timidly Are you the one to send me this cute little message asking me for a quarantine dinner?”

“Quarantine dinner? Really,” said Terrence in a disgusted tone while eavesdropping. “Smooth.”

“Yo go finish your work, let me handle this,” I barked back. Realizing my tone, I caught him on the way out to thank him for the push to do this.

After somewhat formally introducing myself, Sandra and I began to talk over our in-house lunches and placed our phones across from each other as we learned more about each other. Even though we were communicating through a phone, we tried to still act as if we were face to face, asking each other about our meals and laughing and making jokes. Sandra and I talk nightly and eat all our meals together now, imagining a life after quarantine together.

In the darkest of times, a light was able to shine, making this a moment of hope in this time of uncertainty, at least for me…

Style Sheet

https://drive.google.com/file/d/18RuAzJQtsRQAs1ZIwoNID-0J5GWX81Xz/view?usp=sharing

The process for editing this article was quite the roller coaster. It was initially very overwhelming, as the style sheet included a lot of information. However, I found it was quite easy to simply go through and check-off the requirements after I read my section (which started on page 8). I used the resources provided to learn about Chicago author-date style, which helped with making sure the citations were correct. It was not particularly difficult to find grammatical problems with the article, as I found information contained in it to be very engaging. Not only was it engaging, but it was somewhat challenging to fully comprehend the material as well. As such, I often re-read paragraphs multiple times, which provided ample opportunities for finding new issues.

Style Sheet

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VwcGSgKlpq4hOPtvhHvYkMtqOry_-K4vPC7jzgkNM1E/edit?usp=sharing

I found this assignment to be overwhelming because I have never done anything like it before. I wasn’t used to the guidelines, which caused me to be unsure of myself as I was editing. I was trying not to miss anything. It took some time, but by the end of the article, I got the hang of it.