The Experiences of Human Life

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The Experiences of Human Life
A Chapbook by Justin Rieth
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• Introduction
• I decided to challenge myself with this
  chapbook assignment. When I write creatively, my
  natural tendency is to always have a positive
  overall vibe to the work, with clean, bright
  scenes and a happy ending. More importantly, I
  enjoy making my readers think about humanity and
  the experiences that we all share. Unfortunately,
  I feel like I write in an idealistic fantasy
  world a little too often, making it hard for the
  reader to connect with the story because things
  may not be real enough.

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• In this collection, I still wanted to make my
  reader think about various aspects of human
  interaction. However, I wanted to do this using
  darker themes, images and tragedies in place of
  my more traditional, lighter feel. So, each piece
  in this chapbook has either a predominately dark
  feel to it or a disastrous ending, or both,
  hopefully leading the reader to thoughts about
  some aspect of human experience.

4

• Gravitys Truth is a revisioning of a poem
  entitled Jump, which is based on my own
  personal experience. It depicts a skydivers
  experience in jumping out of a plane and
  returning safely to the earth. Gravitys Truth
  is written from the perspective of the earths
  gravity, personifying this gravity to have a
  sinister, devious side. Originally, Jump was
  written as a narrative, but I wrote Gravitys
  Truth in pantoum form in an attempt to depict
  the never-ending nature of gravitys desire each
  and every time the diver jumps from the plane,
  gravity longs for disaster to befall him.

5

• The inspiration for Snap is a little
  complicated. Originally, I wrote a creative
  nonfiction piece based on an experience I had in
  my childhood. I had been climbing my favorite
  tree with my younger brother and stumbled upon a
  mouses nest hidden in a hole in the tree. They
  scared me, and I promptly fell out of the tree.
  In the original revision of this piece, I wrote
  the same story from the mouses perspective. Snap
  was a very proper mouse, with her own family of
  mice babies that she loved and protected. In the
  revision, Snap is very nasty and bitter, almost
  breathing darkness into the piece.

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• My Captain, My Blood is a ghazal written from a
  ships perspective about her experience sailing
  with her captain. I chose this form of poetry
  because it was originally used to write about
  the mystical aspects of devotion and the pain and
  longing that comes from lost love. (Sellers,
  334). To more poignantly match the darkness of
  this chapbook, I chose to write about the moment
  in which the ships love, her captain, is lost to
  her.

7

• International Maternity was by far the most
  difficult piece for me to write because for some
  reason, I couldnt think of a good way to do so
  without inventing some details of the story. It
  is a revision of a piece of creative nonfiction
  about my experience attempting to fly out of
  Mexico after having accidentally entered the
  country illegally. This revision is much shorter
  than the original, which was a challenge in and
  of itself it was hard to decide which material
  to cut and which to keep because I loved it all.
  I also ramped up the darkness throughout the main
  body of the story, only lightening things up
  toward the end so as to bring the chapbook into
  line with my more natural style of writing at the
  end, as well as to more clearly highlight the
  point of the revision, as described below.

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• Each of these pieces is designed to make the
  reader think about a different aspect of human
  experience. In Gravitys Truth, I wanted to
  leave the reader with the impression that there
  are patterns that repeat in life, though they may
  not repeat in the same way forever. In Snap, I
  wished to show the reader the value of human
  interaction by confronting them with the prospect
  of dying alone, unloved. In My Captain, My
  Blood, I hoped to accomplish something similar,
  though from the opposite end of the spectrum. How
  much more will we appreciate those close to us if
  we are forced to contemplate the thought of
  watching them get ripped away? In International
  Maternity, I showed how communities can span
  thousands of miles, strengthened by the bonds of
  shared experiences. We may not always understand
  each other completely, but we are all humans,
  sharing more with one another than we might think.

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• Gravitys Truth
• Every time he jumps
• I long for a failure
• to slow his descent
• As I gaze upon such distance
• I long for a failure
• to breathe correctly
• As I gaze upon such distance
• while outer space surrounds him

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• To breathe correctly
• He stops his heartbeat
• While outer space surrounds him
• By jumping out to aim for dirt
• He stops his heartbeat
• With a lack of breath
• By jumping out to aim for dirt
• With his parachute for safety

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• With a lack of breath
• Dismayed, I watch him yet again
• With his parachute for safety
• As he drifts toward my embrace
• Dismayed, I watch him yet again
• Longing for his failure
• As he drifts toward my embrace
• Every time he jumps

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Snap hated her name more than anything her
father said that it had originally been Nibbles,
but when she was a baby, her temper had flared up
at the slightest things. As she grew nastier and
nastier, her family grew bitter and began to mock
her, calling her Snap. Who knew what she would
Snap at next? Besides, they said, who would call
a terrifying monster of a mouse baby something as
cute and cuddly as Nibbles? Perhaps they thought
their scorn would make her be nicer, but she had
shown them. She had left as soon as possible and
never looked back. A solitary S makes an angrier
Snap that, she liked.
Snap
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She had no reason not to be as nasty as
possible. What good would that do her? She loved
no one, and wanted no ones love. The thought of
having babies made her cringe how terribly
inconvenient that would be! She would have to
share the best hole in the entire tree with a
bunch of whiney, hungry brats! No, thank you.
Empty, just the way she liked, her hole was
deliciously dark and musty. With an entrance
facing South, Snap never had to worry about the
sun peeking in to blind her with its hot glare.
This was ideal, as she especially enjoyed lying
on the ledge just inside the entrance, chattering
angrily at any bird that dared to set foot on her
branch.
14
Her hole was high up in Slime Tree. Snap
reveled in this name, as she had come up with it
herself. No one else used it it was hers, and
her feelings about it were the closest thing she
knew to fondness. Its branches shone with a
sickly layer of slimy mold of such a dark green
that it was almost black. The surface was
slippery enough that no one ever even tried to
climb it. That suited her just fine, as she never
had any need for visitors. She herself only left
when absolutely necessary, mostly to lick dew
from the Slime Trees leaves each morning. She
bristled at the thought of someone else coming
into her home, messing things up from the way
that she liked. The very idea made her shoulders
hunch forward, the small ruff behind her neck
standing up stiffly. No, it was much better to
remain as she was, alone and undisturbed in her
welcome seclusion.
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Just as she was settling down to a banquet of
fat green and grey grubs, a whisper of movement
came from above. Snap immediately hid her grubs,
scuffling dirt on top of them and packing it down
with hurried paws. She crouched there
momentarily, feeling the burgeoning anger begin
to press against her chest.
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Someone was scuffling around outside, on her
branch! Oh! She would tell them a thing or two!
Such disrespect! Why couldnt everyone leave her
alone and stay on their own branches outside
their own holes? Glaring up along the greasy
walls of her pit, she saw something enormous
squeeze through the opening to her nest. It
looked like a turtle that had lost its shell,
only instead of a head and legs it had five
stiff, fleshy worms sticking out from its edges.
A wide protuberance extended out back through her
opening.
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Without wasting another instant, she scrabbled
up the slippery side to her familiar ledge,
lunging from there to sink her razor-sharp teeth
into the intruders squishy back. The reaction
was immediate red blood welled up around her
mouth, soaking her face and arms as the enemy
began to thrash about, smacking her ruthlessly
into the walls. She held on, and suddenly the
harsh light was surrounding her, making her
squint as she was plucked up and held in midair
by her furious ruff. There was a dizzying rush of
air as she rose dramatically and found herself
face-to-face with the most horrible monster
imaginable. A terrible thunder erupted from its
mouth.
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HEY ROWLAND, THINK THISLL WORK FOR SHOW AN
TELL? The monsters moist air washed over her,
its deafening roar flattening her thin ears
against her head. She twisted, trying to catch a
paw on the two stiff worms pinching her painfully
by the back of her neck. If only she could give
them a good bite, she was sure they would let her
go. They shifted, and Snap found herself dangling
head first over a dizzying drop. Below her was
another of the vicious demons, its mouth twisting
upwards at the corners as it peered at her. More
thunder rolled from its mouth as its head bounced
up and down.
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There! She hooked one of her claws into a ridge
between the fleshy tip of one of the worms and a
smooth hard layer on top. Using the new leverage
to twist herself about, she sank her teeth as
deeply as she could, feeling them scrape on
something hard at the center of the worm. In a
single, blinding instant of motion, the worm
whipped her out towards empty space. Her teeth
ripped free of the soft flesh and she began to
tumble end over end, striking the branches of
Slime Tree as she careened towards the ground.
20
As she saw the earth rush up to meet her, Snap
cried out one last furious shriek before all
remaining breath was driven from her lungs.
Darkness enfolded her completely, and she was
missed by none.
21
My Captain, My BloodMy brave captain maps out
my course,Carefully planning my crews daily
grub, of course.I reach with my sails, catching
wind to carve a wakeI pound the waves with my
bow, clearing them from my course.When the
storms sweep up, I drag my anchor lowMy crew
follows the bosuns call through this obstacle
course.My mast beneath my captains hand,
crows nest plying the heavens,I feel the
stroking of his weathered thumb, ridged and
coarse.My carpenters fill my decks with their
mournful madrigals tonesTheir songs are broken
by the treacherous reef crossing my course.My
captain is my blood, spilling over and
drowning,From my deck to the sea, the end of my
course.
22
Muy bien, the customs official groaned
drowsily, rubbing her tired eyes, still rimmed
thickly with sleep. Es mi gran placer poder
ayudarte el día de hoy. Qué puedo hacer para
tí? Dark purple circles gouged deep furrows in
her cheeks beneath each puffy eye. Apparently,
the forty-five minutes that I had waited for her
to come to the desk was not enough time to wake
up all the way. Despite the fatigue her words
came so fast that I was still struggling to piece
together their meaning when her thin, thickly
veined hands darted out to take my documents.
International Maternity
23
Hesitantly, I asked, Habla ingles? No. Sig
h. As I began my frustrating and poorly
pronounced explanation of the mess I had gotten
myself into, her eyes began to wander from my
documents, picking over my appearance as they
peered over her coffee mug. My last lingering
hopes crumbled as she said, Im sorry. You
really do need a tourist card. Didnt you get one
when you flew in?
24
No, I drove across the border with my friend,
I replied, gesturing to Oscar for support. Come
on, Oscar! Help me! Tell her how they never even
looked at my passport! Oscar just shrugged at
me, mouth working soundlessly, silenced by the
customs officials icy gaze. Freezing tentacles
climbed my spine as she explained that
ultimately, it was my responsibility to have the
correct documentation not the border
officials. The nearest place to purchase a
tourist card was two hours away by car.
25
We didnt have a car.My plane would leave in
forty-five minutes.
26
Man, arriving late to the airport is never a
good thing, especially when youre in another
country, I berated myself silently. The customs
official was rattling on in Spanish, picking up
momentum as the coffee had its effect.
Apparently, I had been in the country illegally
for the past twenty days. My neck flushed hotly,
stomach dropping like a rock as she explained how
bad things truly were. If a police officer had
stopped me and requested my documentation at any
time, I would have been rightfully imprisoned for
illegal immigration. My eyes darted to the two
looming security guards standing stiffly at
attention to either side of the customs booth.
The hard, black steel of their pistols drank my
stare as I struggled to collect my thoughts.
27
Maam, you have to understand. I dont have
enough money in the bank to buy another ticket,
and I cant return this one. Besides, the next
flight out is a week from now and my classes
start again on Tuesday! Poor boy. I am so very
sorry there is nothing I can do for you. She
shook her head, eyes downcast, sliding the window
closed to slice through my frantic stammers. The
streaked glass fogged at my breath, briefly
obscuring her features in a fuzzy white cloud
punctuated by greasy yellow fingerprints. Eyes
brimming with tears, I thought desperately of the
man who had confiscated my ticket at the airline
desk.
28
He had a tip jar beside his computer. I had
my last fifty dollars clenched in a sweaty fist
inside the pocket of my jeans. Forty minutes
left. Maybe if I just
29
Jaw clenching, I held back the hot tears
threatening to tumble down my cheeks. With an
effort, I pushed away from the smooth dark marble
of the counter. Turning my stumble into a
stiff-legged stagger, I lurched toward the
airline desk. By now, the sprawling line weaving
among the dirty cement columns had dwindled to
the size of a paltry worm. I clung to my last
hope, holding it like an avalanche victim
caressing his last match, praying it would light.
A trembling tear settled silently onto my cheek,
forming a cold smear as I wiped it away. This is
insane, I could go to jail for this! There has to
be some other way out.
30
Rieth! Hey, Rieth! Oscar called frantically
from the open customs window, waving me back. I
jogged over, breath hollow in my ears. The
official motioned me to follow her before quietly
leading the way to a private room at the end of a
long, inky-dark hallway. The guards following us
positioned themselves beside the door as we
entered, guns still glinting dangerously.
31
A lone wooden table and two opposing chairs
beneath a single hooded light bulb stopped me in
my tracks. Nervous thoughts jumped unbidden into
my mind of tense TV crime show interrogations. I
licked my lips uncertainly, glancing backwards as
the door clicked shut. Is she going to call the
police? Am I going to jail? Thirty minutes left
32
Sit down, please. What is your mothers maiden
name? The cracked cinderblock walls of the room
extended beyond the reach of the light. There was
no telling who else might be hiding in the
shadows, waiting to take their turn in my
interrogation. A breathy silence dragged on as I
tried to force my choked mind into action. I
didnt know the word for maiden name.
Exasperated, she asked, What was your mothers
last name before she got married?
33
Oh! Her name was Kerr. No good, she stated
plainly, drilling into my eyes with her own. What
on earth does she want? She continued to meet me
stare-for-stare, silent and intense, obviously
expecting something more. My chair rocked on
uneven feet, dirt gritting beneath my shoes as
they scuffed the floor. My eyebrows drew low as I
considered what she might want.
34
There are some relatives of hers in Italy,
named LaMotta? I ventured, wincing even as I
suggested it. Surely she would not care at all
about this, yet it was all I had. Surprisingly,
her face lit up, the bright smile that suddenly
appeared on her lips seeming to mute the harsh
tones of the circles under her eyes. She took a
radiant yellow paper and a smooth, red-lacquered
wooden pen from her briefcase. She began to write
in crisp rows of script, explaining as she went.
35
If anyone asks, your name is Justin Rieth Mata.
There was an error on your passport. Your mother
was a Mexican citizen, she said firmly, looking
up frequently to make sure I was paying
attention. You have dual citizenship in Mexico
and the United States. You just spent Christmas
vacation in Mexico visiting her family, and you
are now returning for university. She signed. I
signed. She stamped, folded and sealed that
beautiful golden form while I sat back, dazed.
36
Holding out a pink, wafer-thin carbonless copy
of my deliverance from Mexico, she made me repeat
the entire story to her satisfaction. Unless you
repeat all of this just as I told you, I will
lose my job and we will both go to jail. Do you
understand? I nodded yes, and the uneven chair
lurched as I sat back hard, the faint, neatly
flowing letters blurring in my grasp. Hope and
Confusion bloomed in my mind, each fighting the
other for my heart. Suspicion joined with
Confusion and smothered Hope, tamping it firmly
into the back of my mind where it continued to
struggle, burning brightly.
37
Really, youre going to let me go, just like
that? I asked, bewildered. Why? I tried to
wrap my mind around what was happening. Why would
someone risk so much for a complete stranger?
38
Why? She folded her hands on the table and
leaned across it toward me. Because if my son
was in another country and he was as stupid, lost
and poor as you, I would want someone to help
him. Say hello to your mother for me. With a
hint of a wink she was on her feet, ushering me
through the door. The guards led us back down the
long hallway, and I noticed that someone had
turned the lights on. No longer a wash of
blackness, the hall was now clearly illuminated
by a bank of bright white light bulbs. The
creeping cold had vanished from my spine,
replaced by rich rush of overwhelming relief. As
we walked, the guards laughed and joked with one
another, the customs official occasionally
joining in. I watched her out of the corner of my
eye, wondering.
39
How must it feel to be a mother? To be able to
instinctively connect with a woman whom you have
never met, who thinks in a different language and
lives in another culture, all because you have
both born a child? This womans natural
connection with my own mother was strong enough
that she had put herself at great personal risk,
and out of nothing more than empathy. On that
day, I experienced a shocking glimpse into the
international community created by the parents
love for the child.
40
I repeated the lie to the appropriate officials,
conscious of the repercussions in store for the
customs official if I were to make a mistake.
For once, I had no trouble with pronunciation it
was the most important lie I ever told. I got my
ticket and sprinted through the door, right out
onto the hot black tarmac. The ground crew was
already wheeling away the portable stairs leading
up to the planes open door. I held my ticket out
to them, breathless in my haste. They laughed as
the wheels were locked back into place, shaking
their heads and rattling away to each other about
silly Americans theyre always in a hurry, yet
they still manage to be late!
41
One layover in Dallas, and I touched down in
OHare International Airport. My mother was there
before me, waiting to bring me back to Michigan.
Thoroughly exhausted, I walked toward her,
smiling with relief. Hello, Mom.
42
Artists Statement At the beginning of June,
2010, I was a woefully inexperienced creative
writer. Now, at the end of June, 2010, I still
consider myself inexperienced. However, I now
have a much better understanding of the type of
creature that calls itself creative writing, as
well as a solid idea of how to begin taming it.
43
To start with, I did not truly know what
creative writing was when I started this class. I
thought it was the same thing as telling a story,
just on paper with some sort of added emphasis on
using unusually creative words. I even wrote my
first attempt at a creative writing assignment
under that completely erroneous supposition.
After being told that what I had done was, in
fact, nothing more than an expository essay (and
after ashamedly looking up the definition of
expository), I set about the arduous task of
changing myself into a creative writer.
44
The most important thing that I have learned is
that writing creatively is all about writing for
the reader creating an experience for the
reader, something that they fall into and only
pull themselves out of with an effort, if at all.
Creative writing is not simply about telling a
story on paper, but rather creating a world that
surrounds the reader, a world in which things
happen that they can see happen in their minds
eye. Hopefully, this will be a world in which the
things that happen to the characters stick with
the reader for years.
45
After learning this lesson, I could not approach
the process of writing a story in the same way.
When I would sit down to write, I was no longer
asking myself questions like, Okay, what could
happen next to make this less boring? There was
no longer any need to ask myself questions at
all! Rather, I was in the story as I wrote it.
All I had to do to find out what came next was
imagine it, then write down what I saw.
46
In order to do that, I needed another concept
about which I had never heard. SENSORY IMAGES. It
may sound like the simplest of concepts to a more
experienced writer, but when youre as new to the
creative writing world as I was, this is as
revolutionary an idea as fire would have been to
the caveman. I was essentially living off of
nuts, berries and the occasional raw rabbit until
this came along, and then BAM crispy yet tender,
mouth-watering steaks that made my taste buds
gush and golden apple pies whose aroma wafted
right up my nose, making the sensitive hairs
inside writhe and tingle!
47
The concept of using sensory images to show the
scene to the reader has truly revolutionized my
writing. So much is built on the use of sensory
images! Without them, my writing would lack the
energy and tension that are so necessary for
keeping the readers attention. I could write all
the flowery language I wanted to and would
consistently feel that something was missing from
my piece. There was never any true connection
with the world in which my characters roamed.
Everything sounded like a sad summary of events.
For me, that something missing was sensory
images.
48
Being part of a writing community was a
simultaneously humbling and challenging
experience. My first tendency with most things is
to be defensive to critics with whom I am
unfamiliar. Until this class, my writing had been
something shared only with my closest family and
a few select friends. Unfortunately, that
resulted in two things. One, no one who actually
knew what they were talking about ever read my
work. Two, I was never given any constructive
criticism, just compliments. Compliments do not
make you a better writer, and they didnt make me
one either. More confident and cocky? Yes, to my
chagrin.
49
Being able to have my best efforts reviewed by
multiple people was humbling, but probably the
most beneficial experience of this class. Part of
this benefit was a direct result of taking the
class online. Everyone was able to be as brutally
honest as they could be, without the worry of
direct confrontation. At the same time, I was
forced to read comments without having the luxury
of stubbornly arguing against my critics. I had
to listen. Pause. Consider what it was that the
other person was saying. This has had a lasting
effect, and because of the Plusses, Potentials,
Concerns (PPC) format of the workshops, I ended
up feeling remarkably encouraged at the end of
each workshop experience, regardless of how many
mistakes had been pointed out to me.
50
One worry that I had going into this class was
that I would not enjoy reading science fiction
and fantasy as much after it was all over. I was
afraid that some of the magic would be taken out
of the works of my favorite authors. I likened it
to being shown how a magician does his tricks.
Sure, it still looks neat, but its just not as
special after you know how its done. I am happy
to say that quite the opposite has happened!
Learning to read as a writer has allowed me to
see what my favorite authors do in a whole new
way. Just as a physicist is more in awe of
Einsteins work as a result of learning the
mathematics and theory behind it, so too does a
creative writer learn to appreciate the works of
a favorite author after understanding what it
takes to reach that point. Comprehension hasnt
cheapened my appreciation in the least.
51
In this way, this creative writing class has
changed my perceptions and influenced my insights
into both reading and writing. My writing no
longer seems dull and two-dimensional while I
may not be a master, I now know enough of the
basics to make realistic goals for improvement.
As for reading, it was always a joy, but it is
now more of a delight than ever. As a result of
learning what it takes to be a successful
creative writer, I can more truly appreciate the
incredible art that exists in creative writing.