Storyboard Artist & Character Designer
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Life Drawing
Nude
Costume
Creative Writing
An Archivist's Accountings and Annoyances
This work takes inspiration from Walter Abish's Alphabetical Africa, a novel using a constrained writing experiment using an alliterative lipogram or tautogram, in which the first chapter is only allowed to use words starting with the letter A, and subsequent chapters add a letter of the alphabet until Z, when Abish then removes a letter every chapter.
An Archivist's Accountings and Annoyances is a series of encounters and experiences that the narrator has while working as a librarian.
Awful Afternoons
Afternoons among ancient anthologies and angled aisles are admittedly awful. Academics and adolescents alike: annoying. Acquiring an agreeable attitude amidst an arrogant audience alleviates any authentic affection.
Demonic Cultivation
Dear Bookkeeper,
Another appeal. A blooming concern demands a blunt ask. A curse developed despite all defense, and a book contains a cure. At a beggar's behest, collect a book: Demonic Cultivation by Dorothy Bradford. Dastardly angels are defeated by demons alone. Discretion advised, as angels are degenerate beings and disguise curses as biblical blessings. Beware, but don’t be afraid.
Best,
Dana Choi
“A bizarre child, Dana.”
Hell
A blinding heat encompasses a chamber fried from a draining day. A blistering heat breaks air conditioning and fortitude alike. A few guests arrive but exit fast. Baking alive, faculty admit defeat. Closing for a day beats charred employees.
Movie Magic
Mean Girls masquerades as Memento. DVDs must have been mixed. Alas, a Mean Girls case cannot be found. Memento fans are in for a confusing film experience.
Onomatopoeia
Bam! Loud noises can be heard from a few aisles over. Crash! Bang! Kaboom!
My expectations of carnage are met by a group in costume. An amalgamation of lanky limbs hovered as if mid-fight. Gulp.
“Everything okay over here?”
Batgirl answers, “Mhm!”
“And... costumes?”
“Homework,” chimes Joker. Hm.
Everyone goes down a moment later, balance lost. Boom! Makeshift armories clatter on carpet, books falling alongside it. Clang! Oof! Batgirl has a difficult ascent, her cape getting caught on Aquaman’s harpoon. Hulk has lost his green, color covering carpet and allies alike. Joker finds her face on a discarded book. Groan.
“Let’s keep our crime-fighting homework at home, okay?”
The Price We Pay
I never thought I would end up in a place like this. Every day I go to work, not knowing if I’ll return as the same man I was before. It’s a job not many people are privy to–a secret organization that deals with companies I’m sure you’ve heard of. I can’t say exactly who they are–NDAs and whatnot–but I can say that it’s gruesome work. Injuries are expected, and turnover is high. Bloody noses are a daily occurrence. Not many people are cut out for this line of work, but I can’t leave now. Not after what I’ve been through.
Over the years, I’ve seen people come and go. They learn the gritty details: their control over us, the isolation, the lies... It’s too much for some people, but what else am I supposed to do? I can’t leave. This life is all I know. What do these years of runny, bloody noses mean if I give it all up now?
I was a recruit. I don’t know how they found me, but they caught me having an allergy fit outside a mall one summer after I graduated high school. The pay was good, and the benefits were amazing for a kid with no work experience. Forget medical, forget shares, those were a given. I’m talking about as many paid sick days as a man could ask for! To an eighteen-year-old me, that was worth keeping my employer a secret. Most people think I’m joking when I tell them what I do anyway, “A tissue tester? That sounds ridiculous!”
Yes, you heard right, a tissue tester! You can thank me next time you get a cold, or whenever allergy season comes around again. [REDACTED] wouldn’t be the same without me, I tell you!
Most of the time when people ask me about my job, they’ll ask me what brand is the best, or what kind of tissue is the best and least irritating... And I can never answer them, not truthfully at least.
Welcome to StarMart
This work also takes inspiration from Walter Abish's Alphabetical Africa, but instead of going in alphabetical order, each "episode" only uses letters available in the titles. For example, "Welcome to StarMart" only uses A, C, E, L, M, O, S, T, and W.
Natasha is an associate at StarMart, a fictional retail store, where she is experiencing the worst three months of her life. Below are a few episodes at the start of this period and how she and her coworkers deal with their day-to-day troubles. This is inspired by my time as a retail employee, but luckily, I fared much better than Natasha.
Welcome to StarMart
The worst three months of my life started with the StarMart Sixtieth Anniversary Sale, starting on October 22nd. Sixty cycles and corporate couldn’t care less about security or the well-being of their employees. Savage customers stampede through the aisles, extreme couponers argue with the cashiers, stocking the shelves takes three times as long–customers only extend this with their obstructions–and the messes lead to closers staying even later than they already are.
These “essential workers” are compensated with the state minimum wage and an annual employee slash Thanksgiving slash Christmas celebration. Welcome to StarMart, everyone.
Tomato Soup for the Soul
A torrent of apparently hungry families appear at the entrance of the store prior to opening. The manager hesitantly slinks over to the hoard of employees that started assembling at the front.
“A... major tomato soup price slash made print today,” she said.
“How much?”
She looks away. “StarMart owes money for each can purchased.”
The manager shies away following the onslaught of anxious protests. She heaves a heavy sigh.
“Obviously, the store’s unable to honor this; however, the owner hasn’t offered a solution.
The store opens in ten minutes, so the matter falls on me,” she stalls. “Limit the sale to one per purchase per group. Let’s hope there aren't any fighters among them.”
The horde fights for the punishment of opening the portal to hell. The manager sneaks away to their office, probably using the room to hide from the unavoidable line of angry store-goers cashiers must turn away.
The task of opening the store lands on someone else. Though this life routinely leaves me a poor hand, fate looked tenderly upon me today.
Fred–poor Fred, lost the fight this time. My fellow fighters salute our fallen trooper as he marches off. Rest peacefully, my friend.
Morning, Noon, and Night
A curated collection of poems from my Morning, Noon, and Night series. These sonnets use a casual voice to emphasize the genre as we see a slice of the narrator's life.
Monday, 7:30am
Beep, beep, beep, beep
Awoken from my sleep
My alarms sound, multiple
A feeling simmers deep
The feeling is subtle
But I feel it bubble
Nerves as the hour approaches
Anxiety, ever the trouble
Tuesday, 4:22am
What time is it? Why am I here?
My last memory, it's unclear
Laying on the couch at 1:01?
Tired, scared for the day that nears
I’ll have to call it, I’m done
Any longer and I’ll see the sun
I’ll take my loss, my grade, my bad
In terms of work, I’ll have none
