1. Ted Duerson, previously unemployed for the calendar year, earne.docx

1. Ted Duerson, previously unemployed for the calendar year,
earned $13,200 during the biweekly period from September 20
to October 1 (20th payroll period). He has made a written
request for the partyear employment method of withholding. If
Duerson is married and claims zero withholding allowances,
how much FIT tax would be withheld from his gross pay using
the part-year employment method (using the wage-bracket
table)?
$
2 Edward Dorsey is a part-time employee, and during the
biweekly pay period he earned $395. In addition, he is being
paid a bonus of $300 along with his regular pay. If Dorsey is
single and claims two withholding allowances, how much would
be deducted from his pay for FIT? (There are two ways to
determine his deduction—do not use table for percentage
method.)
a. Wage-bracket table $
b. Percentage method $
3 Carson Smart is paid $1,200 every two weeks plus a taxable
lodging allowance of $100. He is a participant in the company
401(k) plan and has $150 deducted from his pay for his
contribution to the plan. He is married with two allowances.
How much would be deducted from his pay for federal income
tax (using the wage-bracket table)?
$
4. Calculate the amount to withhold from the following
employees using the biweekly table of the percentage method.
Kenneth Karcher (single, 1 allowance = $153.80), $895 wages
$
Mary Kenny (married, 2 allowances = $307.60), $1,900 wages

$
Thomas Carney (single, 0 allowances), $1,460 wages $
5 Use the appropriate table to determine the amount to withhold
for federal income tax from each of the following biweekly
wages (biweekly withholding allowance = $153.80):
Patrick Patrone (single, 2 allowances), $925 wages $
Carson Leno (married, 4 allowances), $1,195 wages $
Carli Lintz (single, 0 allowances), $700 wages $
Gene Hartz (single, 1 allowance), $2,500 wages $
Mollie Parmer (married, 2 allowances), $3,600 wages $
6. Determine the income tax to withhold from the biweekly
wages of the following employees (wage-bracket):
If your answer is zero, please enter "0".
Karen Overton (single, 0 allowances), $900 wages
$
Nancy Haller (married, 4 allowances), $1,000 wages
$
Alan Glasgow (married, 1 allowance), $980 wages
$
Joseph Kerr (single, 4 allowances), $720 wages
$
Ginni Lorenz (single, 1 allowance), $580 wages
$
Sierra Johnson
2/11/16
ENGL 202
Draft 2

1.) Numb.
I haven’t slept in two entire days. Trying entices a jagged
memory... We all were doing it, everyone in the world.
Everyone except Mom and Dad. Chelsea told me it would help,
I had make the mistake of divulging my emotional strife. I was
down, dreary, falling, drowning.
Everything was irrelevant. Nothing mattered. Chelsea said it
would help,
I believed it really would. No… Actually I didn’t trust her.
It was Brian who I wanted to do it for; No. No, it was
Brian I believed when he said it would make me
Feel again. He picked me up after school, I
Told my parents I was with friends. It
Wasn’t exactly a Lie. He brushed the
Hair from my face, like in a sappy movie.
I still felt numb. I wanted to feel like fire,
Like I was supposed to when an attractive
Man got so close. He brought out a tiny
Bag, the contents resembling baby powder
My doting mommy and daddy would fluff
Into my diaper as a baby. If only they saw
This coming. Brian…Pulling my clenched
Fist open. Holding the remaining limp
Hand in his, ‘Trust me’. I would have
Trusted the Devil right then if
He had said I could
Have my life back.
This is what I was
Promised… Right?
He pressed a bit
Into his Fingertips.
Brian’s mouth
Nearly
Touching
My
Throat.

I wonder
If he
Felt my
Steady
Pulse,
Remain
So.
Spreading
The substance
Under my lower
Lip.
Into the pink
I
Think
That’s
When
I
Felt
Again.

2.) I see a lot in a day, though socially I am
Lacking, in my observation skills are
Fine-tuned. Usually twice a day is all the
Attention I get. Sometimes just once.
And that’s only when I am hard at
Work. My Job isn’t so bad. I’m a sanitary
Worker. I simply have to scrub these white
Square tiles, that resemble the tiles in my
Home, except much smaller. They’re actually
Yellow when I receive them, but after they’re
Pretty white. I also scrub this pink substance
Around the tiles too. Sometimes I have to
Get little bits of green or brown or white stuff
Too, that’s probably the worst part of my job.
Anyway. That doesn’t take too long, usually
About two minutes per shift. Other than that
I normally relax all day, occasionally
Interrupted by the tile bearing animals. They
Will do things like look into their reflection
Or sit on the
White splashy
Bowl whilst
Making grunting
Noises.
Sometimes
They’ll
Take off their
Coverings and

Use the water
Spout, screeching
Out noises similar
To the Sounds
That come from
My friend named
Radio. When
The animals
Aren’t there
It gets
Dark most
Of the time.
Shadows,
Cast on
Different
Shadows.
It passes
The time to
Imagine I
Could
Move on my
Own one
Day.
3.) Beautiful.
Taking her in is all legs and no skirt
Her skin is porcelain, her eyes are fire.
She purses her lips, she crinkles her brow
Looking into the mirror, criticize.
Words cross her lips, I don’t understand them.
I’m. So. Fat. Can she not see her beauty?
From her plunging neckline to her high heels,
She insults what most women would kill for.
Her sunshine tresses reach her middle back.
She applies charcoal black to her eyelids.
Why does she break herself down? It hurts me.

I wonder what it would be like, I wish
I could be so naïve, to have beauty.
And also to trash it with so much force.
Cady1
Rebecca Cady
Instructor Betz
ENG 202
7 February 2016
Poem 1: Write a short poetic monologue (a speech for one
voice) in the voice of a character that has done something
illegal, immoral, gross, or unkind.
Destruction is My Name
By Rebecca Cady
My young body hit the wet soil
The ripped parachute hit me shortly after.
Smoke and bullets traveled by me
While I perfected my next commanded kill.
Before I knew it, the villagers died.
The blood and guts made an ugly pic
Of families, soon I thought
…forgotten.
My habit of repeated loss
Became an habit of calculation,
And keeping score of sacrificed
Bags of flesh delivered me
Out of this hellhole dubbed Viet Nam.
Three Buddies eradicated,
But somehow I continued to exist,
…Extension.

My Asian delicacies fed
Me whenever I hungered.
Delivered hearts and souls without
Thoughts of tomorrow’s disappointment
Of unwanted pregnancies;
Of flower buds that would die before
Any sunlight could kiss them, before
…Creation.
My government’s masters stood
In another space and time.
My government could worry less
If opiates took soldiers.
No emotions, Sergeant, your name’s
…Destruction.
Poem 2: Write from the point of view of anything not human
Family Tree
By Rebecca Cady
Comrade blue sky is my ceiling
And then his soulmate clouds decorate
While other tree members reach
For feathered friends flying
As others embrace many
Birthplaces of nature’s
Wild life generations.
Some are martyred for the sakes
Of our human neighbors.
Some suffer for the cause
Of regrowth
Of our cousin plant life.
Seasons can be amazing
Or can be awful to trees
Green is the color of our hair
In the breathtaking spring and summer

And in astonishing autumn
We dress in earth-toned hues.
But only in the chill of winter-tide
Do we reveal our true
Splendor and silhouettes
When clothed in lacey snow
And outlined in pinks and blues
At the end of each day.
Trees are movie-stars
Surpassing most legends
Unless those humans decide
To wipe out another barked relative
Like countless of tree kinsmen
That has faded away in the past.
The family of trees
Sing ballads with brother breeze
And guards Mother Earth when
Mr. Weather is in a bad mood.
Why a tree’s artistic canopy
Has cooled many a human
And our ever-changing wardrobe
Has provided pleasing portraits for millennia.
Forget flora and fauna
For the time being…
Our family of trees has watched
Over the world of all living things…
One in particular... Mankind. (Continuance of poem)

Poem 3: Read Ted Kooser’s poem “Tattoo” Write a brief poem
in which the speaker describes a person she or he is observing.
Coddled
By Rebecca Cady
The bundled bear cracks open his front door
Large ungloved paws feel for weather’s warning
And his straight nose smells other breakfasts prepared.
Back in all black, he proceeds up the stairs
Out to the icy parking lot he goes;
Quietly steps across cracked sidewalks,
Stopping to get warm with a sip of tea
He shyly greets the passers with a nod
He sighs at the thought of another day
Of work without meaning except for pay.
Blue eyes cast down at the floor for no one.
Movements of experience get food ready
For customers who come to buy reds and greens
Fixed by this “Coddled King” behind the throne.

1
Robert Frost
ENGL 202
Poetry Manuscript Formatting
• 12-point Times New Roman typeface
• Place pertinent author and course information in the upper left
corner
• Put page numbers in the upper right corner
• Place the title above the poem. There is no need to center the
poem unless that is the effect you desire.
• Begin new poems on new pages.
• If the poem spills onto a new page, identify whether there is a
stanza break or a stanza continuance.
• Whereas prose is always double-spaced, poetry often is not.
The look of the “poem-as-object” is important to its effect;
many poets strive to produce manuscript pages that look clean,
compact, and tidy. Single-spacing achieves this better.
• Provide spacing as necessary between stanzas.
Professor Pound
Spring 2015

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Fire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Birches
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away

Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
[stanza continued]
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
Queen-Anne’s Lace
Her body is not so white as
anemony petals nor so smooth—nor
so remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot taking
the field by force; the grass

does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be, with a purple mole
at the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand’s span
of her whiteness. Wherever
his hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blemish. Each part
is a blossom under his touch
to which the fibres of her being
stem one by one, each to its end,
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,
a cluster, flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over—
or nothing.
END-STOPPED LINES
In poetry, an end-stopped line concludes with a logical break in
grammar and includes some form of punctuation to break the
reader to a momentary stop. It contains a thought and brings the
reader to a slight pause, at least momentarily. In the example
below from Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” note that each
line is end-stopped, either with a comma or a period (to end the
stanza).
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

ENJAMBMENT
In poetry, enjambment describes a line that runs over from one
into the next. The words that continue on the subsequent line
complete the thought that was begun on the previous line. In the
example below from William Wordsworth’s “Lines Composed a
Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey,” note how the first four lines
have enjambment. There is a little tension here because the
reader must go forward to the next line in order to complete the
meaning of the previous: …with the length (of what? the
lengthof five long winters); …again I hear (hear what?
hearthese waters); …and connect (connect what? connect the
landscape with the quiet of the sky).
Five years have passed; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.—Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
Which on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
A NOTE ON END-STOPPED LINES AND ENJAMBMENT
Whether you use end-stopped lines or enjambment requires
conscious thought. Wordsworth, in the example above, uses
both, and his choices have purpose. Not only does he build
tension and suspense in the lines, but the lines perform the
image he is describing: the image of water flowing down is
described in lines that “flow down.” If Wordsworth had adhered
strictly to end-stopped lines, it would make the poem feel much
more rigid and inflexible; the mixture of enjambment and end-
stopped lines brings a “natural” feel to the poem and makes it
come alive. (Despite the fact that Whitman uses end-stopped
lines, this poem feels “alive” too, largely because his lines do
not feel forced into being a consistent length.)

Your choice depends a lot on how you want the reader to
experience your poem, but it needs to be a choice. A lack of
punctuation in a poem can be profoundly confusing for a reader
if the lines do not work together to create and complete ideas. If
you are writing lines of poem that contain complete thoughts
and complete syntax, then most of the time you should use some
punctuation to create an end-stopped line and facilitate the
reader’s ability to understand your work.
1
Herman Melville
Fiction/Nonfiction Manuscript Formatting
• 12-point Times New Roman typeface
• Double-spaced lines
• Place pertinent author information in the upper left corner
• Put page numbers in the upper right corner
• Center the title approximately 1/3 of the way down the page
ENGL 202
Professor Hawthorne
Spring 2015
Moby-Dick; or, The Whale

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long
precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing
particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a
little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of
driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever
I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a
damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself
involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up
the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my
hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong
moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into
the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I
account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my
substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato
throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There
is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men
in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same
feelings towards the ocean with me.
There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round
by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds
it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward.
Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is
washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours
previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-
gazers there.
Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go
from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by
Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent
sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands
of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the
spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the
bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as
if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all
landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to
counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this?

Are the green fields gone? What do they here?
But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water,
and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content
them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the
shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must
get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling
in. And there they stand—miles of them—leagues. Inlanders all,
they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues—north,
east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the
magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those
ships attract them thither?
Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of
lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries
you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the
stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men
be plunged in his deepest reveries—stand that man on his legs,
set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if
water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in
the great American desert, try

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