Winston Henerly: Character Resume

I thought long and hard about who I wanted my overall character to be for this class. I wanted her to be someone who is laid back, but on a mission to stay alive. I wanted to have someone that was outside my comfort zone, but who was artsy fartsy just like me. Regarding the Archetype spreadsheet. Winston is one of those characters who ISN’T the hero, but is kind of like the sidekick to whoever is in charge. I consider her the Ron Weasley of the group- important, brings jokes and releases tension when shit is going down, but overall is just a sidekick.

I decided to create Winston Henerly- an aspiring actress from NYC who is living in L.A. I thought having a character who was a former actress could bring something new and cool to the vibe of the tribe. I also thought that it was push my creativity and make me work hard to learn more about her and to create her overall persona. For my resume, I used Canva, literally my favorite graphic design site, but I focused more on the research of who she was BEFORE the apocalypse rather that what her resume would be during the apocalypse. this is her resume as an aspiring Emma Stone wannabe in California:


The Life Of A Zombie

When I first saw this assignment I immediately thought of this commercial:

Sooooo, for this assignment i decided to make a gif out of this commercial by giffing the zombie on the bus! Here is my final gif of the life of an every day zombie:



I thought making a gif out of this would be too funny because its so like unusual, yet hilarious that a zombie is just chilling on the bus with some dumbass humans lol.

Let me know if you enjoy it!

Cipher Typography Photo Images

Here are my two Cipher Typography photo images!

I want people to take time to figure out what they mean, so next week I will reveal how I edited these pictures! Take a guess below:


Before & after #ds106 #theend106

A post shared by Elaina (@gramming4theend) on

Before & after #ds106 #theend106

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Here are two more I created:

#ds106 #theend106

A post shared by Elaina (@gramming4theend) on

#ds106 #theend106

A post shared by Elaina (@gramming4theend) on

Assignment: Thinking about Photos


This is my prompt for the Photoblitz:


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  Below are my before pictures I took:  

The before shots #ds106

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These are the edited after shots I posted to Instagram for the finale of the Photoblitz:

The after shots #ds106 #theend106

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This assignment was honestly so fun for me. I enjoy taking photography on my own terms, but I loved learning new tricks and tips. After reading the photo tips and Abandoned America, I decided that I wanted to work on different angles for my photoblitz, I love taking pictures, but something I have always wanted to work on is getting more creative angles. The tips page was really helpful because it pushed me to think outside the box when taking this photos. I was at my news internship when I took these, so I had so much fun running around the office and doing the blitz!

David Campbell’s Photography and Narrative

Since I am really passionate about photography, this truly inspired me to get outside my comfort zone of portrait photography and started taking more RAW and less edited photos. I think for me personally, I get nervous about trying new picture tips and tricks out because I have a formula already and I stick by it and use it, however this inspired me to try new things and to drop that formula that is boring because I need to expand my horizons when it comes to photography.

Besides that, this reminded me of why I got into photography in the first place. When I was 15 years old, my dad surprised me with my first DSLR camera. After getting heavily tested for years regarding my learning disabilities, the doctors told my parents that I might begin to have memory failure due to the heavy medication I was on. To combat that, my parents got me my first camera so I could take pictures and never forget memories. They weren’t sure if my meds would hurt me, so they encouraged me to start taking photography courses and to truly capture moments that I might not remember. Ever since then I have loved photography and have been really passionate towards capturing the moment. A lot of people say that photography is bad because you should “live in the moment”, but for people like me who have memory problems, a picture is a way I can remember such a special moment and not be afraid that I’ll wake up the next day and not remember.

Assignment: Films, Reflections, and GIFs

Mad Max

The movie I decided to watch this week was Mad Max! I thought it was cool watching this movie because I have seen Mad Max Fury Road, but I’ve never seen the original. I enjoyed this movie a lot, but the most interesting part was seeing how the newer movies are so much more animated and done so much better, but it all started from the original Mad Max movie! I enjoyed it a lot, even though it felt outdated sometimes.

This is the gif I made from the original Trailer on YouTube:


I decided on this scene for my gif because I though it literally wrapped up the movie in less than 5 seconds. The movie, to me, was humans and machinery, and I thought this gif was a goo representation of technology and the human impact of it all.

Le Jetee

Watching Le Jetee was cool, and I enjoyed how it was 30 minutes long, however I did not really get into it. I’m not sure if it was because it was shorter and not a full length movie, but for some reason I just did not like it that much. I watched it in halves- 15 mins and 15 mins. I feel like if I sat down and watched the whole thing all at once it might have flowed better, but honestly I just didn’t enjoy it that much. I liked how it was film, and I think the director takes an interesting approach, but I just didn’t connect to it that much. I think when I have time I might watch it over again, but honestly I was pretty bored. (To be fair, I was bored watching the Hunger Games too- it takes a lot for me to get in to a movie lol)

Dear Mom….



Dear mom,

It’s day 89 of the apocalypse. I think i’m going insane. I haven’t talked to another human in about 3 days. I’ve been hiding at night, and at this point I have a routine to sleep through the night. I met a friend last week called Sandy. She’s about 9, I think. We met in the burnt down Fair Oaks Mall. She was trying to find a vending machine to break into to get water or food, but people beat us to it. We walked around the mall together until dark. I fell asleep under a broken table in JCPenny’s. Remember when we used to go shopping there? I bought you those ruby earrings two summers ago before we left for Paris? Anyways, we became really good friends, but when the sun came up the next morning she was done. I think she’s alive. I’ve been looking for her ever since.

It’s been days since I’ve seen anyone because the zombies are getting worse at night in Fairfax. I think more humans are dying off each night, and I’m terrified that I’m next.

Mom, do you miss me? How is heaven? I hope it’s everything we dreamed it would be. I hope you’re dancing to Elvis with grandpa and grandma, and I hope you are in peace. Most importantly, if you’re looking down on me right now, I want you to know how much I miss you. Sometimes I think it would be easier if I died and came up to be with you and grandpa and grandma.

I haven’t seen dad. The last time I saw him it was night and we had to escape an attack. I know he’s alive and he’s okay, but it’s clear he hasn’t been looking for me so I have given up looking for him. I still have the old pocket knife he gave me. I carry it everywhere. Every week I go back to the house and see if people are hiding there. It’s burnt down and still empty.

I wish I was in heaven with you, and I wish things would get better and the sun would ever set.

Yours truly,



Writing Assignment: Write An Alternate Ending

Alternate ending: There will come soft rains by Roy Bradbury

*my alternate ending is bolded*


There will come soft rains

by  Ray Bradbury (born 1920)

In the living room the voice-clock sang, Tick-tock, seven o’clock, time to get up, time to get up, seven o’clock! as if it were afraid nobody would. The morning house lay empty. The clock ticked on, repeating and repeating its sounds into the emptiness. Seven-nine, breakfast time, seven-nine!
In the kitchen the breakfast stove gave a hissing sigh and ejected from its warm interior eight pieces of perfectly browned toast, eight eggs sunnyside up, sixteen slices of bacon, two coffees, and two cool glasses of milk.
“Today is August 4, 2026,” said a second voice from the kitchen ceiling., “in the city of Allendale, California.” It repeated the date three times for memory’s sake. “Today is Mr. Featherstone’s birthday. Today is the anniversary of Tilita’s marriage. Insurance is payable, as are the water, gas, and light bills.”
Somewhere in the walls, relays clicked, memory tapes glided under electric eyes.Eight-one, tick-tock, eight-one o’clock, off to school, off to work, run, run, eight-one! But no doors slammed, no carpets took the soft tread of rubber heels. It was raining outside. The weather box on the fron door sang quietly: “Rain, rain, go away; rubbers, raincoats for today…” And the rain tapped on the empty house, echoing.
Outside, the garage chimed and lifted its door to reveal the waiting car. After a long wait the door swung down again.
At eight-thirty the eggs were shriveled and the toast was like stone. An aluminum wedge scraped them down a metal throat which digested and flushed them away to the distant sea. The dirty dishes were dropped into a hot washer and emerged twinkling dry.Nine-fifteen, sang the clock, time to clean. Out of warrens in the wall, tiny robot mice darted. The rooms were acrawl with the small cleaning animals, all rubber and metal. They thudded against chairs, whirling their mustached runners, kneading the rug nap, sucking gently at hidden dust. Then, like mysterious invaders, they popped into their burrows. Their pink electric eye faded. The house was clean.
Ten o’clock. The sun came out from behind the rain. The house stood alone in a city of rubble and ashes. This was the one house left standing. At night the ruined city gave of a radioactive glow which could be seen for miles.
Ten-fifteen. The garden sprinklers whirled up in golden founts, filling the soft morning air with scatterings of brightness. The water pelted windowpanes, running down the charred west side where the house had been burned evenly free of its white paint. The entire west face of the house was black, save for five places. Here the silhouette in paint of a man mowing a lawn. Here, as in a photograph, a woman bent to pick flowers. Still farther over, their images burned on wood in one titantic instant, a small boy, hands flung into the air; higher up, the image of thrown ball, and opposite him a girl, hand raised to catch a ball which never came down. The five spots of paint- the man, the woman, the children, the ball – remained. The rest was a thin charcoaled layer. The gentle sprinkler rain filled the garden with falling light.Until this day, how well the house had kept its peace. How carefully it had inquired, ‘Who goes there? What’s the password?” and, getting no answer from the only foxes and whining cats, it had shut up its windows and drawn shades in an old-maidenly preoccupation with self-protection which bordered on a mechanical paranoia.
It quivered at each sound, the house did. If a sparrow brushed a window, the shade snapped up. The bird, startled, flew off! No, not even a bird must touch the house!
The house was an altar with ten thousand attendants, big, small, servicing, attending, in choirs. But the gods had gone away, and the ritual of the religion continued senselessly, uselessly.Twelve noon.
A dog whined, shivering, on the front porch.
The front door recognized the dog voice and opened. The dog, once large and fleshy, but now gone to bone and covered with sores, moved in and through the house, tracking mud. Behind it whirred angry mice, angry at having to pick up mud, angry at inconvenience.
For not a leaf fragment blew under the door but what the wall panels flipped open and the copper scrap rats flashed swiftly out. The offending dust, hair, or paper, seized in miniature steel jaws, was raced back to the burrows. There, down tubes which fed into the cellar, it was dropped like evil Baal in a dark corner.The dog ran upstairs, hysterically yelping to each door, at last realizing, as the house realized, that only silence was here. It sniffed the air and scratched the kitchen door. Behind the door, the stove was making pancakes which filled the house with a rich odor and the scent of maple syrup. The dog frothed at the mouth, lying at the door, sniffing, its eyes turned to fire. It ran wildly in circles, biting at its tail, spun in a frenzy, and died. It lay in the parlor for an hour
Two ‘clock, sang a voice.
Delicately sensing decay at last, the regiments of mice hummed out as softly as blown gray leaves in an electrical wind.
The dog was gone.
In the cellar, the incinerator glowed suddenly and a whirl of sparks leaped up the chimney.
Two thirty-five.
Bridge tables sprouted from patio walls. Playing cards fluttered onto pads in a shower of pips. Martinis manifested on an oaken bench with egg salad sandwiches. Music played.
But the tables were silent and the cards untouched.
At four o’clock the tables folded like great butterflies back through the paneled walls.Four-thirty.
The nursery walls glowed.
Animals took shape: yellow giraffes, blue lions, pink antelopes, lilac panthers cavorting in crystal substance. The walls were glass. They looked out upon color and fantasy. Hidden films clocked though the well-oiled sprockets, and the walls lived. The nursery floor was woven to resemble a crisp cereal meadow. Over this ran aluminum roaches and iron crickets, and in the hot still air butterflies of delicate red tissue wavered among the sharp aroma of animal spoors! There was the sound like a great matted yellow hive of bees within a dark bellows, the lazy bumble of a purring lion. And there was the patter of okapi feet and the murmur of a fresh jungle rain, like other hoofs falling upon the summer-starched grass. Now the walls dissolved into distances of parched weed, mile on mile, and warm endless sky. The animals drew away into thorn brakes and water holes.It was the children’s hour.

Five o’clock. The bath filled with clear hot water.
Six, seven, eight o’clock. The dinner dishes manipulated like magic tricks, and in the study a click. In the metal stand opposite the hearth where a fire now blazed up warmly, a cigar popped out, half an inch of soft gray ash on it, smoking, waiting.

Nine o’clock. The beds warmed their hidden circuits, for nights were cool here.
Nine-five.  A voice spoke from the study ceiling: “Mrs. McClellan, which poem would you like this evening?”
The house was silent.
The voice said at last, “Since you express no preference, I shall select a poem at random.” Quiet music rose to back the voice. “Sara Teasdale. As I recall, your favorite…

“There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire, Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn Would scarcely know that we were gone.”

The fire burned on the stone hearth and the cigar fell away into a mound of quiet ash on its tray. The empty chairs faced each other between the silent walls, and the music played.

At ten o’clock the house began to die.
The wind blew. A falling tree bough crashed through the kitchen window. Cleaning solvent, bottled, shattered over the stove. The room was ablaze in an instant! “Fire!” screamed a voice. The house lights flashed, water pumps shot water from the ceilings. But the solvent spread on the linoleum, licking, eating, under the kitchen door, while the voices took it up in chorus: “Fire, fire, fire!”
The house tried to save itself. Doors sprang tightly shut, but the windows were broken by the heat and the wind blew and sucked upon the fire.
The house gave ground as the fire in ten billion angry sparks moved with flaming ease from room to room and then up the stairs. While scurrying water rats squeaked from the walls, pistoled their water, and ran for more. And the wall sprays let down showers of mechanical rain.

But too late. Somewhere, sighing, a pump shrugged to a stop. The quenching rain ceased. The reserve water supply which filled the baths and washed the dishes for many quiet days was gone.
The fire crackled up the stairs. It fed upon Picassos and Matisses in the upper halls, like delicacies, baking off the oily flesh, tenderly crisping the canvases into black shavings.
Now the fire lay in beds, stood in windows, changed the colors of drapes!
And then, reinforcements.
From attic trapdoors, blind robot faces peered down with faucet mouths gushing green chemical.
The fire backed off, as even an elephant must at the sight of a dead snake. Now there were twenty snakes whipping over the floor, killing the fire with a clear cold venom of green froth.
But the fire was clever. It had sent flames outside the house, up through the attic to the pumps there. An explosion! The attic brain which directed the pumps was shattered into bronzeshrapnel on the beams.
The fire rushed back into every closet and felt of the clothes that hung there.

The house shuddered, oak bone on bone, its bared skeleton cringing from the heat, its wire, its nerves revealed as if a surgeon had torn the skin off to let the red veins and capillaries quiver in the scalded air. Help, help! Fire! Run, run! Heat snapped mirrors like the first brittle winter ice. And the voices wailed Fire, fire, run, run, like a tragic nursery rhyme, a dozen voices, high, low, like children dying in a forest, alone, alone. And the voices fading as the wires popped their sheathings like hot chestnuts. One, two, three, four, five voices died.

In the nursery the jungle burned. Blue lions roared, purple giraffes bounded off. The panthers ran in circles, changing color, and ten million animals, running before the fire, vanished off toward a distant steaming river…
Ten more voices died. In the last instant under the fire avalanche, other choruses, oblivious, could be heard announcing the time, playing music, cutting the lawn by remote-control mower, or setting an umbrella frantically out and in the slamming and opening front door, a thousand things happening, like a clock shop when each clock strikes the hour insanely before or after the other, a scene of maniac confusion, yet unity; singing, screaming, a few last cleaning mice darting bravely out to carry the horrid ashes away! And one voice, with sublime disregard for the situation, read poetry aloud all in the fiery study, until all the film spools burned, until all the wires withered and the circuits cracked.

The fire burst the house and let it slam flat down, puffing out skirts of spark and smoke.

It was getting hotter and hotter, until my voice of reason inside my head disappeared into the darkness of the sky. The gloom had a shine of metallic wonder that made me want to stare at it forever. On my knees I pray- if there is a god or anyone up there, please, save me from my burning hell. CRASH. Fire running up the walls of my ego and burning the roof in the process. Smoke is everywhere and it’s getting hard to see the light, quite literally. Begging and pleading I say to myself, “today is the day of the dead.”

The manipulation of the fire was creeping through the window until the walls were burning in all the places I love. 

Tears falling down my face, I try to think good thoughts. I close my eyes and prepare for death- thoughts running through my head.

Amongst the crash and fire, I see a drop of water from the sky. Rain is falling above me, and with my eyes closed I catch my breath. The rain manipulates my emotion and among the ruins, the broken, and the flames- I see a light. The rain floods my heart and the smoke appears in the sky clouding over me like a tornado. 

The walls were saved. I am saved.  

Dawn showed faintly in the east. Among the ruins, one wall stood alone. Within the wall, a last voice said, over and over again and again, even as the sun rose to shine upon the heater rubble and steam:
“Today is August 5, 2026, today is August 5, 2026, today is…