Crafting Words, Creating Waves
Welcome to the page for a New Media class at SNHU, where we are dedicated to crafting stories that inspire. This site is evolving, so stay tuned for updates. I hope to have much to share here, so please check in periodically, take your time, and look around. I hope you enjoy our site and feel free to drop me a
Site Contents
Historical Fiction
Historical Fiction
Judith Tarr
About Me
Content
Memoirs, Political Commentary, Science Fiction, Historical Fiction, Poetry, and Creative Nonfiction.
About Me Which Version is Better?
Version 1
Gustav Cariglio of Cheshire, Connecticut, is a new author pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in creative writing and English at Southern New Hampshire University. He has written short stories, poems, and nonfiction articles before entering this degree program. He was a volunteer staff writer for Gateway Community College's newsletter. Gustav studied technical and creative writing at Gateway. He has a body of work throughout his classes at SNHU, culminating in a 3.85 GPA.
Gustav works as a field service engineer for a major auto manufacturer and has published trade articles on LinkedIn. His article, “How to Succeed in a Flat Rate Shop,” is a popular read on LinkedIn. He has published political commentary on X.com for progressive audiences under the handle of GL_Riggs. Two articles, “Just Another Liberal Lunatic” and “On the Measure of a President's Character,” have achieved several thousand views. He has submitted poetry to the university literary magazine, "The Penmen," in hopes of publication.
Gustav’s writing style includes touches of humor and sarcasm. His style reflects the concept “less is more” in his storytelling. He likes the idea of giving the audience just enough to let their imaginations run wild, creating a vivid scene.
Gustav’s future projects include a memoir based on his father’s diary, documenting his days in West Germany during the Cold War in 1952. The memoir will be a full-length book told in his father’s voice, blended with Gustav’s creative voice.
Gustav plans to submit his portfolio of short stories to national literary magazines such as “The Sun” and “Boulevard.” He also plans on continuing his political commentary on social media for progressive audiences, increasing awareness of his brand.
Version 2
Gustav Cariglio is the writer behind glriggsauthor.com.
He writes poetry, flash fiction, short stories, historical fiction, and creative nonfiction. Samples of his flash fiction and poetry are featured on the site.
His writing is shaped by a lifetime of listening to how people really talk when no one is watching, and by a habit of looking for the human detail inside a big subject. His stories focus on second chances, family history, ordinary people facing hard moral choices, and the quiet moments that end up defining a life. He writes in clear prose that favors character over spectacle.
A Connecticut native, Gustav began publishing later in life, bringing patience and perspective to the page.
By day Gustav works as a field service engineer with General Motors. He holds an AAS in Automotive Technology and an AA in Liberal Arts from Gateway Community College, and he is completing a BA in Creative Writing and English at Southern New Hampshire University. He shares automotive-related writing on LinkedIn under his name, and publishes political commentary on X as @gl_riggs. He has several short stories in a growing collection.
His current long-form project is a family memoir drawn from his father’s diary kept in Germany in 1952 while serving as a U.S. Army staff sergeant.
Away from work and writing, Gustav tinkers with whatever is on the bench at the time, often old tools or old computers, and he is exploring ideas in alternate energy. He prefers camping to hiking, especially shorefront camping on summer mornings with crashing waves, salty air, and a cool breeze under a rising sun.
If you read something here that sticks with you, a line of poetry, a 300-word story, or a thought about an old engine, reach out. Gustav is building this site as a workshop as much as a portfolio.
Only in New England
By G. Cariglio
White River Junction,
a typical New England town
on the bank of the Connecticut River
straddling the snakelike White River.
Originally a confluence of waterways,
now an interstate crossing.
Meandering through the village
reveals subtle diversity, a gradual increase of inclusion.
Looking east, in all their glory, the White Mountains
stand like sentries looking out over the Atlantic.
Soaring above the rest, Mount Washington dares
one to climb to her angry snow-covered summit.
To the west are Vermont’s rolling Green Mountains.
Not as high, but no less spectacular with eternal emerald forests.
Scenic highways and byways wind through the tallest peaks,
like soldiers standing guard over Lake Champlain.
Across the lake on the New York side,
the Adirondacks stand tall, an opposing army
ready for war, singing their battle cry over across the Lake.
If standing at the eastern shore,
One can not help but notice
the calm water shimmering with hundreds of reflections of the rising sun
like strings of holiday lights.
If one is high enough and the air is crisp
and the wind is gusting from the west,
the Adirondacks can be heard chanting and crooning
not a battle cry, but “New York State of Mind”
I Am Here
By G Cariglio
Night after night
I am here
Standing out
From light-colored walls
As a grand centerpiece
Of a late-night eatery
One with the counter,
I listen
To the stories
Of happiness,
Of men’s dreams,
And regrets,
And the day’s events.
After closing,
And all is quiet
And the street is serene
I reflect on
What I have seen,
What I have heard,
What I have learned.
The Essence of Belief
By G Cariglio
I awoke this morning to find a paper scroll on my desk tied in a flowery bow of shiny gold ribbon. A small, folded card stood in front, like the kind attached to flowers. I thought, " Wow, what could this be for? I grabbed the card and read the note—Good morning, honey. I hope you like your “just because” gift. Please remember that I love you. My wife signed her name in longhand, making it more special. I couldn't wait to read the contents of this scroll. I prayed it was a promise for later.
I went down for breakfast; on the way, I peeked in my wife’s office. “Thanks for the gift, honey. What is it?”
Open it. There is a mystery for you to solve. The poem written on it will give you a clue to the mystery,” she said. “Once you solve the mystery and act on the message, I’ll be happy, and you know what that means.”
“Awesome, I can’t wait to check it out.” I knew what that meant. I wanted to make her happy and get that promise.
Waiting for my coffee to brew, I untied and extended the scroll across the counter. Sure enough, my wife penned a remarkable limerick.
Written on this scroll are many things I wanted to say all year.
Thoughtful words were written, read, and study them in your leer.
But first, there is a mystery you must solve.
You see, the ink is magical and has dissolved.
Sprinkle your essence upon the scroll; the message will soon appear.
Invisible ink, sprinkle my essence; what is my essence? I wanted to know the message. I unrolled it further, still nothing. No other words were visible. But I noticed the scroll was not thinner. If I were less than sure of my sanity, I might think something added paper to the scroll.
“What’s going on here?” I hollered up the stairs.
“Do what the poem says,” came the response. “You’ll see’”
“What is my essence?”
“The mystery for you to solve, my dear.”
Another mystery surfaced: why did the scroll feel thicker with more paper? It could be a joke; maybe the scroll is a magician’s prop. That must be it. I grabbed the handle and rolled up the paper. I took it outside to unroll the whole thing, which I did. I put the top of the paper on one side of the yard, set a stone on it, and began walking backward, unrolling the scroll. About three-quarters of the length of the yard, I looked down, and now I was sure more paper was on the scroll.
What kind of madness is this? I bolted in; fishing through the junk drawer, I grabbed my yellow tape measure, then ran back out and measured the scroll's diameter. It was exactly one and seven-sixteenths of an inch. I continued backward, unrolling the scroll until I reached the end and laid one hundred and eighty feet of paper. I again measured the scroll's thickness. Just over two inches! Sure enough, the scroll thickened. I concluded that even if I was insane, the tape measure was truthful and not insane.
I dropped it right there and went over to the patio and plopped down on a pillowed wicker chair. Propping my right elbow on the armrest, I rested my chin in the web of my hand between my thumb and forefinger and thought for a while.
I pulled out my smartphone to ask Google what essence meant, hoping to solve at least one mystery. Typing “What is my essence?” into the search bar produced a top result indicating that our essence is our core nature and that one can describe their essence with one word. That will not work; I can’t sprinkle awesomeness on the paper.
I was in the dark, figuratively as well as literally. A dark, fair-weather cloud drifted overhead, blocking the sunlight. A few sprinkles sprayed out of the clouds and fell to the ground.
I hopped out of the chair. I wanted to keep the paper dry. As the water droplets wet the paper, the first letters, then whole words, appeared. I waited in the light rain until I could read full sentences. There was a list of things like checking the gutters, cleaning yard debris, replacing the porch floor, installing a new handrail, cleaning the basement, power washing the patio, changing the outside light, and moving the firepit.
Heavens to Murgatroyd! “This thing must be as long as Jack’s beanstalk,” I heard myself say out loud. It was an endless “honey-do list”!
In no time at all, I rolled up the paper. As I suspected, the scroll became thinner and thinner. I tied that gold ribbon back into a bow resembling a rose. I wandered into my wife’s office and laid it down on the edge of her desk.
“What did you find out?” She said.
“I discovered you are a talented poet.”
“What else?” She stiffened up, and her smile disappeared. “Did you solve the mystery?”
“Of course, my love.”
“Well?”
“With some research, I found my essence to be my belief, my faith.”
A scowl appeared on my wife’s face. “What does that mean?”
“Honey, it goes like this: because my essence is my belief, I believe the house is perfect, and nothing needs to be done.”
A wisp of smoke from her ears drifted across my nostrils. Before she could respond, I turned and hopped up to my bedroom, snickering all the way. Now, about the mystery, my inner Spock figured out that 98% of our bodies are composed of our constituent element, water. The other mystery of the infinite task list, I haven’t a clue, and frankly, I don’t want to know. Let's just say it’s “magick”. I concluded my wife is a pretty fart smeller. Then I sank into my couch and flipped on Star Trek.
The Alexander P Kosovich Project
The Life and Times of Alexander the Great
Alexander III of Macedon born in 356 BC to King Philip II and Olympias, educated by Aristotle, he inherited not only a kingdom but a philosophy: that the world could be unified under a single enlightened ruler. By the age of twenty, he ruled Macedonia and Greece. By twenty-five, he had shattered the Persian Empire.
Glory
In the art of crafting stories, few rival the tales of Alexander the Third, King of Macedon.
Glory
By G. Cariglio
With his loyal bodyguards, armored and sword-wielding, he stands mere feet from his enemy, the Great King Darius of Persia, Lord of Asia. Facing a wall of spears, akin to a giant porcupine, Alexander charges forward, embodying fearlessness and reckless determination as he grips his beloved black stallion, Bucephalus. Together, they ascend over fallen men and horses, resembling trees strewn across a forest floor. Their four eyes lock onto Darius, like laser beams converging on a singular target in the center of his chest. With his aim set, Alexander seizes a bloody spear from a soldier’s torso, preparing to launch it through Darius’ body. The Persian king, ensconced in his chariot of gold, is taken aback by the tenacity of his foe. In a moment of desperation, he pleads, “please, please spare my men.” Such narratives show us the timeless power of bravery and conflict.
thelifeandtimesofalexanderofma.godaddysites.com
Ancient warriors clash in a detailed battle scene.