Jack and the Tree

Treading cautiously through the night,

up the hill and out of sight.

Through the graveyard, Jack did climb,

through the haunts and through the grime.

At the top, there stood a tree

high enough for all to see.

But while the people were asleep,

the tree would wake to take a peep.

People don't stay up at night

for fear the dark would come and bite.

By the time the sun has set

all were tucked up in their beds.

But one night, the tree did find

a little boy still out at nine.

Twisting his roots into the ground,

coiling his trunk, he turned around.

Poor little Jack, who was running away

was rooted on the spot and began to sway

as the mighty tree atop of the hill

began to dance and twist and twirl.

"Oh little boy, why are you awake?"

the tree said and Jack began to shake.

"Oh please, Mr. Tree, don't make me stay.

All I want to do is run far away!"

The tree took Jack's frightened hand

and led him back to his snoring land.

All night, they listened to the sleeping voices

and he taught Jack how to make scary noises.

And now every night, the villagers hear

another noise that tingles their fears;

because that is when Jack and the tree

come out for their nightly haunting spree!

By: Rosina Ellis, DMU.

A work in progress; feel free to leave feedback

The Bathroom.

This is based on a rumour at my old primary school, Sherrier. It was said there was a ghost in the year 6 bathroom.


The bathroom. Well, this is a lovely place to be stuck! Of course I can glide around pretty much anywhere but this is my “haunt” This is the area where I rest and so I’m attracted to it, body and soul. I didn’t die locked in a cubicle, I was buried here way before this lump of bricks was built. 1983 they decided to move their primary school here to keep up with the modern era, and I ended up with the bathroom on top of me. Talk about disrespect for the dead!
I can hear the scraping of chairs. Here they come. Lunch time, and they’ll all be stamping around a meter above me. Well, the physical me. My presence hasn’t gone unnoticed. I haven’t actually appeared to any of them…yet, but kids can sense these other worlds where they bleed through, it’s why they get so exited at Halloween.
Some have claimed to have seen some kind of monster. I’ve been blue, green, had a tail and deep voice. Apparently I often hover over the washbasins along the front or lurk in the cubicle on the right which has the window.
Already I can here the first few who keep their eyes on the clock. They always feel the need to scream as though they were imprisoned for life. Sometimes I hear them playing “what’s the time Mister Wolf” on the opposite side of this wall. Occasionally they’ll play some kind of ghost hunting game, usually based around ideas which involve me having some kind of powers. It’s nice, becoming a celebrity in a way.
I watch as the 12:15 stampede rush in. I don’t peek, if you were wondering. It can sometimes be quite content to just hover in the corner and watch them. They grow up quicker than I thought. It’s mainly year 6’s who come in but that’s their final year here. Often I see them boast about their status, worry about SATS, and then prepare for the grand transfer. They mature so much, gain confidence. There are a few who I thought would never be able to get themselves together, but they always surprise me. I grow quite proud of them.
I notice a few don’t wash their hands and dodge aside. It feels dirty enough when they go through me anyway, I don’t want them plonking their germs inside me as well!
A few of course put chewing gum all over the place and stuff the toilets. It’s only 15 minutes into Lunch and already we’re one toilet down. I know who all the culprits are, smirking because they think they’re so smart for making the place stink even more. I sometimes hold the cubicle doors shut for a second on them or spray the tap water just enough to get the message across, keep the act up. These toilets are protected. Ghosts have noses you know!
The girl with the blond hair is doing her usual trick. Blocking the exit to targeted individuals, demanding that they say the password to be let out. Oh and look her sheep are here too. Spoilt b b b…..biiii….brat. This is my time to step in and live up to the legends given to me. It doesn’t take much to distract some. Tapping on the shoulder, throwing some paper, the expected ghostly stuff. Enough to get them to let their guard down, just long enough for the victim to escape. Today I couldn’t resist being heard. All I have to do is say “go” from the first cubicle, it echoes from there. They like to think they’re so big, trapping the timid students in a haunted toilet. It feels good to see them scamper off with petrified stares, serves them right. Ironic really.

Becky Butterwick.

the night before I saw Phil Dillon on the news

We mark the paths that take us home

We look up at the Kaballah code

on bricks, those records,

the grimoire of the tribe.

We piss on fagends and heineken cans

We mark the places where you can see Cost;

every boz and spliff we contribute

to this legacy in Rizla.

Stood By The Riverbank

(to be placed on the fence overlooking the river)

Watch the hungry ducks. There is no
bread left, just discarded packaging
blowing down the path. A shadow
on the river hiding a floating

forgotten football. Kicked, lost, goal?
Hear the carrier bag lightly rustling
up in the branches, a solitary soul
ensnared by the wind. Start noticing,

looking, you might see odd smiling faces
staring over at you. Gang symbols,
graffiti painted in impossible places
or elaborately printed cubist angels?

You stood here before, yet seldom
saw images so abstract and random.


Lester Easterbrook DMU

The sand warm on my feet,
the sun burning my left cheek,
the water lapping along,
to the hum of the jet ski's.
The smell of coconut sun lotion,
and orange lingers in my nose.
I look across the sea,
as it stretches for miles.
Never ageing,
never changing.
But when I look back,
rotten pieces of wood,
where the boats once stood.
The chairs- no longer there,
and my skin no longer supple,
as it once was.
They can still be there to me, to us!
God bless your soul.

By Nicky Mason DMU.

My Birth Right

I always knew I was special. It wasn’t just a childish illusion, I knew.
As if to prove the point my father said that there was a banner hanging outside the hospital where I was born which read ‘Louise Jack was born here’. So it wasn’t just me who knew, it was everyone who passed Stamford Hospital and saw those words as a dedication to my birth place.
It all seemed utterly reasonable. Plaques were erected to the likes of Dickens, Kings, Peter Pan. I’d seen a statue of a black horse in London with a warrior raising his sword.
It all made sense considering when my school needed someone to open the yearly fete one of my parents would be asked. We lived in the biggest house in the village, why couldn’t I be famous before I was even born.
It was with such delight (and silent excitement) when we went on a trip to Stamford. I would actually get to see my banner. I remember sitting in the back of the car, waving at people in the street, they would smile back.
We motored through winding lanes, passed churches with towering steeples. And then we turned a corner and my father said – proudly, ‘This is where you were born.’ My banner! My banner! There was a long stone wall and I looked and I looked and... It was just a wall, no banners, no words.
‘Where’s my banner?’ I asked.
My father didn’t miss a beat. ‘They took it down yesterday.’
How unreasonable. They took it down the day before I arrived!
Sadly I never got to see my banner, some would argue that it never existed, but for many years, I felt robbed that day and for many years to come!

Let's Drink To You

The whiskey pouring hard and fast,
a hangover being built to last.
Uncle John takes me by the hand, and
within the hour I can barely stand.

He dances to his favourite tune,
and talks of friends gone too soon
When seven brothers sang as one, and
now so many of them gone.

A playful wink to a girl nearby, he's
never accused of being shy.
With a laugh to melt the coldest of hearts,
he fills the room as the music starts.

I sit and watch with bleary eyes,
this dear old man with his 'band o' guys'
I truly pray that when I leave,
I'm celebrated by men like these.

Daley James Francis

Naughty Ghost

My auntie’s hair salon is just two streets down from me. I would often call in on the way home from school, giving it a quick clean up in exchange for some pocket money. On one such occasion I’d stayed late and so she offered to drive me home; I looked out of the window of the shop noting the dark sky and the dripping of rain. I accepted her offer.

Huddled against the wall outside as we tried to pull down the ancient shutter, passing customers shouted their greetings and a fair few ‘bet you’re glad you’re finished’ comments. Everyone however, kept on with their own purpose, all except one man.

He stood opposite the shop, leaning against the horrible wall just staring at us. I knew who he was but it was still unnerving to see him like that. He had nothing in his hands except his car keys, so I assumed he was just heading to work at the Chinese Takeout around the corner.

Eventually the shutter was down and we turned to head off. As we stepped out onto the path, he stepped forward.

“That place is haunted you know.” We stopped in our tracks, a little confused.

“The hairdressers?” My aunty asked.

“Yes.”

I shifted nervously. All of the staff there had long ago assumed that the shop was haunted. Many strange happenings had occurred there. One time, my aunty arrived early in the morning, being the last one out the night before and the first one in that morning, only to find all of the drawers were open and some were tipped over. Naturally her first thought had been a burglary but checking it all out, she found nothing. Case One.

Another time, a set of the staff’s hair scissors had gone missing. They were looked for all over the shop and she said she checked at home too. Weeks later, after she was forced to buy a new pair, her old pair were found. Inside the ancient microwave nobody ever used. Case Two.

All of these memories rose up in my mind, along with the fleeting images of a shadow I had once seen myself, where nobody should have been.

“Yes. It’s sitting on the old Manor’s private graveyard. You can check the maps if you like. Bet you have some trouble in there don’t you?” he chuckled as he walked off.

We stood there aghast. We had already heard that this strange man was a little bit psychic, now it seemed confirmed.

I never did check to see if he was right.

Rachel Melissa Robson. DMU.

Bus to Confidence

Step, got it. Step, got it. Step, got two. Step, got two again. Whoo. This is amazing.
Johnny loved this town. He played this game at home all the time, but here it was just so much more fun, with all the chewing gum constellations on the pavement. Step - and another one. It was practically impossible to lose here. He kept on jumping from foot to foot.
“Wow.” He put both feet on the ground and ran to the grass. “Look at all these seeds here.” He picked up a Cadbury paper and smelled it. The stingy scent of chocolate and syrup. He took a deep breath and then tucked the paper neatly between three clusters of grass, putting a bit of soil on top of it. “Now you can blossom, sweety.”
He looked further ahead. He had never seen something like that before. Quickly he ran over to a bottle of cider. Yes, bottles he knew, even this size. But the name on it wasn’t anything like they had at home. “Cider.” Was that the brand?
A girl walked by. She was dressed really strangely. Jeans as big as his Mum’s, but the girl was skinny and pale. Not really pale with all the black in her face. The jacket also seemed to be three times too big for her. He sighed. She must be a very poor girl. It gave him some reassurance that not all the people in “Confidence” were rich and wealthy.
He took the bottle and moved on, playing his game down the street. A strange music caught his ear. He peered into the distance, where the sun was about to disappear behind the chimneys. The smoke that came out of the roofs was just like the one surrounding the dump in his backyard. A black car drove by with a dark man inside. The music became louder as it approached. The beat kept repeating constantly; what a stupid thing to do when there are so many different tunes.
Right behind the car was a bus just like the one he had arrived in. This was such a strange place the bus to Confidence had dropped him off.

By Nico Lehmann, DMU, Leicester

my home.

Frayed fingers and caressing eyes

rove, never ending over me.

‘Don’t walk through there alone,’ they cry.

A perfect circle. Much to shy

to open and let us be free,

of frayed fingers and caressing eyes.

Halfway around, it tries to hide.

High-pitched screams as we try to flee.

‘Don’t walk through there alone’ they cry

to me as I daringly try

to enter the beautifully

frayed fingers and caressing eyes.

A set of wheels and racing thighs,

hurtle me towards the queen bee.

‘Don’t walk through there alone,’ they cry.

Brown bricks and branches block the sky,

as they begin to stare at my

frayed fingers and caressing eyes.

‘Don’t walk through there alone,’ they cry.

By Brittany Reid

Deaf to the world.

Dan got up at 5:30 every morning to go for a run before work. Today was no exception; his radio alarm woke him on time with the daily celebrity scandal. He hit a button to silence it, and put on his training clothes. He grabbed his iPod on the way out the door, and unwound the cable as he walked to warm up. He put the earphones in and quickened to a jogging pace as he scrolled through his playlists. He pressed play and quickened his step again. He crossed the road, heading towards the park, and then realised no music was playing. He cranked the volume up but nothing happened. Dan pulled his iPod from his pocket and found the playlist empty of tracks.
“What the hell…”
He selected another playlist, but its pre-selected tracks weren’t there either. After checking two more playlists, Dan stopped running and clicked All Music. Nothing appeared; there was a blank screen. He grunted, shoved his iPod into his pocket, and continued his daily run without his usual upbeat music to keep rhythm.

Once he got home, Dan jumped in the shower, had breakfast and then got in the car to head to work across the city. The radio station he had pre-tuned in the car was spitting out static, so he switched to another, which was transmitting a news report. Every channel he tuned into was playing either news, weather or DJs talking rubbish. Dan hit the radio off with a thump and drove to work in silence. He passed the morning by drinking coffee after coffee as he waded his way through paperwork he had been hoping would disappear. His afternoon was one long, stressful meeting, and by the time he left the office and got into his car, he was more than ready to unwind with his girlfriend at the concert they booked tickets for months before. He flipped through the radio stations again and let it settle on a comedy act as he sat in traffic.

As soon as he got home, he took a shower to waken up, and made a quick microwave dinner. He had just finished getting ready when his phone buzzed with a text from Lucy: “Concert cancelled tonight, band gave no reason!”

Dan swore loudly and went straight to the fridge for a beer. Lucy phoned him ten minutes later and asked if he wanted to go to a wine bar instead. “They better have stocked up,” Dan replied.

“What’s up?” Lucy asked him as they sat on the bar’s balcony, overlooking part of the city. “Nothing, why?” he replied. “You seem tense. Bad day?” Lucy asked. “I guess… well, no… I don’t know, nothing bad happened, it’s just been a weird sort of day. Quiet, but busy, you know?” Dan answered. Lucy nodded.
“It’s nice here, but they could do with playing some music or something, soft jazz or that,” Dan said. “Yeah,” Lucy agreed.

On their walk back to Lucy’s apartment, they stopped to buy kebabs from a street vendor, and while they waited for their overpriced, cheap meat, Dan looked up and saw some words spray painted onto a disused bridge. He could just make out what it said from the flickering light of a street lamp: “Imagine waking tomorrow and all music has disappeared”.

-Naomi Marcus, DMU.

Unplugged in Leicester

(Click the picture)

Brucie's in the Sky with Cupcakes

Ay up, you seen them paintings,
on the 'oardings down Bath Lane, by the canal?
Cartoons, like Sergeant Pepper,
'ang on, I mean Yellow Submarine.
Slap bang across from Brucie's, y'know,
'im does tea and pastries, and a pretty spanking
jammy scone and cream.

You should see them paintings,
I ain't never seen oat like 'em,
all candy pink and full-on bubblegum,
mutant pear drops, cochineal and cherry plums.
Just like Woolies' Pik 'n' Mix, before they closed.

Fizzy pop and fondant fancies,
doughy doughnuts, buns and biscuits,
still warm.
Or just a cheese 'n' onion cob, I ain't fancy.
Hey, lets go Brucie's now, I'm hungry.

Could gerra tea to go,
'ead up West Wharf and see
his piece of history, tucked away.
A kaleidoscope of colours,
psychedelic cyanosis.
Oo ya beauty,
Luigi Brucciani

by Sally Jack, DMU

A Leicester Walk Poem

Sirens are our birdsong

Sirens are our birdsong
as we break onto Bonner’s Lane
biro-beaks primed to gather,
hunt and scavenge.

Lear
left his name to the city
and here
on Gosling St

two half-gouged lychees
burst their rubber moulds.
Above, air miles are chalked
in spinal sky trails. Below,

tarmac deep, an ocean floor;
the predatory life of the streets
acted by an ensemble of discarded objects:
orange bottle top edges

away from the gaping mouth
of a sandwich-shell, mere inches
from the splayed fin of a fag-butt.
We swim for it in light

squeezed between buildings,
channelled past cruising subs
with black-out windows
and bass-bin sonar.

Breaking news is tidal, laps the curbs
wraps a tide-line round the gutters:
a translucent Pringle caught in the slipstream
of leaves and tissue polyps.

Our feathered constituents
scrabble for scraps on a mercury Soar.
The more we watch, the more
they choreograph our times;

liquorice-legged Coots
dart in from the margins
for crumbs
afraid to challenge geese and swans.

The future’s orange,
or agents thereof: a Doosan crane
picks at the brick-bones
of an ex-public house,

whilst men on Black Friar’s Lane
in garage arches, scrub in; massage
the internal organs of failing cars
hands slick with vital fluids

and in the sky top-right, mid-afternoon,
the pale coin of the moon:
phantom currency. We bag it all,
There’s no such thing as a Dog Pooh Fairy.

Simon Perril, DMU, England

http://www.simonperril.com

Dear Writers in America and Hawaii and Leicester,

a belated Happy New Year 2011 to you all!

So let's turn our attention to the unique opportunity before us: the chance for students at four different universities in different parts of the world to share writings about place. These writings don't have to be polished stories, poems, memoirs; they can just as usefully be informal jottings, observations and photos that try to capture the texture of a place.

Places are so often magnets for stories, aren't they? You must all know a tale, folk legend, anecdote or urban myth about where you grew up? There must have been a place you were told not to go to, or a place that had become so wrapped in generations of telling that it has become an almost mythical focus of attention for its community? So, please introduce yourselves by posting something on the blog ASAP: either something related to where you grew up, or something about the immediate environment around you - even if it's just a photo of the view from your window ...

C'mon: participate!

Simon Perril

DMU, Leicester, England

http://www.simonperril.com/

The Tree

There is a tree outside my window.

It's not a particularly special tree; just a tree.

It stands in the pub garden next door, reaching over four stories of student housing. Perhaps it's set aside in a special part of the garden, with grass and flowers and stones. It could have seating around it, a bench perhaps. You have to wonder if the smokers in the garden even notice the tree, or just walk right past it.

There is a tree outside my window.

It's not a particularly special tree; just a tree.

Four stories high and I can see all of its branches and the trunk as it disappears behind brick and metal buildings. Winter has stripped it of its leaves, and in the darkness it is just a silhouette against the bright lights of the buildings surrounding it. The trunk looks scraped and scarred, maybe to protect student drinkers from splinters.

There is a tree outside my window.

It looks like it is crying.


by Kelly Lawson, DMU

Leicester by GR Phillpott

Welcome to everyone - and especially to our new friends in Hawai'i

Welcome to everyone, whether you're returning to this blog, or visiting it for the first time. I'd just like to extend a particular welcome to Jaimie Gusman and our new friends in the University of Hawai'i at Manoa. The blog is now shared between Creative Writers at four different universities across the Atlantic: De Montfort University (UK), University of Indiana South Bend (US), St. Peter's College, New Jersey (US), and University of Hawai'i at Manoa. We look forward to sharing contributions, memories, poems and stories from all of these very different places.

We hope you enjoy the blog. If you have any questions about it, do contact me (Jonathan Taylor) at jtaylor@dmu.ac.uk.

Many thanks to all who contribute this year (2010-11) in advance.