SPC English Club

Here is the English Club of Saint Peter's College.

From left: Danielle, Victoria, Jonathan, Tristan H., April, Mike, Tristan M., Carmin--and, last but not least, Liz in front.

Sinclair was not present at this event, which was a baking party at my, Dr. Wifall's, apartment. Speaking of place, I think that everyone was interested to see where and how I live (the private side of someone whom they always see in a professional setting). The next day we had a Halloween party on campus, during which we had a creepy poetry/prose reading, and we wrote short stories in a "Mad Libs" fashion (each person around a table contributes a sentence). One of these was inspired by our party at my apartment, but perhaps it was too ridiculous to post here. To paraphrase from Monty Python and the Holy Grail: "Let's not go there; it's a silly place"...or should we?

Let's Get to Know Each Other!

Questions from Indiana to England and New Jersey...Here's who we are:
Back: Ryan, Kerri, Jordan, Jennifer, John, Ben, and Mitch (two thumbs up!)
Front: Lorinda, Marian, Laura, Ann

Who are you?
Our class of fiction writers came up with a number of questions that we hope the DMU and St. Peter's students will answer. We'll ask just a few here for starters, and we hope you'll post your answers in the comments box (until we figure out a better way to do it). And we'll write in too.

Questions:
a. What are the differences between the perceptions and realities of your home city/state/country?

b. What do you like to read? And what do you have to read for literature/writing courses? (And do British students have to read as much American lit as we have to read British?)

c. How much and where have you traveled?

Please post responses in the comments box!

Under the Bridge

I dont ever want to feel

Like I did that day

Take me to the place I love

Take me all the way

Under the bridge downtown

Is where I drew some blood

Under the bridge downtown

I could not get enough

Under the bridge downtown

Forgot about my love

Under the bridge downtown

I gave my life away

-"Under the Bridge" by Red Hot Chili Peppers

I love my family, most of the time. When battles occur within the walls of what is supposed to be my safe haven, I hate them. For over ten years I had to fight against parents, siblings, and emotions. That was until I became a capricious runaway, only sneaking into my house at two in the morning to eat something. I actually started to keep things there since I knew it would be a matter of days and sometimes even hours before I would return.

I always went to the same place, underneath a bridge less than a mile away. I had been driven across this bridge every school day for seven years, and never gave a second thought to it, never knowing it would be the most important place to me. I ran away one day and I went to that bridge, and since then it has been my favorite place.

My bridge crosses the railroad tracks that run parallel to my street. It breaks into three compartments, the middle being where the train tracks are, but I always stay on one side, I have gotten used to it.

I would sit on the ground, stare at the graffiti covered wall and cry. If it was a really intense fight that would drive me from my house, I would hit the walls untill my hands were numb, bloodied, and one time even broken. I always had problems coping, and being under the bridge gave me a place to express things anyway I wanted, be it scream, cry, or something worse.

No one ever knew where I was. People only went down there to spray paint the walls, but I was never there the same time someone else was. I loved the graffiti, well most of it. One picture, that still remains there, is imbedded in my memory. It is of a a man in a skirt with a big head, big feet, and big eyes. It always made me smile, no matter what had gone wrong.

I still go there anytime I am home, just to see the man. But when I go there, it isn't because something went wrong, it is because I want to be there. Now being under the Bridge allows me to see how much I have grown. I no longer runaway, I stand and face my fears.

(My favorite piece of work from under the bridge. Thanks to someone I wish I knew.)

-Saint Peters College

Lake Otsego

Our cousins always knew the best places. An essentially flat lake with a light sandy bottom and only curious minnows to nibble at and swim between our toes, Lake Otsego was the perfect playground for seven cousins under 12 years old. The water was so perfectly crystalline that I loved to watch as I dug my toes into the sand to churn it up into mini under-water storms. Even the minnows didn’t mind this slight disturbance from the feet of a 10-year-old child. Instead, they quickly swam just out of arm’s reach beyond the swirling pellets of sand, and then slowly made their way back when the white grains slowly fell back to the bottom. Peace was once more restored to the calm surface of the lake.

Having grown up playing in the almost ocean-like enormity of Lake Michigan, I was used to water which was at times rough, and which always quickly rose over my head. Lake Otsego, though, was no more than 3 feet deep as far out from the shore as our mothers would allow us to bravely venture. Though northern summers were short, the flat pancake of lake warmed quickly, and as I sat in the water and felt the gentle lapping of the waves wash over me, I was soon lulled into a state of relaxation almost unheard-of for a spontaneous, rambunctious 10-year-old child.

Once our fingers became pruny and we tired of minnows slipping through our fingers as we tried to grasp one after another to take home with us, our mothers would wave us into shore with the promise of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Ritz crackers, and soft, warm towels. Most of the glorious white sand was in the lake and the beach was but a brief thread, so pine needles and dry grass stuck to our feet and clung to the insides of our toes as we ran ashore. We would later spend hours trying to pick these needles out from between our toes. For the moment though, the immediacy of the warmth of our mothers’ arms as they wrapped us in great cotton towels that smelled of the outdoors was enough to sustain us until we were rested enough to make another venture into the clear, spring-like waters of Lake Otsego.

~ Laura Fox, IUSB

First impressions of KL

Walking through the sprawling streets, through a bazaar of stalls and smells and women selling nuts and sitting cross-legged on the floor selling brightly coloured headscarves and it’s hot and cramped and there’s loud Bollywood music blaring out from a nearby shop and it makes you dizzy but it ‘all adds to the atmosphere’ and as you look up a train whizzes by in the air and there’s concrete, and there are lights up, up into the sky and it’s like you’re in the gutter, the people are in the gutter whilst this monster of a capital city peers down.

AP of DMU

Beehive Lane

And when the blue sky finally rises
putting out the artifice of
amber lights,
illuminations
once powerful against
the black of night,
there will be a burst,
a furious hive
of life,
spurred on
by little more than instinct
and robotic necessity.

And when the white and blue,
appears at last,
there will be quiet,
stillness in the gardens
of worker bees,
flowers dancing
in a morning breeze,
to a music unheard,
played
with notes of love,
with the people gone
and the houses vacant,

And when the amber returns,
the sky blackens,
these glowing windows,
bear witness,
to flickering shadows,
honey light
behind thin cloth,
moving bodies
and casual gestures
of life,
tawdry curtains drawn
on the amateur theatre.


Maria Taylor, UK

Remembering A Place

The tapping of the rain, trickles in my ears,
My mind slowly wakes and before me all appears
As it was when I drifted into peace the previous night,
But more vivid now
It's illuminated under a new day's winter light.

Outside the morning's grey and veiled with a mist,
Someone calls my name, but this comfort I can't resist.
This rectangle of rest: pillows, quilts and sheets,
My ever ready friend, my weariness it defeats.

The simple smell of fresh linen, another reason to not part
With this perfect nest, from which every morning must start.
Engulfed between these covers I hear the rain turn to hail
And smile to myself because I know now I will fail

To leave this protection against winter weather
And the cold.
This cocoon in which I hide,
Where I'll stay until I'm old.

A.Fearn of DMU

Rough, Kentucky

About an hour’s drive southeast of the Fort Knox Military Reservation in Kentucky is the Rough River Dam State Resort. It is located in the town of Fall of Rough, Kentucky. I can’t be sure, but it sounds like the name of the town for which it was called was Rough, Kentucky. Someone had something to say about that area. What I remember was a picnic area strewn along the road on the way to a broad stream. The two-lane road made a broad sweep around the side of a mountain. The terrain between the road and the stream gently rolled downward. Redwood picnic tables on cement slabs and blackened brick grills dotted the area at intervals designed to give picnickers a bit of privacy even in the outdoors.

Whenever one of the twelve families in our apartment complex had the moving company in to pack up their belongings (and being in the military, we all moved every three years) some of the other families would take the children from the complex to Rough River Dam State Resort. The moves were planned to occur during the summer so that the children’s school year was not interrupted. That meant that Rough River Dam State Resort was always green and steamy when we visited. The boughs of huge trees gave some shade from the sun whose rays streamed through like a sieve. We were sent as a group to play in the stream while the parents cooked hot dogs and hamburgers and put out chips, mustard, catsup and cokes. We were warned to stay in the area as the river was rough up and downstream.

There were a few big boulders to be seen above water, but the river bottom was made up of many small smooth pebbles in innumerable shades of brown, grey and cream, and soft squishy sand. The water was always cold and clear. We started out in sneakers, wading into the water and standing around testing it out. Before long, the sneakers were thrown up onto the bank and we were barefoot, looking for pebbles to take home as mementos of the day. If the day was very, very warm a brave few sat down in the stream and let the cold water gently push past. On rare occasions very tiny fish could be seen nearer the banks. Experience had taught that they were also very fast.

I have never tried to find that spot again. I think it resides best in my memory.

~ Marian Zuehlke, IUSB

The lake

I woke up fast, a passing between sleeping and being fully awake that wasn’t a passing, but happened more like the flick of a switch. One moment I was dreaming about what I wanted to do while I awake, and the next moment I was there, ready to go and do it. I hopped out of bed, already wearing the brown shorts that I wore all day yesterday and would wear all day today. The dirt and sand had hardened the cotton into pants that somehow seemed better than they would if they had just come out of the dryer. They knew what I went through, and they were ready for more. Just like me waking up, there was no break in period for my shorts, it was instant action. I ran past the bathroom, loving the fact that my mom hadn’t intercepted and made me brush my teeth. I opened the front door and breathed in the air that could only come off of a diamond lake bay. The sun, though it was scorching, did not phase my skin, which had become as bronze as a penny. Most of it was tan, but of course, some of it was dirt. I looked at the donut’s and hoped to God there was one with sprinkles, and thanks be to God, there was. I ate a donut and drank an ice cold coke while walking down to the sand to let my toes know where I was and what kind of day I was going to have.

The day would pass, full of ice cold cokes, more than enough candy, and all the swimming and sand bar football a human body can handle. When that would get boring, the jet ski was fired up, and I would run the hell out of it, throwing 360’s at top speed, doing everything in my power to get myself in a situation where I would fall. This however, hardly happened. If careers were built on jet ski skill I wouldn’t be in college today. My fiancé, though she hates swimming, would be right there with me, through it all, smiling as she mostly sat and watched as I ran around the lake with enough energy to power Chicago for a week.

Then, as it got dark, everyone there would tell me it’s time for a bonfire, and I would go around looking for magazines that no one will ever read, and I’d give them to my cousin to crumple up while I took my brother and fiancé to an undisclosed spot in the truck to go get a hidden stash of firewood back in the woods. The ice cold cokes were replaced by ice cold beer, and the bonfire would bring out conversations which had a depth that a philosophy class could only hope to match. I would be the last one to go to sleep when the fire and the conversation died down, because times like those are ones that I never want to end.

~Deric Poorman
IUSB

i'm distressed
and i slip into a dream
in an alley by an auburn brick wall
and you lean up against me.

your fingers were mine,
and your eyes and your pain
and we were the same.

and i'm not quite sure
which one of us
was the intoxicated one.
i always felt drunk
but i never touched the stuff.

now i know why i cried back then.
that time, when nothing was wrong.
i cried then
the way that i can't now
because you froze me.

claire genevieve, dmu.

Vicksburg, Mississippi

Twenty-four hours in a van saturated with the smell of puke. Nine changes of baby outfits and one stop at Wal-Mart for more clothes. Finally, we arrive in Vicksburg, Mississippi and take the first over-priced motel we find that is in walking distance of a restaurant. The baby is weak and pale, and I am worried beyond grief.

Mississippi – the place known to the rest of the United States as backwoods; the place I must now seek medical care for my infant daughter from an unknown doctor and unknown hospital. I have no idea which physician should be trusted with the care of my child, so I call the insurance company to get a reference. At least, it is better than playing Russian roulette with the phone book. Then, I arrive and there is an institutional feel to the multi-story building built in the late 70’s. I wait in a line surrounded by working-class people sitting in molded plastic institutional chairs. The baby in my arms does not move except for shallow breathing.

The doctor is warm and friendly. He lays the baby on the table. Her stomach sags skin. Is that normal? – he asks. No – I reply, shocked that I missed this new feature. Suddenly, undressed, she spews a puddle of diarrhea across the examining table. Sorry, sorry – I say embarrassed. Don’t worry about it – he says and calls the nurse in to take a sample. The diagnosis is dehydration from Rotavirus.

The hospital is warm and welcoming. A café surrounded by plants is located in its center. The food is delicious. My husband and I discuss what to do with our two boys. Why do our vacations always begin with someone getting sick? – he asks, vowing to never travel again.

They place my daughter in a jail-like crib and connect her to IVs. I am stationed on a fold out bed next to her. Nurses check frequently to see if I am comfortable. They allow me to hold my daughter as often as I want. My husband and boys visit the Civil War battlefield, a miniature museum, and an old mansion. I do not get to see all this history, but I find myself drawn to watching the local public access station on the television. Better than a reality show because it is real, Vicksburg city council records and airs its meetings. I watch captivated with the public complaints and the mayor’s attempts to deal with them. During the day, I learn tips on transplanting clippings and watch an exercise program at the senior center. I feel I am a part of local life.

Over the next two days, my daughter gains strength. She gains weight. The doctor visits and tells us he will keep her and extra day to make sure she does not start again further down the road. When we check out of the hospital, we visit the first Coke factory and another mansion with a cannonball still stuck in the wall. The boys are thrilled and fascinated, but I am relieved. I will always remember Vicksburg for the great medical care, kind hospital staff, and interesting city council meetings. More importantly, I will remember Vicksburg for healing my child despite the rest of the nation’s prejudice against Mississippi. What tourist attractions can compare with that?

~ Jennifer Reinoehl, IUSB

Fresher Person

It was madness that had brought her here,
The kind that could not be defined by mere words and puzzles.
A place where earthquakes die.
Where fate vomits its contents onto the misery of life.

A place where hope is lost for some,
Yet found for others within the dreams of passed souls.
She found solace in the idea of love,
Ease in being held by the chains of passion.

Then she found love was a myth mimicking truth,
The journey she had taken was false,
She had been trapped within a labyrinth of emotions.
Now she could not retrace her steps.

It was madness that had brought her here,
The kind that consumes you until you are nothing,
Making you question your whole being,
Leaving you as nothing but an idea in the mind of others.

Kimberly Redway
DMU University

ORCHARD

The boughs, twisted like caked with morning frost

Spiral overhead in snowflake mazes

A thousand piece jigsaw with no edges

Dead leaves whirl in forgotten corners

Knocked loose by the endless harvest

Left to rot in the Indian Summer

No sunset for the Orchard

Where fruit is always in season

PSG

POEM – GUILTY CONSCIOUS

Now, I don’t know where to begin,
So starting at the end makes sense.
The light has departed without a goodbye and,
Within seconds, the night has arrived without an invitation.

My mind is blanker than a clean page.
Here I am, guilty without being charged,
Without one knowing what I have committed.
I didn’t have time to correct but I still made mistakes.

That dark place surrounds me like a claustrophobic surrounded by walls.
As the minutes pass I know what to be expecting,
But for now, during these hours that darkness talks to me,
The night’s silence is the loudest form of communication.

I am shadow of death.
I cannot accept innocence.
That guilty conscious won’t allow to me
I am liable for the murder of time.

POEM – GUILTY CONSCIOUS
BY RAMAIZE ATIQUE DMU UNIVERSITY,
LEICESTER
ENGLAND

Neglected

Stone cold temple,
Voices long dead echo on the inside.
Enclosed and isolated
Screeching metal reverberates off the outside.
A place for tramps and stoners
Waiting for something to change or happen.

A sanctuary of old
Submerged in a city it does not know.
Decay takes time
But time takes eternity
Once you become obsolete.

C. Stevens DMU

Remembering Places

Half cast the globe Rolls

Around its invisible polls,

Sweeping clouds build

They cloak the world.

Watching a flock of birds crowd the air for space-

As though there weren’t enough.

Old memories: shine on like the shimmering shoals shifting through

The water rolling gently over the stones,

Dappled in leaf shadow.

Star shine

Illuminates, Moon light glows and half the world rests

Whilst the other Flows.

With brisk wind brushing the grass,

The fields from the hills,

Sparrows swoop and drop

Depths unseen that no one knows.

It all reminds me

There is no certainty.

But there is Beauty.

Russ Staples DMU.

Shona's Snow

‘Is it easy for someone to be trapped here?’ thought Shona.

For the past few moments Shona had taken several swirled looks at the houses, the trees and the ground that were collected together to form a crooked street.

Snow had fallen leaving a layer on the ground, fine and delicate. Any footstep that Shona made, her regulated print would appear, along with a crack that would run for several centimetres to the side.

Usually on the road that the street connects to would be full of hasten and panic that only traffic could create. Now there was nothing.

With tiny flecks of snow still falling at a quiet pace, Shona somehow didn’t feel alone.

This was strange. She had come to the street to be by herself.

She ran!!!

To get some measure of warm feeling running through her blood again Shona had to run. There was contentment for cold weather in her, but not today. Not in this street.

Sprinkling snow upwards from her kicking feet there was now a nightmarish appearance to her surroundings.

It was cut off...cutting off from any other part of the world. The street had two openings and now both of them had a large air-filled sheet of film, rising from the ground and blurring whatever was meant to be on the other side of it.

Around her the trees, although remaining still were growing longer and more twisted branches, some reaching into the sky, the others pointing to what Shona horrifyingly imagined as her chest.

The number of surrounding large houses gave barely any comfort. Each window in every one of them held a heavy white curtain. To Shona it was clear that no one was to so much as peek out. There was no one to do so.

Seeking some warmth Shona stepped up to the nearest tree. It was the closest thing that was alive.

Almost hugging it but coming to her senses, Shona then skipped a couple of steps around the tree. All of a sudden the roughed, bumped patterns of the dark white bark, sending scratched warmth to her fingers. It wasn’t complete reassurance, but it helped.

‘Why am I alone?’ thought Shona. ‘There’s nothing here to scare me and yet...

‘If only...’

Her thought ended as a clear ‘SQUAWK’ noise sounded above.

Shona’s head snapped up and her eyes saw what was against the white and grey fogged sky.

A quick flick of beats and Shona’s eyes swept immediately to the bird that had made the noise seconds before.

Trying to smile Shona looked at the bird, now gliding with ease across the high air.

‘And what am I to do?’ she asked out loud. She didn’t shout, but the snow’s conjured silence had pressed her voice to be expanded.

Dedicated to a girl who may not realise how magical she is. Her name's Shona.

Chris Gray

Incomplete

Transparent, with no finger tips,
Man made you
Just to be
Dependent.
And so I wonder
When was I
Intoxicated
By this mechanical Eden?
Though scentless,
Shapeless,
Without a soul
And no door to walk inside,
I am sheltered
Within this paradise
Of artifice.

By Louise Holt, De Montfort University, Leicester