Learning to Write Creatively

In the past four weeks, our team has worked together to develop our artistic talent, learning to not only write creatively, but to think creatively.  Through various exercises of form, theme, and structure in many literary genres, we hope we have emerged from this course as both better writers and better readers.

  Below we offer a sampling of our best work, each one unique to its author, but flavored by the feedback the others have suggested.  We hope you enjoy.

Chelsea: Prose Poem: What Is Earth?

What Is Earth?

What is the Earth without art we may ask. The water, the plants, the creatures, those that walk among the land. They are the ones that make this world we live in the way that it is. The vibrant colors of the changing autumn leaves. The footprints a deer imprints in the Earth as it walks through the forest to find a pasture to lay. The skyscrapers, the paintings, the photographs we take. The moves we choreograph, or the simple moves that we make.

So what is the Earth without all of this beauty? What is the Earth without the art that we make? Without our knowledge, the art surrounds us. We live it, we breathe it, we create it within us. So what is Earth without our people. I believe without art, Earth is just Eh.

Chelsea: Short Story: A Guy Walks Into A Bar

                        A Guy Walks Into a Bar…

As I walk into a bar, I look back and forth to see if I can find her. I’m sweating from my hands, and forehead, I can feel the sweat running down the side of my face. However, I’m not sure if it’s from the extreme heat we are experiencing, or if it is from being nervous to see her again. I try to pull off the gold band on my left hand to slip into my pocket, but my hands are too swollen from the heat. Eventually, it becomes loose and I put it in my front pocket as I always do. I walk into a blast of cool air conditioning and immediately feel refreshed. As I approach the bartender, I ask if she has seen Whitney yet. He hasn’t seen her, and I assume she also got off of work a little late. Her boss is always making her stay to finish his work, as is mine which is why it’s so convenient to meet up for a bite to eat, and a few drinks after. This is our favorite spot, you can’t go wrong with five dollar appetizers and drinks during happy hour in and expensive city such as New York.

As I take a seat at the polished bar top, I order an old fashioned and ask for an extra shot of brandy mixed in. I usually drink a strong one after a long day running between meetings, and always before I see Whitney. However, I’m not sure how this drink will hit me tonight after a long day in the heat. Maybe I should order a water too? But instead, I keep it with the usual, and only take my cocktail. I keep checking my Iphone waiting for her to send me a text message or call me, but nothing is showing up. As I’m watching ESPN on one of the flat screens behind the bar to see what time the basketball game is on, I see my phone light up out of the corner of my eye. Anxious to see what Whitney has sent me, I quickly grab my phone. Instead, I see Cindy’s name under the new text message notification. I get a lump in my throat as I am nervous to see what she has said.

Her  text reads, “Hey! When ru planning to be home 2nite? Ru comin home?”

 I hesitate for a second, to think about what to answer back.

I respond, “Stayin at work late again, not sure. Let u know”

Just as my text message is sent, a tall blonde leans over on the bar and says, “Hey handsome, what’s your name?” Sure enough, it’s Whitney, looking gorgeous as always with her long, straight blonde hair, wearing bright red lipstick only to match the knee length, one shoulder, tight dress I had never seen on her thin body before. As I stand up, I realize she’s taller than normal. Only to look down and notice the tall stiletto heels she is wearing tonight. I look to the bartender and give a nod. The bartender knows this nod, and quickly moves to get a martini glass and fill it with a strong mixture of apple flavored vodka for the lady.

We get our drinks and move from our spot at the bar to a tall table in the back corner by the juke box to enjoy our drinks and talk.

        “Oh my goodness it is so hot out today! I hope my air conditioning turned on.” She says.

        “I know it, I made sure mine was on before I left for work this morning.” I respond.

She looks at me with a little smirk on her face and says, “My apartment might just be a little extra steamy tonight, I hope that’s okay.”

        “I think I can handle a little extra steam.” I respond.

        I change the subject quickly, “So how was your day anyway? You were a little later than usual!”

        “It was okay. Yeah, I had to run a few extra errands, and these heels take a little bit longer to walk in.” She answers.

        “Well how about we take that pain away and order one more drink with our appetizers?” I ask.

I was the waitress over and we order our usual appetizers along with another round of drinks.

        “So what did you tell Cindy tonight? You know, we can’t exactly keep this a secret forever.” She brings up.

        “I told her I was staying late at work again. She’s used to it. And I knowwwww. I will tell her soon enough, just haven’t found the right time. Although, I’m not sure there’s ever going to be a right time to tell her.” I say annoyingly, as she always brings this up every time we meet.

        As our conversation continues, I begin to notice that it is getting harder to hear what one another is saying.  So I give Whitney the wink, and wave the waitress back over to pay the bill. I hand her my credit card, and when she returns, I tip the waitress well , and sign the receipt. But, as I’m signing the receipt, I notice that my name is printed as Cindy Donnely, not Scott Donnely. Did I have my wives credit card on accident? Oh well, I pay the bills anyway. I get up and help Whitney out of her tall bar stool, as I don’t want her to twist an ankle or anything before our walk back to her apartment. As I’m waving goodbye to the bartender, I notice a beautiful lady sitting at the end of the bar with a man. She has short brown hair, with a sparkly black dress, that I have seen before. I take another look and come to realize that that is Cindy, my wife, with another man just as I am with another woman. An ooze of emotions run through my body. My heart is pounding with anxiety, my stomach churning with nervousness, my head pounding with anger. Do I say something? Or do I pretend it never happened. I look at Cindy, I look at Whitney, and I walk out of the bar.

Chelsea: Performance Poem: Sound Without Sight

Sound Without Sight

As I walk through the wooden doorway

The darkness makes it difficult to see

All I can hear are my own creaky footsteps

                  Creek, Creek, Creek, Creek

I creep slowly.

Silence

Nothing but silence surrounds me

SCREAM

An eerie scream that makes the hairs on my neck tingle

My stomach churning

My throat has a lump

I take another step forward

                                          SHUFFLING

My eyes strain against the dark to see what’s ahead

But nothing is there to greet me

I am alone

But I don’t feel alone

There is a presence in the room

But I don’t know where it may be

Is it behind me?

In front of me?

I hear footsteps in the distance

But I can’t tell where they are coming from

Chelsea: Ekphrastic Poem: American Gothic

American Gothic

Under pressure every day, to make it through, struggling

This life is the only one I know

I won’t give up

Strained to make the money, to produce

This farm is the only one I know

I won’t give up

America gave me freedom, and free is what I am

America is all that I know

I won’t give up

Courtney: Concrete Poem

Home.

Remember when dad

Crawled in the attic to put away Christmas

Stuff? And mom was too drunk but dad stayed, never had enough.

I remember when we sat at the small cluttered table. Things were fun, even

If they weren’t stable.  I remember the nights I hid in my room. Crying and mad, wanting to

Return to the womb. It was where we were scarred and where we

Were healed.  And dad came to after a days work in the field. Where

I learned to love writing while I escaped to find my truth, and I anti

Cipated the fairy that wanted my tooth. I couldn’t wait to leave and

Couldn’t wait to return.  Where I became who I am, with all that I’ve

Learned.  We can try to leave and roam. We can come back, too. Home.

Courtney: Image Poem

Lake Unknown

Smooth black water ripples with the wind
As if it’s a dark mirror reflecting trees and sky.
Carefree bass swim below the surface, quiet and safe.
Seaweed like skyscrapers that move with the wind
The lake, contained by trees green with life
shake their hands in the wind, softly rattling.
Grass grows taller than any suburbia rulebook would allow,
Dancing to the rhythm being sung by the breeze,

The pier is not sturdy, made of red weathered wood,                                                                            Some boards  run parallel to the water, while others sag, but its ok.

Placid Lake, the subject of the poem, Hayward, WI

Courtney: Ekphrastic Poem

American Gothic

 My enjoyment that day did not come through the paint,

“Would you mind if I paint your picture?”

I smiled and laughed while he painted our picture sharing stories of our farm, our life.

My pa rarely used the pitchfork,

It was weathered by Brother’s daily task of feedings.

There was talk about the mud and the heat and the plants,

Something the artist could not relate to his own life.

Upon completion the image was disheartening,

My laughter was replaced with stoic misery,

No sign of love and laughter, no stories of family or life on the farm.

To cement my betrayal, the image has become historic, heartbreakingly so.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Gothic

Courtney: Prose Poem

Newborn

Of all the babies they could have had, Ms. Big Brown Eyes came to them. She was full in size. Bundled tightly in the hospital cloth with a full head of dark brown hair. Mother, never before a mother, smiled a teary smile. When the baby hit mother’s large, swollen arms she blinked her brand new eyes slowly trying to suckle from mother’s breast. Father stood at their side and starred in baby’s eyes with a quiet, proud, smile, eyes teary like mother’s. Baby was finally there, healthy. The new parents sighed and their bodies relaxed as they finally got to see the miracle mother’s womb housed for forty long weeks.   And how beautiful their child was. More beautiful than mother could have ever asked for.  Mother blushed at the thought of new child seeing her new mother for the first time. Mother and father relaxed as they had their new child, as a family, never before a family.

Aleena: Ekphrastic Poem

A DARKENED CHURCH

The colors swirl, the greens and blues

sway in all directions.

A dark, looming church

spreads shadow across the moonlit lawn.

White buds bloom up to the edge of the dirt path 

where a peasant woman heads home 

after a day in the wheat fields.

The windows hide darkness within.

Something lurks there that the paint

does not reveal. The church’s bricks shift

and the ramshackle roof gives in to pressure. 

These also tell of a demon that sulks 

around in the gloomy corners,

waiting for someone, anyone, to enter.

Above is a photo of Vincent Van Gogh's "The Church at Auvers," on which this poem is based.

Aleena: Scaffolding Exercise

THE NIGHT MY POODLE ESCAPED IN A DARK ALLEY

She makes her eagerness to explore known, my poodle does. Not allowed to run free down the street without a leash, my poodle strains to walk faster and pulls harder than usual. But she twists, shakes her head---then slips out of her collar, bounding over the rusty metal fence at the entrance of the dark alleyway some twenty feet from where I stand. In the flickering yellow light of the street lamps, she thinks of her favorite toys, like tennis balls and frisbees, when some mangy felines---ten or a hundred, she can’t be sure---emerge from the shadows, baring their chipped teeth.

     Hissing and growling like they haven’t been fed in three days, they try to intimidate by puffing up, and my poodle, ever naive, walks toward the hoard. They break from their positions, leaping on her. They scratch her with long, razored claws and force her to the ground. Then, tails flicking, they get off and form a circle around her. Lying in the gravel, she’s still keen to instinct. When the cat in front of her turns its head for a second, she jumps up, hurdles through the barricade of felines, and sprints like lightning for the fence. When on the other side, she licks her wounds and hobbles back to her leash.

     Because I’d thought she disappeared, her whimper causes my heart to skip a beat. Tail between her legs, she can barely walk. Looks at me with guilty, hurt eyes. Shh, I say. I carry her home, clean her up in the bathtub, and prepare a pile of blankets for her to sleep on. Ever since, I walk with some fear, keeping the leash tight and check around corners, listening for the patter of paws, the awful hissing, bloodthirsty alley cats out there ready to tear my poodle away from me.

Aleena: Haiku

THE DESERT

Relentless Sunlight

The air is as still as death

No drop of water

Above is a picture of my haiku as I wrote it out in calligraphy.

Aleena: Prose Poem

THE BOTTLE CAP

A small metal disk covers the brown glass bottle, containing the pop and pressure so it will not escape prematurely. The ridges cut the hand that tries to pry it off the top. It holds fast, unwilling to let go of the bottle. But it must give way, and with a quick hiss, the cap detaches. It clinks onto the table when it is thrown down, and is subsequently disregarded by everyone.

Only to end up in a landfill, thrown on a pile of others like it or strung up with other caps to be worn around another neck.

**Listen to the mp3 audio recording here.

Barbara: Short Story

Drink

A guy walks into a bar.  God, I am such a cliché.  My life a bad joke, begun inanely, progressing stupidly.  Much like this date.  She’s thin, at least.  My only unbroken standard.  No ass, but her prosthetic breasts are perky.  She beelines it for the bathroom.  Presumably to fix her extension-enhanced, two-toned hair – like a Yorkie.  Her yapping doesn’t help dispel the image. 

Scott’s working the bar, a veritable virtuoso of his craft, his movements as practiced and coordinated as a pipe organist.  I have great respect for bartenders.  They are the purveyors of my only joy.  He saw us come in.

“What happened to Angela?  This one,” nodding towards the crapper, “looks dumber.”

 

“Went back to Philly.  Get me a whiskey.”  I settle into my stool at the corner of the long bar, its seat buffed to a shine by too many of such settlings.  I feel embraced.

“What’ve you been having so far?”  Scott’s figured me out a long time ago.

“Wine.  I need to get the taste of it off my tongue.”

He turns, pours from the ochre bottle, sets the glass on the counter.  A ceremonial rite, handed down through the ages, providing the huddling masses comfort more certain than an invisible god.

“Philly, huh?  Too bad.  I thought you actually liked her.  She was different.”  He stops wiping the counter to face me, his mien both benevolent and chiding.  “You notice your other women are all the same?  Like blow-up dolls.”

“And just as cheap to replace.”  Scott deflates at that, picks up his rag.  I pick up my whiskey.    

I didn’t want to talk about Angie.  That’s my one complaint about bartenders – they’re all frustrated psychologists.  Thinking that if only they’d had the money, they’d have gone to med school, would have their name on a mammoth desk they’d sit behind, their glasses funhouse mirrors simultaneously shielding their eyes while reflecting their patient’s expression back to them – misery twisting their faces out of recognition.  As if seeing how unhappy we are could cure us, could force us to take measures to change our lives.  They don’t understand the sweetness of despair.  They have never drunk from that forbidden cup, never known the beauty of darkness, never touched the black reaches of the soul.  One can seek refuge in misery, as an old familiar friend, who can comfort and relieve, who knows better than to promise anything, who never spouts new age crap platitudes like “everything happens for a reason.”

“No melt-downs lately, then?”  He asks, dumping stale ashtrays and returning to our safe and equally stale banter.

“Me or the sub?”

“Well, if one goes, the other can’t be far behind.”  It’s an old joke between us.  A guy walks into a bar... 

“So what’s the status?  When’s her maintenance done?”

“Another couple months at least.  Then we take her back to Charleston.  Meanwhile you’re stuck with me.”

“I’ll miss the tips.”  I’d forgotten.  My only friends are the ones I pay for.

“I haven’t seen you for a while.  You change shifts at the base?” he says, hosing a perfectly good gin with tonic for the yuppie down the bar. 

“Yep.  Four to midnight.  It’s quieter, but the ensigns are stupider.”

“Everything’s a trade-off.”

That’s the other thing about bartenders.  They’re philosophers.  Seen it all, done none of it, they’ve soaked up wisdom by observing the sots they serve.  I’d traded my usual crap-taste in women for someone real, and got burned.  Better to stick with the devil you know.

Yorkie returns, speaking of the devil, perching herself onto the stool next to me. 

“Sorry.  Wine goes right through me.  What’re you having?  Hi,” she smiles to Scott, “can I get a cosmo?” At his retreat, she turns to me, her whisper almost a hiss.  “This is the place we had to get to?  It’s a dive.”  She must be more perceptive than I thought.  “Why couldn’t we go to Rigamarole?” 

Because it was loud, crowded, and hot.  I have this thing where I sweat profusely.  Doesn’t matter where I am – I sweat in January, in the frozen aisle of the grocery store.  I’m sweating now.  Plus, the lights there would give a dead man epilepsy.  “Too far.  I hate to drink and drive.”

“You’ll be doing that anyway.  You picked me up, remember?”

Maybe not so perceptive.  “So what do you say about next weekend?”

“Why are you only asking me now,” she whines like a lapdog.  “Shouldn’t you’ve already lined up a date for your brother’s wedding?”

I subdue my reflexive bristling.  “I did.  We broke up.”  She left me.  Strung me high and burned me dry.  “Look, it’s not like you’d have to pay for anything.  I’ll get your ticket, and I’ve already booked the hotel.”  Much better, these purchased relationships.  When I was stationed in Japan I bought hookers.  A life progressing stupidly.  

“I’ll have to check my calendar.”

But I know she’ll say yes.  She’s like me.  Our scruples were discarded long ago. 

“So what’s this brother like?  Who’s the bride?”

“He’s a few years older, she’s about my age.”

“And?”

“And what? “

“Well, what does he do?”

“Last I heard, he works on an oil rig.  Seasonal.  Somewhere in the Gulf.”

“What season?”

Oh, god.  “Doesn’t matter.  Let’s talk about something else.”

“Okay.  What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

“What?”  I almost drop my drink.  I’ve lost my equilibrium.  “What kind of question is that?” 

“I read it in Cosmo.  They listed a bunch of great first date questions.  ‘How To Get To the Meat of the Man Before You Get to His Meat.'  It’s like a dating game.”

Only this isn’t a date, it’s a transaction.  “Want me to list them alphabetically?  Let’s see… Ashley, Breah, Courtney, Daph – ”

“The worst thing, not the worst lay,” she scolds.  “C’mon.” 

 “Look, I just need a date for the wedding.”

“Well, maybe I’ll go if you answer the question.”  She tries for coquettish but comes off pouting. 

“This is a stupid game.”  The worst thing I’ve done.  There’re too many to rifle through, to count, and my moral compass to rank my sins was broken years ago. 

But there’s one I do remember, one I can’t forget.  I turn to her, knowing she’s not worthy of the tale, but that makes it better.  I don’t respect her enough to care about her opinion.  I look down into my glass, swirl the amber liquid, and I tell her.

“It was my first deployment.  Four months at sea to dock in Cairo.  We came across a boat – a raft, really - two days out.  Fifteen people on a plank of wood no more than 5 feet across, maybe twice that long.  They were from somewhere in North Africa – Tunisia, maybe.  On their way to France.  Only they were stranded, already showing signs of delirium.”  I remember their faces.  I didn’t know black skin could burn like that, blisters popping red on swollen, distorted faces.  Their lips especially.  Sores oozing blood.  “But we didn’t take them on board.  The captain had a schedule.  We threw them some bottles of water.  Not enough.  We just prolonged their death.  And I didn’t say anything.  Couldn’t, really.  I was only a petty officer.  That’s what I told myself.  So we left them there.  And made it to port on time.” 

I look back up, into her staring and frightened eyes.  “That’s the worst thing I’ve done.”  And I tilt the whiskey into my parched, dry mouth.  

Breanna: Haiku

I work at the beach

I see interesting people

It is quite peaceful

The picture below is the beach I work at, called Sandy Beach.  I truly love working there.

Breanna: The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory

 The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory

The melting clocks he knows so well

in that dry desert

Disintegrate.

Water floods the plains

and Memories lost.

Faces float away

like the faces of Clocks.

Everything jumbled,

and nothing as it should be.

Even his own Face is changing,

the familiarity swimming away like a Fish.

Only small pieces are left,

of Memories

once held dear.

Breanna: Persona Poem

I stare out the window,

just like every other day.

The blues come by to give me candy.

The whites come to pick my brain.

I tell them about my friends,

like the spider in the corner,

and the ants on the window,

and the butterflies outside.

The butterflies tell me the weather;

today it is sunny and hot.

The ants tell me to leave them crumbs;

today it is hot apple pie.

The spider doesn’t say a word;

she eats my bugs, my dreams.

The spider is my sinister friend.

Below is the window I pictured in my mind while writing this.  I picture the ants as being in a long line, marching across the window sill, the spider sitting in its web in the corner, and the butterflies flitting around outside, occasionally landing on a branch near the window to "talk" to the girl.

Breanna: Research Poem

The luthier chose his wood carefully.

This was going to be a special instrument.

He cut the slabs in half and glued them together.

He took his saw and cut the shape of the instrument

with its graceful curves.

He bent the ribs around a form,

and set them aside for a later date.

He took his rasps and planes

and started to carve the wood,

creating the belly 

which resonates the sound.

He carefully cut the f-holes

making sure the nicks are perfect.

He took a new piece of wood

and carved the graceful scroll.

He glued the internal parts,

the most important parts,

to the inside of the belly.

He then glued everything together,

the scroll,

the neck,

the ribs,

the body,

and the fingerboard.

It is finally ready for varnish.

He carefully painted the varnish on;

a beautiful golden color.

Many months later,

it is on stage,

being played by today’s new prodigy.

I know this isn't an ekphrastic poem, but I couldn't help but think of this painting of Antonio Stradivari, who is arguably the grandfather of violin making.

Barbara: Persona Poem

                   Coping

“Your husband is dying.”

I cannot see it.  I can accept it.

I can function.  But when,

I think they’re lying

I am immobilized.

            To prepare myself for the end

            To start grieving, and then –

            False alarm.

            False hope.

Because as Death looms, imminent,

I am at peace.

But at its retreat, I grow rabid.

And this wickedness,

Weakness, suffocates me.

But I cannot watch him

Linger.

To return to the routine,

the tedium,

the unending parade of pills,

the gasping of the oxygen machine,

I shall go mad. 

I will.

Audio of Poem

Barbara: Prose Poem

Melancholia

I have sunk again.  To depths of despair I hadn’t known I could reach.  There were, of course, submersions before.  But always shallow.  Always short.  This plunge has proven not so easily fought.  And, I confess, I didn’t really try.  Rather, I sought it, a masochistic pleasure in this exercise of self-loathing.  I remember once feeling invincible.  Impervious to all things external.  Reading Marcus Aurelius, delving into stoicism.  And I am now so bewildered as to how that seemingly incorruptible state proved so transitory.  And I wonder if it was deliberate.  If I was so suspicious of that very security, that I sabotaged it.  I am the Queen of Self-Destruction.

Barbara: Flash Fiction

Intrusion

She shuffles into the kitchen, blinking with the morning light.  The best time of day is between five and seven.  The only two hours when no one looks at or talks to her.  When she can sit by the window in her tattered bathrobe and ancient slippers, secure in her solitude with her own pot of coffee and cigarettes.  She picks up her collection of Dorothy Parker, the first sip of Folgers savoring in her mouth, and flicks the lighter.  A floorboard creaks.  She starts, willing disbelief.  But he’s there in the doorway, blinking stupidly. 

“Good morning.”

It had been.

Barbara: Ghazal

                            Loss

The petrified door still shudders, slammed when he had gone.

The echoes of our shouting are fading now, are gone.

The music swells, heartbreaking, the melancholy song

Will end too soon, too sudden, its strains forgotten, gone.

As eastern light breaks slowly, and softly glows the dawn,

The night retreats to shadows.  The dark’s defeated.  Gone.

The sinking sun is burning, a beaten galleon
That fires its last salvo when hope of glory's gone.

I don’t remember August.  December lasts too long.

Can May's return be trusted, when memory has gone?

Old age creeps on one slowly, it settles down upon

A body frail and brittle, blood leeching, heartbeat gone.

She’s left again, heart broken, alone she can’t go on

A pistol severs silence, and Barbara’s pain is gone.

                                 

Barbara: Ekphrastic Poem

        Equestrienne

There’s something sickly in the scene

The colors gray with hues of green

And lines of red to draw the eye

Away from where the action lies.

She sits, demure, upon the back

Of horse controlled by the flicked whip’s crack

Held cruelly by the circus master

Who, sneering, steps with jutting posture

She and he two cross antagonists

As evidenced by the man’s left fist.

Thinly drawn and rapidly painted

The circus scene is somewhat tainted

As each figures’ idiosyncrasies

Are acerbically rendered by Henri’s

Penchant for verging on caricature.

Exposing the ugly in his characters

Is exhibited by the grotesque faces

Made prominent by the empty space

‘Tween man and woman, who are ignored

By the jaded jays who stand quite bored.

Sporting top hats and wearing frowns,

They watch instead the antics of clowns.

This depiction of the three-ring circus

Is typical of the painter’s fetish

For garish themes – the cabaret,

Parisian nightclubs, a whole array

Of low-brow venues which Henri

Would favor, not out of ennui,

But violent shame – embarrassment:

His child-sized legs, a deformed foot

Drove him away from high society

To seek the rooms of notoriety.

He strips away their trappings of glamour,

Revealing the truth of their chaos and clamor.

Painting by Toulouse-Lautrec  (LINK)

Barbara: Scaffolding Exercise

The Morning Dogs in Great Numbers Abducted Me

I confess it was childish, I do.  Not given time to wake up with a good cup of coffee with no creamer, just black, I resigned myself to make small talk with him, even contributing more than I normally do.  But I seethe, simmer – then hop up and leave him there, retreating to the rumpled bed of my room at the far end of the apartment near the door.  In the morning light filtered through lace curtains, I chant in-words: “inconsiderate”, “intolerable,” and “invasion of privacy,” when dogs – I don’t remember how many – stampede up the stairs– toenails scratching the floor, tails thumping the walls – and into the apartment.

Barking and whining like they’ve never been fed, they plead to go for a walk, and I, the sucker, begin to reach for my shoes as they hurdle onto the bed, slobbering me.  They lick me with their long, dripping tongues and roll me onto the floor.  Then, voices howling, they drag me down into the street.  Carried on their backs, I try to think my way out of this.  When the dogs stop to sniff a hydrant, I jump from the pack, fall to my feet, and hoof it home.  At the doorstep, I grab for the balustrade and limp up the stairs.

But my roomie locked the door after hearing the commotion, and my knocking scared him silly.  White-faced, I babble what happened.  Even I know it sounds crazy.  It’s okay, he tells me, it’s okay.  He makes me some tea, pours brandy in my glass, and settles me on the couch.  Now he’s the one simmering and seething, looking resentfully at me, looking longingly at the TV, knowing his show’s almost over, while I interrupt his morning.  

Introductions

Our group consists of Breanna, Chelsea, Aleena, Courtney and Barbara.  Each of us came to English 233 with different backgrounds, different expectations, different goals.  We'd like to give a brief description of who we are, what we've learned in this class, what we struggled with, what we enjoyed, and what we will take away with us.

Here We Go!

Hello everyone,

  This is just an idea to get us started.  I'm not quite sure how this blog works, so let's help each other out: share thoughts, suggest ideas, get talking.  I'm especially stumped on the multimedia aspect.  I think I can figure out weblinks (to our art inspirations for the ekphrastic poems), but as for video/audio recording, I need help!  Also, if anyone has pictures they'd like to post, another design for the blog they'd like, speak up - let's make this as original and unique to our group as we can.