Maymester English Class Goes to England and Scotland

by Mike Kirst

Eighteen of us, two instructors and sixteen students, banded together in May to visit Great Britain and experience firsthand the places that generated our classroom literature. We left with only theoretical knowledge and returned moved and matured. Beyond that, eighteen people can’t live so closely together for eleven days without gaining insights into ourselves and each other and forming relationships that couldn’t have been predicted.

Valley of the Shadow

Image from www.FreeDigitalPhotos.net

by Armonti Norris

As I finished brushing my teeth, I heard, “Armonti, Armonti.” My baby sister was calling my name. I rolled my eyes and continued to rinse out my mouth. Reaching to turn off the water, my ear twitched as her cry filled the house.  She ran downstairs. The house quieted. I spit into the sink. 

I tasted trouble. “Armonti.” This time the voice was deeper and stronger. I slowly stepped down the stairs as my sister ascended. Before I had a chance to speak, I heard my father’s mashed-together syllables. His face turned blood red. The veins on his neck and face pulsated. Foam began to build around his mouth while he spoke. A lot of it hit my face. The feel of the spit on my skin alone informed me that this was serious.

Ecstasy

Image from Free Digital Photos

by Melissa Rhea           

If the roads were even paved, they were full of pot holes. The place should have been condemned. The walls seemed to breathe from the number of cockroaches that lived beneath the peeling paper. Parts of the floor were sinking in, and some places were missing, like my memory. The air was laced with the smells of sweat and stale cigarettes. 

Broken Words

Photo by Sasha Wolf

by Lindsey Loppnow          

Emily and I huddled together in the back of my father and stepmother’s blue-green Dodge Caravan, clinging tightly to each other and the stained cloth seats.  Emily is my older sister; she and I, and our three half-sisters lived with my father and step-mother, and having five girls made keeping almost anything clean a miracle in its own right, especially since two of us were under the age of five. I was twelve years old. Strangely, today my father’s best friend, the pastor of our church, was with us, sitting in the middle captain chair next to a car seat filled with crushed gold fish.  He sat uneasily, shaking his leg as if he were impatient about something.  As we’d only been in the car for about eight minutes, I did not understand what he possibly could be impatient about.    

Cutting

Photo from FreeDigitalPhotos.net

by Melissa Jacobs

It’s late at night and all I can hear is my father and Lydia, my step-mother, arguing. I can’t hear their words, only the tone of their voices. I have no idea what they’re going on about, but I know one thing. It’s not about me. They mostly ignore me on the weekends I’m forced to stay over at his house. It’s the summer before my sophomore year, and nobody seems to realize the reason I moved out of this house is because of their arguments. Sitting on the floor in my room, I’m leaning up against my bed, trying to read. They continue to argue downstairs, and I hear my step-sister bring my little sister upstairs. They go to her room, and no one bothers to check if I’m alright.

Too Little, Too Late

Photo by Mantas Ruzbeltas

by Danielle Fender  

Today is the first day of fall. Well, not according to the calendar where it is still about a week away, but for me it is. You know the kind of day I mean: the evening air finally has a coolness to it that you never feel during the heat and humidity of summer; football season has started (not that I’m a big fan, mind you, but when I was growing up, it was an important time in my family, so I still link the two together). The neighborhood kids who you see playing all day in the summer are now only out a few hours between the end of the school day and dusk, which is now arriving noticeably earlier. It’s a feeling. Every year you wait for fall to arrive, but when it does, you are still surprised. It just hits you one day; summer is over.

Fast Food Bully

Photo by Idea Go

by Robert Thomas

It was a cold day, but the heat was unbearable. I was sweating, and the yellow M on my uniform was starting to turn orange. It was not a natural heat, of course. It was emitted from the metallic hulk that sat across from the assembly line. I was at my station cooking various kinds of food, if you can call it that. The smell of the grease and oil was starting to make me nauseous. I hated this job, and to make matters worse, I was working with Derrick today.

Derrick weighed over two-hundred pounds; he had eyes like sausages and he burled through the kitchen like a gorilla in a daycare camp. He had been in and out of prison since I had worked here, and he was the unofficial leader of the convict/drug dealer crowd that hung out at this establishment. He didn’t like me. He never did. And to make matters worse, I had just won employee of the month. This was the last straw for him. 

Rite of Passage

Photo by Getideaka

By Terri Sullivan


There is no right answer to this question!  It must be a trap!


My mom had just walked in through the garage door of our well-appointed four level split level house.  She’d set her briefcase and her purse on the dining room table, kicked off her pumps that matched her outfit and asked me if I wanted to join her for an end-of-a-long-week cocktail.


This was odd on SO many levels.  My mom rarely drank, and then usually only at parties.  My dad’s father died of complications due to alcoholism, so he wasn’t much of a drinker, either, except socially.  I couldn’t recall either of my parents just sitting down to drinks at home.


She walked over to the standing bar that matched her monstrous Black Forest dining room set that seated 12 (with both of the leaves put in.)  She unlocked and opened the front door that tips out flat to become the “bar.”  She took a couple of chimney glasses out of the bar and into the kitchen and filled them with ice.  I stayed firmly planted where I was:  In the “formal” living room in a wing-backed rocker reading whatever was my favorite fantasy author at that time.  It was something by probably Piers Anthony in 1977.

Battle Against Addiction

Photo by gameanna

by Chloe West

I sat silently on the front stoop at my old house. I usually don’t even call it mine because I had really only lived there for a few months. Slowly, I lifted my cigarette up to my lips and inhaled. I watched almost cross-eyed as the smoke floated out of my mouth and into the night air. It was warm outside, and whether I was just on my porch, outside a restaurant, at a park, or hanging out with friends, I enjoyed just sitting and letting the smoke fill my lungs.           

My Christmas

Photo by David Castillio Dominici

by Tom Stearns

Kasey, Kelly, Robin, Chip and I clicked like new deer off the front porch and into our too, too small home on Betty Sue Terrace. This year was my Christmas. I checked and re-checked the dates. This year was certainly my year. I hadn’t forgotten. And intermittently throughout the year, I reminded the governing body of our family, as well as its constituents, that this was my year to get the big Christmas (a tradition in our family whereby each year a child is singled from the five to receive the lion’s share of gifts from Santa). At eight and a half, I knew Mom and Dad were working the levers and whistles behind Santa’s curtain, but they both seemed distracted from the profound importance of my coming day. And so I reminded them.  

Civil Rights Tour 2011

Photo from TTC Tour

By Glendalys De Jesus

The Civil Rights Tour to Alabama, Tennessee and Georgia was an incredible experience. I feel so fortunate to have been able to be a part of it. I honestly have no idea where to begin because there is just so much that I can share. The way I felt while on the trip and how I feel after, is hard to put into a few words. The places we went to and the people we encountered have honestly changed something within me.


I was one of eight TTC students who toured important civil rights sites throughout the South. I traveled with Julia Gibbs, Marilyn Gibbs, Samuel Iquinto, Porsha Little, Shardonne’ Simpson, Crystal Williams and Akeem Young. We visited Tuskegee, Montgomery, Selma and Birmingham, Alabama, as well as Memphis, Tennessee and Atlanta, Georgia. Regina Smart and Vince Ashby of Palmer Campus organized the tour.

Pseudo Man

Photo by Dan

By Lisa Kight  

As I near the Old Toomsboro Road turn, my heart races. I can’t believe how pathetic I am, to think I would grovel to that spineless jerk sickens me.  All I can think about is the letter. What was I thinking? I can hardly believe the words I wrote: “The only way you will know how fantastic I am is by dating me, that way you will see what a fool you are.”  I could puke at my weakness; I want to slap my own face for being such a sniveling coward. I pass the old mill, the farm with the daffodils; I can see the sign ahead. One last turn, and I will be there.  I feel nauseous, but I have to retrieve the letter from his mailbox before he reads it. The humiliation is more than I can endure. I refuse to be this tragic!  I will see him in hell first, before I allow him to use me for another moment.

Free Falling

Photo by Gruar Razvan

by Theo LeGree


While walking to introduce myself to the two referees of the fight, I could stop thinking of how I was going to win this battle. Unlike normal referees, these did not wear black and white striped shirts nor did they have a whistle--just a plane, parachute and safety goggles.


The jet engines started signaling the round had just begun, 5,000 feet in the air and increasingly higher, just to jump. The sky seemed so blue that day. No people, at least from what I could see. Birds were no longer visible, just green and blue were below in my vision.  As time passed, I felt my heart fluttering with the rhythm of the jet engines. In no time, I could envision myself free falling, soaring like a bird, and giving that bully the beatdown that he really deserves. This would never be possible if I didn’t get this fear out of my throat and spit it out.