Take Off
Creative Writing by Hungarian Students
Published by Smashwords
Edited by József Horváth
Collection copyright 2010 József Horváth
Scripts copyright 2010 The Contributors
Cover image copyright 2010 Tibor Zoltán Dányi
The blog companion of this book is available at http://take-o-f-f.blogspot.com
See the podcast companion at http://jozsefhor.podomatic.com
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Acknowledgments
The following students have contributed to this creative writing anthology, most of whom took my Academic and Creative Writing course at the University of Pécs in 2007: Gergely Farkas, Gabriella Ferenc, Mariann Gerlecz, Diána Göncz, Zsófia Gyenge, Tamás Horváth, Nikolett Kovács, György Kõszegi, Kinga Kurucz, Zsófia Liska, Rita Nyulas, Ágnes Stier, Dániel Takács, Tímea Takács, Zoltán Takács, Tekla Teveli, Anna Tóth, Orsolya Tukács, Mónika Ürmösi, Viola Zöldy, and Eszter Zsélyi.
Table of Contents
Still There by Dániel Takács
Night by Eszter Zsélyi
Ikebana: Traditional Art in a Modern Way by Tímea Takács
My Little Ways by Anna Tóth
To Become a Child Again by Ágnes Stier
It’s Really Worth It by Orsolya Tukács
Alright by Diána Göncz
Rain on the Windshield by Zsófia Gyenge
A Syllabus by Rita Nyulas
I Hate Mornings by Viola Zöldy
The Woman I Only Knew by Her Voice by Gergely Farkas
First Lines by Kinga Kurucz
As If by Mónika Ürmösi
Searching For by Mariann Gerlecz
Thirteen First Sentences by Dániel Takács
The Pine Tree by Tamás Horváth
Runaway Dreams by Gabriella Ferencz
Time Flies by Zoltán Takács
Shrinking Five Weeks by Tekla Teveli
Quite Right by Nikolett Kovács
Of Mice and Tiger by Zsófia Liska
Y’all Ain’t Gonna Jibe at My English by Dániel Takács
Still There by Dániel Takács
I could hardly lug my suitcase by the time I arrived in Cambridge. A stranger shoved it into the overhead compartment on the train.
Another series of dragging and I arrived at the house. When I reached the landing at the top of the staircase and looked left, heartache washed over me: The glass of water she had drunk from four days before still lingered on the shelf above her bed, half-empty; but she was elsewhere, 1200 miles away. I went downstairs to the kitchen, where I found the spaghetti we had left in a saucepan still on the counter – but moldy.
Ten minutes’ walk away from the half-empty glass and the moldy spaghetti loomed the residential home for the homeless. Its door had a combination lock (the residents could have lost their keys while hammered or stoned). When I entered, I smelled a mixture of stale air, the stench of stir-fry, and all sorts of other fries. Years of baking and frying had blackened the oven on the inside, and the deposit of pies had made the baking sheets greasy. On my single try to bake a ready-to-bake steak and kidney pie, the smoke billowing out of the oven set off the fire alarm – a resident silenced it with the end of a broomstick.
All this happened in June 2006, and The World Cup was in full swing – too bad it had always left me cold. The song Come on England was blaring from every shop and every pub. Had I been a fan, I would have bought an England Home or an England Away World Cup shirt. But I was only window-shopping, with CCTV cameras following my steps wherever I went: I was watched in the shopping mall, on the alley, even on a path in the park.
However, I was watching, too: TV. After a few doses of BBC, Channel 4, and ITV, I learned that most daytime TV programs covered interior design: how to do up your home quick and cheap. The host dropped in on a lady and brought along Mr. Fixit – and surprise, surprise, the viewers witnessed stunning makeovers in seconds.
The rest of the programs were talk shows – one about a pre-teen boy who had been drinking booze, smoking pot, and terrorizing his mother for the previous couple of years. There, in the studio, his mother lost it and started sobbing when he called her a whore.
I left the TV to take a walk. Roaming down a street, I stared into basement kitchens. Farther down, as I was meandering through Jesus Green, I glared at the heaps of garbage from previous night’s picnics propped to garbage cans, thrown-away sausages and chicken breasts on disposable grill pans, and empty Carlsberg beer cans scattered on the lawn.
After passing the bollards and entering the car-free zone, I heard a drunk yelling at his invisible mate. On the next street, two hotties strolled into one of the posh restaurants past a bum lying at the entrance.
Terraced houses had looked awesome in Project English. In reality, they looked drab. The bare grey brick walls were dotted only by black bin liners bulging with trash.
I’m still walking there.
Night by Eszter Zsélyi
As I enter the building I’m not sure what I came for. The noises are ordinary, and I'm quite all right. But only quite. I would have done this a long time ago if it hadn’t been for my fear of being caught by somebody who could use it against me later. But now this problem is completely and totally solved, for good, and, left with nothing to hold me back, I go straight into the room.
I simply give the door a kick, and it opens. Finding the courage to enter is much more difficult. I take a deep breath, and send a shot of Smirnoff down my throat, then repeat. And again. I go in. It hasn’t changed since that night, not one single bit. In fact, it appears to have been left intact for the whole two years that have passed since. My memories, despite the short time through which I should have kept them, are rather hazy. Fragments only. Slashes of a movie I should know by heart, and indeed I do, it’s just that some yet unthinkable thing does not let me fill in the gaps between them. It’s like a director giving orders to the crew. Us. Cut. Them. Cut. It turns out. Cut. We collapse. Cut. Them, too. Cut. Hopeless night. Cut. Terrible end. Cut.
I sit down on the armchair. It still has a patch that I made with wine and was glad they didn’t find it out, and I didn’t tell them, of course. Telling the others the facts, that's what caused the whole disaster. Given the choice though, I’d probably do the same. What was before wasn’t better than what we have now – in fact, despite the disaster and all the side effects, what emerged is a clearer, lighter state of being. And I couldn’t turn my back against it. And I wouldn’t. No way.
So, here I am. It’s awful. It’s always been, of course. Did it happen at all, or was it just a play of my imagination? But everything is still here: the mirror, the bottle, the gramophone. And the picture. It hasn’t been touched since: it’s still in that awkward angle he had put it before starting to talk. Never a loud word before, but then, he showed what anger was. It was, in a way, reassuring to know that no one was telling the complete truth about himself, not until he was forced to. Michael, I will give it to him, didn't leave his manners behind – elegance mixed with rudeness – when he faced the inevitable. I wished I had paid more attention to him before: he seemed a really complex person to observe, but after that night he disappeared.
After taking another two shots I’m in the other room. I pull out the third drawer of the writing table, take the key and go to the bed, move it and take out the box. I open it. Inside, there are some photos and the letter. I read it, for about the hundredth time. She really should have told me. It’s time to go back before they notice I’m gone.
Good. I’m back. Back to my room, to my anger, to my plans. I have the letter with me: I won’t go back there again. If only I could see their faces when they find out, but that would be impossible, well, possible, but for a price way too high to pay.
I get dressed, give a glance to the mirror, and step out. It’s been exactly two years. Seven hundred and thirty long days. But no more.
Ikebana: Traditional Art in a Modern Way by Tímea Takács
Ikebana, Japanese flower arrangement, has for centuries provided an art form for people admiring the beauty of nature. Originally practiced by Buddhist monks, it had a strong religious attachment. Strict rules, forbidding any individual artistic innovation, dictated everything from the choice of material to the tiniest details of the arrangements. The most important rule of the composition, surviving to this date, is the special role played by three symbolic elements in the arrangement, representing heaven, earth and man. Heaven is usually the longest and most beautiful branch. Earth is the shortest one and is usually represented by a flower. Man is somewhere in between, both in size and quality.
During the long history of ikebana, several individual schools have evolved. All of them, except one, adhere to a system of strict rules. The exception is the school called Sogetsu – which aims to bring out the individuality of each arranger. This school is very much like contemporary art, especially sculpting. Besides showing the artist’s emotions, the arrangements also emphasize the character, the essence of the living material used for the composition.
Normally, when plants are used for decoration, the emphasis is on the flowers. In ikebana, any part of the plant can be the focus of attention: an unusually shaped branch, an interesting texture of a leave, or even a character of the empty space between the branches. According to what the emphasis is laid on, several styles can be distinguished within a school of ikebana.
The space around the container, including the surface of the table or floor where the arrangement is placed, is an extension of the arrangement. In this style the material is not confined merely to the container – it also captures the space outside. For this type of arrangement flowers with long stems (anthurium or hydrangea) and flowering branches (forsythia) are excellent choices. They are placed in the container in a way that they reach well out into the surrounding space. The arrangement conveys more drama and strength if the materials hanging out of the vase do not touch the ground. The narrow space between the tip of the branches or flowers and the ground creates tension and gives the impression of power.
Naturally curved branches are excellent for this arrangement. It is, however, not easy for the beginner to spot the best branches: one has to develop a sense of shape to find them. Curved lines create a sense of movement, melody and grace. This style also gives an opportunity to practice the technique of bending branches. This seemingly simple task requires great concentration and a balanced state of mind. It is very easy to break a branch or bend too far. The ikebana artist can create a well-balanced, harmonious arrangement by using a container with a gently curving shape, which is mirrored by the lines of the branches. Willow branches are particularly well-suited to this style. When making this arrangement, the longest and most beautiful branch is placed first into the shallow container. The other, shorter branches, curving in different directions, are placed around the main branch to create space and a rhythm.
Straight lines are usually associated with strict order and rigidity. Many flowers, like iris and gladiolus, have beautiful long straight leaves that usually do not get any attention because the attractive colorful flowers steal the show. The artist can focus on these leaves and emphasize them by special arrangements. She can fold and shape the leaves into triangular or even zig-zaggy forms for special effects. By doing this, she also introduces an element of movement to the originally rigid lines. With a network of angular lines, she can produce a special atmosphere.
These three examples show that it is important that the ikebana artist present plants in a way different from how they occur in nature. The two elements making ikebana what it is are the hidden beauty of plants not seen in their natural state and artistic creativity that brings out this beauty, just as a sculptor brings the hidden form out of the raw block of stone.
My Little Ways by Anna Tóth
It was gray and rainy for some time, but I felt quite happy all the same. I finally set myself to work, progressed slowly but surely and I was very pleased with this newly found diligence of mine. I spent most of my afternoons sitting at my desk, wrapped in grandma’s large and thick Berliner shawl, reading, taking notes, and sipping the hot mug of strawberry tea that mamma prepared for me. (Sometimes she even made some brownies to go with that and presented them on a tray.) At the end of each day I felt exhausted but content, knowing that if I put some effort into studying, I would succeed.
I could also only rejoice in the fruitful development of my relationship with Le Cram. As the days passed, our conversations became deeper and warmer, and I often wondered how I could survive the three years of resentment and the lack of his company. Now the rows of the past seemed such a trifling business and our separation ghastly idiotic. In some tearful moments, I regretted the wasted years dearly.
He cheered me up and made me laugh, and sometimes he made me angry, but Le Cram was always Le Cram. I think that was what mattered. I was beginning to get used to talking to him daily, drinking coffee together every now and then, texting pointless messages to him in the middle of a tedious class. And, compared with the last months of crisis, it was heaven.
Everything was going back to normal. Not only did I hope to get my professional life back on track, but, with Le Cram around, I was also looking forward to the prospect of finally getting through to him. So I started to feel at ease and enjoyed the calmness that filled my days. But as pleased as I was with the present state of affairs, I knew something was going to happen to change it. Of course I was proven to be right.
To Become a Child Again by Ágnes Stier
Yesterday I did something I hadn’t done for years. It was an almost spontaneous decision. I should have done much more important things, but it was worth the time and the panic about my exams afterwards, because I’ve realized that there are things in life I should never forget. I should always have time for a friend, a good chat and a good laugh.
I visited the Bóbita Puppet Theatre in Pécs. I know, I am already a “serious adult,” but the puppet theatre is not just for children. The title of the show was “When I Was A Little Girl”. One of my friends had won two tickets, and she asked me if I had time to join her. I’m a theatre freak – for me there is no difference between the national theatre and the puppet theatre I said okay.
But the evening was windy and cold. I didn’t feel like going anywhere. Also, my head was full of tasks, duties and exams. Maybe I'd better stay at home. Oh, come on, I said to myself, you promised it already.
After we entered the building, the cold and worry simply disappeared, and not just because the heating was on. This warmth appeared in our hearts. The whole building had some decent Christmas decoration, the walls painted in style. And the children, all clattering and holding their parents’ hands, waiting for something special. They were so cute, so energetic.
Before the performance started, jazzy music filled the air. We sat down on our chairs and were watching the children on the benches and pillows. They were vibrating. I did hear a boy saying, ‘Mum, I want to go home!’ But then the lights went off and the miracle began. It was a story played by two adults and various puppets. It was colorful, funny and peaceful. In about half a minute I became a naive and innocent child again. After hearing the jolly laugh of the kids and seeing them clapping wildly, I felt I never want to grow up and go back to my adult problems.
It’s Really Worth It by Orsolya Tukács
Have you ever experienced the last minute before a performance starts? If yes, then you know a most magical moment: the moment of waiting, when you are full of excitement, joy, and hope, because you know that from the next minute you'll forget about yourself and become somebody else. You find yourself in another world and experience something new.
When the curtain rises and you stand on the stage illuminated by the floodlights, you forget everything else. You forget about the pain in your body and in your soul because you begin to live somebody else’s life and feel somebody else’s pains and joys. In this enchanting moment you feel it is worth the fight with other actresses for the roles and the humiliation that you sometimes have to endure from the director.
Then and there, with the help of the scenery and the lights, you forget about reality and arrive in a new world. You live through the emotions of the characters that you bring to life. After the performance, they calm down. If you are open enough for them, you can experience the widest scale of emotions without fear. They will even help you cope with your real problems. How? A really good tragedy always causes catharsis, giving a sense of relief. By living them through on the stage, you are absolved from your pains and your problems. And the most enchanting moment is when you can feel the audience as they live through the same feelings as you. While you solve your problems, you also show solutions and give catharsis for them.
In a comedy it’s even simpler: everything is full of joy. The joy and laughter of the audience gives you a sense of contentment: nothing could be better, everything is OK. You feel the audience. You can’t see their faces in the darkness, but you hear their voices, and you feel their emotions. You become one with them, and when at the end they clap, your heart is full of joy and happiness, because you feel their love.
Alright by Diána Göncz
Push the button. Push the button. Push the button. Push. Push. Push… The button.
‘One-sided or double?’
‘Double, please.’
‘Alright.’
‘Here you are. Until page 89, please.’
‘Alright. How many copies?’
‘Only one, thanks.’
The COPY button flashes green. The machinery is warming up. The button is pushed. The green light is creeping on the glass back and forth. Once more. Back and forth. Get blind by staring at the light-line. The ‘Reflections on Miller’s Salesman’ is being copied.
The confusions and dreams of a single individual on the verge of psychological collapse were made to embody the collapse of the national myths of personal transformation and social possibility.
The confusions and dreams of a single individual on the verge of psychological collapse were made to embody the collapse of the national myths of personal transformation and social possibility.
Copy. Copy. Copy. Page 87. ‘COPY’ button. Back and forth. Get blind. 89. ‘COPY’. Back. Forth. Blind.
‘Ready.’
‘OK, thanks. This would be the next one. Double-sided, the whole text. And… yeah… again only one copy.’
‘That’s alright.’
‘From Self-Reflexivity to Fractalization’.
Copy. The machine cannot wait to copy. Devours one page after the other. Doesn’t chew. Doesn’t digest. Devours.
Word. Copy. Word. Word. Copy. Word. Word. Copy. Word.
Suddenly, I push the panic button. ‘Where am I?’
‘In the library.’
‘No, no… Where AM I?’
‘In the library room, in the faculty library.’
‘No, you don’t get it. Where AM I?’
I’m gazing at my xeroxed sheets. Wait! All my photocopies have disappeared. Where is the ‘Reflections on Miller’s Salesman’? Cannot make it out. And… where is the fract-whatever-ization article? But… hey… wait! What’s this? I have not seen this paper before.
Rain on the Windshield by Zsófia Gyenge
I woke up late this morning, as usual. I had no clean clothes and the fridge was next to bare. Traffic was heavy as I sped to work. Some jerk cut me off and I almost had a wreck. At work I went to my desk and there was a note to go and see the boss. I waited outside for a while before she called me in. I couldn't figure out why she wanted to see me. I went inside and sat down.
My boss handed me an envelope. She told me that my services were no longer needed and that I was free to go. I got my belongings from my desk and left.
The drive home was quick. Keeping my eyes open and following the curves of the road were just involuntary physical reactions.
I’ve spent 8760 mornings and afternoons on this never-ending snake of asphalt, twenty-four years of my life, driving to work, coming home. Half my life, back and forth, on the road – driving, working, driving. The raindrops hit the windshield harder and harder. As a response, my automatic windshield wipers were more and more eager to rub them away. How easy it is! Getting rid of things, things that are disagreeable and not needed anymore, like the raindrops on the windshield, like me. I've feared that one day I'd get what I deserve or what I've done to others.
Poor Joana! She was 23. For me she is still 23. I haven't seen her since that day. The day I told her that I didn't love her anymore, and, more precisely, that I had never loved her. She was free to go. She was not needed. Now I'm the one who's not needed. I knew very well that a day like this would come once. I've always had a big ego and thought that a refusal would shock me and turn my life upside down. And honestly, I expected suicidal thoughts and complete desperation – instead, I met resignation.
The tiny brown spot growing out from nowhere was getting bigger and bigger every minute, and slowly, it was gaining shape and meaning: the door of my garage. My home. I am now unemployed.
A Syllabus by Rita Nyulas
ACADEMIC AND CREATIVE DINING
2006/2007 Spring semester
Instructor: Monsieur Jean-Jacques Hors d’Oeuvres
Meetings: Monday 6 pm
Place: canteen of the University of Pécs
Credit: two stars
Code: EAT 106
Canteen hours: Mondays 4 pm-5 pm
Description
The aim of the course is to introduce students to the culinary art of leftovers. Students are encouraged to experience dinner making, using the leftovers from lunch at the canteen on the given days. Throughout the course students will acquire a better understanding of creative cooking.
Requirements
Students are required to come up with an imaginative yet tasteful creation for every session. At the end of the course students are asked to hand in a seminar paper of 2000 words. Papers should be written in an academic style. Citations and Works Cited should follow MLA style. Topics will be given later. Students are allowed to miss two classes.
General introduction to the canteen. Equipment. Safety issues
Beef: Do’s and don'ts
Chicken: Truth or dare
Pork: Head or tail
Visiting a slaughterhouse
Visiting those in hospital, if required. If not, time to be a vegetarian.
Food, glorious food: Famous starvelings in literature
That was excellent! The myth and the reality
Dieting: The art of saving
Holiday: Surviving on tins
Evaluation
Readings
Grill, Sándor. Titkok és mócsingok. Budapest: Eötvös UP, 2005.
Hors d’Oeuvres, Jean-Jacques. Cooking á la francais. Paris: Noir Publicité, 2000.
Oliver, Jamie. The Naked Chef. London: Collins, 1999.
Schobert, Norbert. A Norbi titok. Debrecen: Norbi Wellness és Média, 2004.
I Hate Mornings by Viola Zöldy
It’s seven in the morning. The alarm has been screaming two inches from my ears for what seems like centuries. I’m still drifting in and out of sleep. I hate getting up. I hate school. I hate my family. Especially my mom, who comes in for the third time trying to talk me into getting up. I get up.
Going to school. I have been riding the same bus for over seven years. Not the exact same bus, but the same stop every morning anyway. I hate it. The sleepy crowd I can almost recognize, dozing, waiting for the day to start on its own. The sun isn’t even up yet. Crazy. I think about the classes I’ll have today. It’s not very exciting. I don’t study much and still get good grades in the classes I like. Or – occasionally – even in the ones I don’t like. I don’t understand it. Sometimes I’m embarrassed and don’t show my tests to my classmates.
I don’t know where I’ll go to college. I don’t even know if I want to. I like being irresponsible, and college is the first step to becoming a grownup. I want to go to the US for a year in high school, but now I’m too old to do that. Maybe I’ll be a doctor. Or something else.
I apply to Medical School and American Studies. Fail at both exams. Now I’m free to do whatever I like. I help at home. I hang out with friends, friends that all go to college now. I do tons of stuff with Campus Crusade. I fall in love. I fall apart. I fall in love again.
I apply to American Studies twice more – fail both times. This can’t be true. I go abroad, work, and run home as if the devil is chasing me. My friends seem to all have grown up – working, moving away, getting married. I apply to several colleges this time. I am ready to change.
It is seven in the morning. The alarm screams in my ear. I put it on snooze. Just two more minutes. I need my coffee in the morning, to start functioning. I work. At least, I get money for what I do in the daytime. I get up, pack my things, run to catch the bus. Same stop, different destination. I am going to school, but this time I take the train. I take my work with me to the train. I think about the classes I’ll have this week. I don’t know what I’ll be doing in the next six years. But maybe it’s all for the better.
The Woman I Only Knew by Her Voice by Gergely Farkas
The sun must have been well over its zenith when I picked up the phone and dialled one of the familiar numbers I had befriended at high school. At the other end of the line the well known voice answered the call. As if veiled by hundreds of miles, it would vibrate in a very low tone.
I still can recollect when I first rang this number. The voice I could not identify with a hundred percent certainty, but I could acquaint the speech-tune with that of a lady’s. And it was a decent voice that kindly asked who I wished to talk to. I said that it was Vic, my friend. The voice – as I found shortly after the receiver was handed over to my pal – was his mom’s.
In the next eight years I met her only three times through the waves of air just like in the hour of that first call. It was a hot afternoon in the summer of 2001. I’d just received a letter from one of the universities in Budapest saying that from September on they would like to have me in the circles of their fellows.
I was moonwalking ever since I tore the envelope open, eager to know what all the significant others were up to from the coming semester. Most of us moved town to face the onset of a new way of life, about to let go of our parents’ hands and roam off into the terrain of new challenges. I must admit that there was a considerable load of jitters inside me, but the potion of pride and curiosity I had stodged up and broke loose that summer made me feel much better for it.
Vic came over and said he was looking forward to starting in Debrecen as a Hungarian major. He would later graduate as an actor.
A couple of months ago I heard that Vic’s granny died after long suffering. There were a great many people at the funeral. I found a shade under an old oak tree a few yards away from the grave. I never liked to be standing in the throng. Vic hung his head in mourning woe, one hand placed gently over a woman’s shoulder. His mother, I thought. I let my eyes roll over her and adjusted the sight to the voice I’d heard.
Hardly was Vic’s grandma given back to God when I understood that his mom was dying as well. She had cancer. The medicine the doctors had given to her seemed to have been impotent against the voracious cells.
I saw the little casket that contained her cremated earthly bounds, and as it was being laid into the hearse I heard her faint voice ringing in my ears. I could not help but think of our teenage years, our graduation and all the things we’d reached and the goals we’d achieved. And I don’t know if it is true for everyone, but a burial, a sad event as it is, gives me trembling energy to re-assess my relationships.
The casket was hauled away in the trail of the incense, accompanied by gospels. I felt thunderstruck to realize that I’d never met Vic’s mom. Walking slowly after the long queue of the bereaved with a stem of rose in my hand, I gave out a silent cry.
First Lines by Kinga Kurucz
An open book was resting beside the bed.
The wind brought fresh sand from the desert and laid it down on the shore.
As Sam opened the window, he felt the breeze of an old dream climbing up his cheek.
The bell rang, and she knew a new myth had come to her doorstep.
You are standing on the sidewalk in the middle of 27th Street, with your back to an old Chinese grocery, wondering why the lady living on the fourth floor in the opposite block can’t stop feeding the pigeons that turn the street a hell on earth.
“Don’t,” he shouted.
So you’ve decided to read this book.
It was one of those days when you couldn’t help doing nothing at all.
Yikes.
Ever wondered why the English have toast and orange juice for breakfast?
Every taste has a color, and every color, a taste.
After he woke up, Jonathan ran down the stairs, out into the streets and shouted “Merry Christmas” all along to everyone he met.
And this is where the story begins.
As If by Mónika Ürmösi
I am now unemployed. What to do? I have no idea. I cannot think about the future at the moment. I am thirty. I go to the kitchen, open the fridge, but I don’t find anything to drink. It would be necessary to go shopping but now I feel tired, very tired. I am sitting and gazing at the wall, wrapped in thought. I have already wanted to find a new job. I didn’t like this one. I ought to be happy, but I can’t. I repeat to myself, don’t worry! Be happy! You are free to do what you want. You needn’t get up early in the morning, see every day the sour face of your boss and listen to your colleagues’ personal laments. You can go anywhere or stay at home, watching TV or reading all day. I want to persuade myself to be lazy, but I feel I am a loser. I lie down on the bed, close my eyes and try to sleep. I would like to forget this horrible day and to wake as if nothing had happened.
End-Term-Tainment, or Santa Comes to Fill Your Socks: A Review of Pre-Exam Period Exam Periods by György Kõszegi
As a child I always found great pleasure in winter. It was the season of great expectations, the time when Santa came along, squeezed himself through narrow chimneys, sparing neither trouble nor pains to bring along some of the terrific gifts that largely affected a would-be English major’s cognitive and emotional development. I didn’t have the faintest idea what would await me. I was fond of snowmen and sledging. There were snowy winters. Really. When the bell rang, I knew it was some friends who dropped in to ask whether I would go out with them. Recently I haven’t been invited. Those days are over, you know. New days, new Santas.
I don’t look forward to winter anymore. Attitudes and motivations keep changing. The season of Christmas, Santa and sledging is replaced by that of the fall semester exam periods. It is the normal way things go, if disappointing. What’s good news is that some traditions of the good old days are still alive and kicking. English majors at Pécs University did not have to repel all the remains of Santa from their memory. You can have your own gifts every semester, twice a year, as not all Santas got extinct! A subspecies, Professor Santa, has survived and, having enough of the harsh Scandinavian conditions and climate, migrated to the regions of Central Europe.
Quite a few specimens may be found at the Department of English Cultural and Literary Studies at the University of Pécs. As fewer and fewer have wished to train as Professors Santa, the guild has also admitted women. And it’s nice. Their sacks, which the Founding Fathers brought along from the North and shared with their disciples, are full of genuine traditional presents for students: syllabi.
Should you not be sure about what the term means, conveys, denotes, I try to give a definition. Syllabi are packs of educational programmes designed by these supernatural beings, serving students’ needs and a final purpose: end-term-tainment. To some extent they are like a TV programme, with only one slight difference: you cannot switch to another channel. No, no, no. But why do that? You should be glad to have the opportunity to get closer to your childhood’s Great Expectations with an Oliver twist.
Several readings of primary and secondary importance – essay tasks, reviews, oral and written exams – lie ahead like a vast sea in a video game. If you happen to have your guardian over your head, you may as well see The Lighthouse and step on dry land without getting wet. It will turn out sooner or later. You have four years to reach the other shore. William Fog had forty days to go round the earth. The problem is that after five years, you will be considered a pirate and be fined: you have to pay a decent sum to the Treasury. Don’t panic, you have ample time.
I know… of course, I know some… no, just one… one bold sailor who has managed to do it. At Pécs University regular end-term-tainment takes place in May and December. In these two months the tide is high, the sea stormy. At the apex of the season there is a Tempest and you have to hold out.
The word 'end-term-tainment’ derives from the English expressions 'end-of-term’ and ’entertainment’, making up a lexical compound. End-ter-tainment is common practice at language faculties throughout Hungary and Europe. It marks a contest with several entrants. In round one, it’s completely free. All you need is plenty of time to write up the essays and read books, immense luck and some mind-reading ability.
The latter is of primary importance as many professors do not provide you with accurate, clear exam questions. A number of students have developed rather negative attitudes towards the event. They claim to have their reasons. I, too, belong to that group. “The sooner the better,” teachers believe. For them, obviously. It’s much more comfortable to schedule exams as final tests to the last week of the semester than announcing them in the exam period. I am not sure whether it is a fair policy. And each one behaves as if their subject was the only one, of course. It’s not the idea that’s problematic – rather, its realization. In exam seasons, throughout the eight semesters, most English majors scarcely do anything – only some literature and complex exams. Your only chance to endure it all is that you, too, become a supernatural hero for the last two weeks of term – when the Tempest is to break out.
In September and October, you diligently read the books assigned. In November, you realize that you are not a superman and it won’t work out. You give up and choose other tactics: connect to the internet, download some primary readings in summaries and try to memorize the plots, plus as much data as you can. It may prove useful any time – playing in the popular quiz show 'Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,' for instance. When end-term-tainment comes, you write out yourself. It’s just like Freudian psychoanalysis. You know twenty-seven thousand, three hundred and twenty-six (or is that seven?) pages for the last week – for two days, maybe three.
Is that what you wanted? Sure thing, you chose it. You wanted to become a teacher of English and you still want to. You are headstrong and desperate. Thus giving up your views you decide to drift further with the main stream.
Searching For by Mariann Gerlecz
I walk through the gardens of dying light and cross over rivers deep and dark as the night searching for reasons why time passes by (From “The Path” by HIM)
I don’t know where I’m going and why, but I’m sure I have to go. Something urges me from the inside – I have not a moment of rest and peace. Who knows the path we have to walk? Who knows our destination? We just walk on and on without a word of explanation. We’re thrown into this world and left alone like in a cruel game. And we just walk. And what if we never find our way home? Who knows where our home is?
I can't hold on long. The volcano inside is about to explode again. I was all right so far that I tried to keep the demons of darkness away from me, but now I cannot hold them back anymore. Clouds of storm are gathering over me, and soon they will suffocate me again. I cannot hold back pain anymore, and I feel that soon my wanderings start over again. And I know I won’t find anything.
I hate time. I hate that it’s pouring out of my hands, unstoppable. A thousand lives wouldn’t be enough to enjoy everything I long for. There are so many precious moments that we go by without the slightest recognition of them, but we just simply.... Shame on us.
Surely there’s a conception in all of this, but I guess people are not designed for knowing the reasons and the answers. We are too small to step into the hall of knowledge, but here I am, trying my best, so let’s go: let’s start the journey towards the unknown.
Thirteen First Sentences by Dániel Takács
It started with the elephant sitting down and crushing the hood of my car.
I switched on the TV and read the headline I knew I would never forget.
We set out at dusk.
Zoom in.
The freshest taste ever: the new chewing gum has arrived.
“Shot the door and slump in the sofa,” she said.
The tires whirled up the dust, but the engine stalled.
Now, I’m before it.
I’ve been planning this for some time now.
The moment you insert your debit card into an ATM you engage in a procedure of trust.
The accused started shaking when the judge read out the verdict.
The soldiers disobeyed the command.
Serendipity.
The Pine Tree by Tamás Horváth
The first man we had got acquainted with when we moved to our present home was Jani. He had a grocery store on the ground floor of our block of flats. He was known by everyone in the neighborhood. He said hello to my mom and mentioned his store just to make sure we knew about it. He gave us a lot of favors like when he sold me a bed with a writing table and a bookcase at a low price. We became fellows, and I had always wanted to give him back those things.
The time came last summer. His trailer was damaged by a pine tree that tumbled down onto his caravan’s front tent in Resnik, Croatia. The vehicle was to be hired out to Jani’s friends and their families who rotated the weekly ownership through the season in the auto camp. It was his business in the summer, so he had to repair it quick. He asked me to go and help him during the work. I said OK, and we made it better than it was before the accident.
But it was not the only reason why I went to the Riviera Castella; I had another job to do there also. Jani wanted to find a better place for his caravan, but he also wanted to ask some questions from the receptionists about things like camp facilities and contract details. Surprise, surprise: I was the one who translated those bits about the camps we went to and felt glad to speak English with someone who had another mother tongue. And, of course, I had a really good time at the seaside.
A few days after we came home, on a Saturday afternoon, just arriving from a party, Jani asked me to go down to his grocery to discuss something important. He told me that he had been surfing on the Internet and found a smart website advertising an auto camp with the best rating. He asked me to call their office in Croatia and jot down the answers to his questions about fees, sites, free-time activities and things like that. I was unprepared, but I made the call. The woman on the other end of the line sounded just like a native speaker of English. I got nervous as I could not understand some bits of what she said. I felt sick and wanted to finish it all in the shortest time possible. The worst thing was that I could not tell her all I wanted to because I became angry with myself and started to stutter. I think I will never forget it.
Runaway Dreams by Gabriella Ferencz
It was an ordinary day, full of stress and fear. I had a permanent pressure in my stomach – feeling irresolute about my future, my studies at the university, and my love. After the day had gone, I prepared myself for arriving at another state of mind. I washed down the dirt of the day from my body and from my soul.
Hours went by, and then he came. I knew we would break up. He had had a girlfriend for ages, and everybody wanted him to make up his mind and marry her. We talked for hours about everything in an “it’s-all-the-same-already” way. I could freely express my views since I knew that nothing would bring him back to me. I was bitter, knowing that we had no future. I started crying. I did not care showing it to him how our end was hurting me. I left the room, and by the time I returned, he was gone. I tried to calm down. Then I found myself in total darkness. I was sitting there, empty, lost. But then, I had a flash.
A fantastic idea came to my mind. I have a seminar where I should come up with original and creative ideas, and what happened now was just that. What’s more, I was already elaborating it – making it even better. I got excited -- I thought I had to write all of it down at once! The face of the instructor also appeared, and I thought how shocked he would be when he read it.
But then everything vanished – the instructor, the idea. I opened my eyes and I realized that what I had was only the feeling of having found out something original and the grief caused by the two runaway dreams.
Time Flies by Zoltán Takács
Six o’clock in the evening.
I can’t believe I forgot about the deadline. I really don’t want to anger a teacher like her. I promised I would translate the text by tomorrow, and I intend to keep this promise. Better get started right away. Just a coffee first, and off I go.
Caffeine reloaded; let’s translate this thing. No big deal really, I should finish these four (five?) pages in a few hours. Perhaps I should flip through the text first, just to attune myself to the style and language.
This article looks boring. I can’t believe I got 15 pages. How could I forget about that? And the style, a real pain to read. The whole text crammed full of paragraph-long sentences, with the paragraphs stretching over half a page. This translation might take longer than expected.
The title. “Phenomenology, Ethnomethodology and Interpretive Practice”. I certainly don’t often hear these words in casual conversation. Do these sociologists really dig giving such fancy names to their disciplines? At least I don’t have to translate anything in the title. I might just finish the work before midnight if I can just copy most of the words.
Whoops! I should get those dictionaries ready, I will certainly need them. I should really buy new ones before these fall apart, especially the English – Hungarian vol. 2. I hope I won’t find many unknown words starting with “s”. Mom has some nice new dictionaries -- I could try to ask her to give them to me. Meantime, these will do. Lemme see that first sentence.
No progress at all. What do they mean by “local interpretive resources”? What does “artfulness” have to do with “disrupting the social order”? Did these people take drugs while writing this? Getting on my nerves, this. Not sure how far I’ll get.
Well, the translation turned out much easier than I first expected. The last paragraph went pretty smoothly. Think I finally got the hang of it.
Or did I? I read through my work so far, and I can’t say I like it one bit. I rather delete it and start over from a clean slate.
Three past six in the evening. I don’t think I’ll sleep much tonight. Another cup?
Shrinking Five Weeks by Tekla Teveli
I was unemployed. It didn’t take for long, but those five weeks were the best part of my life. I had time for the things I had missed before. I had some money left, so I could fill my fridge with some delicious food, like three pounds of Brie, a large Virginia country ham, green and Greek salads, and a couple of six-packs. I put all my dirty jeans and T-shirts into the washing machine. This marked the beginning of the new me. I realized that the life I had been living was a lie. I bet I was the happiest person in the world.
Quite Right by Nikolett Kovács
I don’t write just for the sake of writing, to be honest.
I can’t write just to write something. When I have to write a piece of writing, I don’t write it because I feel like doing it. I can’t force myself to write. I see writing as a creative art, the art of words, which, if it ever comes, comes naturally. It cannot be forced either by external or internal urge. I only write to say something, because I have something to say. And although it might seem like that most of the time, I am not, actually, creating art.
I can’t write when my mind is full of meaningless, compulsory stimulus. To write, I need to close myself into my own world and completely forget about the outside. I don’t write to state or preach that things should be the way I think. I don’t want to convert anybody from being themselves to being me, and I don’t want anybody to tell me that I should be somebody else. So I won’t write the way people want me to, because I just don’t feel the need to do it. And what if I fail? So what? Then I fail because of being me, and I would not want to pass because of not being me.
Then, I just write to write things out of me, to see my thoughts in front of me, to realize how meaningless the are, to entertain myself with myself, and then I write only for the sake of writing.
I hate compulsory things, though I still do them, but I'm not in them, I don’t mean what I say, because I only say it, because I'm expected to say it, and then I'm not in my writing. Though I wrote it, I did not actually write it.
Some people tend to write whole essays – about a piece of furniture, a fancy chair, describing its color, its fabric, the light reflected on its surface making you actually feel sitting on.
Sometimes I just want to scandalize people. It’s only worth writing or being read about what really matters, like the human being; feelings, love, hate, anger, passion, sex, things that make us us.
It’s only worth writing what you are not supposed to write, and it’s the same for reading. So one should not be reading this piece of writing of mine, it won’t be worth it. But I will never write about a chair, even if it’s the fanciest one, only if it made me feel the passion of being alive.
I will write about myself, or about how bad this writing is, or maybe I will write about others’ feelings, because I think it matters, or even if it doesn’t, who cares, I just write for myself, for the sake of writing.
The unsaid often says the most. So I will say it in my writing to un-unsay the unsaid, if that makes any sense. And if I wrote, I would write with my heart open, and with my eyes closed, feeling every world I put down. And if I ever get to write a book, I won’t be proud of it, since I am not a professional writer, I will never publish it. If I did, it would start like this:
One doesn’t have to be honest all the time! It’s far easier to put myself off, and pretend that things are not how they seem to be. How easily I could mistake myself, I could actually make myself believe that everything was all right, and I slowly became the firmest believer of that faith. But the fact that I am able to shape all these thoughts into a virtual cluster of signs reassures me that it’s not all wasted. “The Matrix has him” I could say, and I would be quite right.
Of Mice and Tiger by Zsófia Liska
We don’t live in luxury but we can’t complain. Our house is in a village not too far from London. We have quite a large garden. I like plants and animals, but I like them to remain in their place, outside. We have always had trouble with animals not sharing this view, especially with mice. When we moved in here and realized this problem, we bought a cat. Tiger (we named him in the hope of his effectiveness) turned out to be not much of a mouse-catcher, but he caught a few. However, there were too many mice, anyway, so we had to think about additional defence. We put out several traps in different parts of the house. This seemed to be effective – most of the mice disappeared in a few weeks.
But one proved to be both very quick and intelligent; he always escaped Tiger and avoided the traps, too. After a few months, it seemed to have chosen my room to be the coziest one because no matter how many times I chased it out, it always reappeared the following day. My anger grew with every encounter, until before an exam, I finally burst out and tried to catch it. However, when it ran up my clock on the wall, I followed it with my eyes in shock and I realized that I was already late for my exam and had to leave the beast there. To my astonishment, when I entered the classroom, it turned out that the exam had been postponed by a day.
I felt that this had something to do with the mouse, that it had brought me luck, so I have never bothered it again. I have kept it as a pet instead. After a while my family started to like it, too, and we've become quite fond of the animal. I never forget to give it extra food before my exams. The other mice are kept outside by Tiger or caught by the traps; this one has fought its way in the house for the rest of its life.
Y’all Ain’t Gonna Jibe at My English by Dániel Takács
Ever met anyone who wanted to tell you how to use the English language correctly? That is, how to use the English language according to their tastes. You may ask: “They’re the ones who instruct me to employ inversion when asking a question?” Yes. And they hate it when you answer in short sentences.
They warn you to never split your infinitives. They protest there’s only one right way you can pronounce ‘can’t'; although this reeks of cant. They get the shivers when you’re confused about which part of the sentence you should put your prepositions at.
Now, I must confess I used to belong to this cohort, too. I was disturbed when someone once said in a café, “I don’t wanna drink nothing.” And I voiced my outrage at the double negative, which seems, in hindsight, ridiculous.
Ridiculous, for there’s no point throwing a fit over individual Englishes -- over the years I’ve grown to believe that I can spot individual beauties in the English usage pageant, but there’s no such thing as a Miss Universe. No dialect, register, or phrase ranks higher than another. How could one? Still, some think they have authority over the language and can coerce me into conforming to their ideals. But how can I be coerced? Well, how about grades?
The names Project English and Headway conjure up images of fake English, one that I rarely encounter in real life: sterile sentences that I zap over only when I open…Project English or Headway. However, upon opening, say, Time magazine to take a closer look at the language there, I spot split infinitives; upon logging on to the net to listen to something else than the BBC I’m flummoxed to hear that some literate speakers ain’t so pedant to refrain from using 'ain’t.'
And here comes the hard part: accepting even their take on English. Since I expect others to accept my way, I should accept others’ ways, too, I guess.
Nevertheless, it feels great to run the spell check through this piece and see it freak out. Try it!
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And that concludes Take Off. If you would like to contribute to a future collection of student writing, please send me email. Visit my Take Off blog at
http://take-o-f-f.blogspot.com/
and see my email address there.
Best
József Horváth