My journal, by Katarina Zivkovic-Group E Week One The tall linden tree before the window, with its bushy

green leaves and a strong, earthly brown trunk, portrays all the benefits of old age. Twenty years old, the years have treated it well-it stands as a silent keeper of the home that gave it life, and no foes would dare defy such a guardian. Being an old and treasured member of the family, it stands witness to many a childhood escapade. The light scar on one side of its trunk is a sharp memento of a bitter fall in an attempt at climbing this giant. The broken and scattered twigs near the terrace are the victims of a secret pathway from the bedroom to the playground. A quiet sentry, it blocks the view to the apartment with its rich flora, while at the same time, provides a look onto the street below. Today is one of the last beautiful days of the year, a remaining trace of the Indian summer in October. The sun glistens above, retracing its path lazily across the sky as if it too, wishes to draw out its rule a bit longer. However, the yellowing leaves of the neighboring trees announce the inevitable arrival of winter, as well as the occasional gust of chilly wind. Children run around the street and chase each other gleefully in a display of joy inherent to children. They exist in an ever-lasting spring. Old people look down their noses on them, disapproval resonating from every part of their stiff postures. Their spring is too far away to remember. People walk idly by, their faces turned up toward the sun, soaking in the tender rays, tiny smiles forming on their faces as they are briefly relieved of their cares and worries by the warmth. New parents are strolling with their cheerful offspring and holding hands, each small squeeze a word in a silent language of young couples. The family from across the road has been arguing again. The father sits on the terrace and sips his coffee, tight-lipped. His wife is spreading fresh laundry on the string, and smoke is wafting from the newly washed sheets. Although they are at a short distance from each other, they have yet to exchange a word, for silent glares and accusing stares have so far been their only means of communication. Their small children are playing in front of the house, but their voices are lowered and their tiny movements solemn, as if the argument has somehow physically impaired them. The days warmth seems to face a barrier here.

Week Two

The first rainy day of this fall has arrived. Yellow leaves have now taken the dominating part of the linden tree. The mother dove on is flies in and out of the nest built on the largest branch, carrying blades of grass in her beak, tension palatable in her frail body as she anxiously builds shelter for her young ones. The tension is visible in the rest of the street as well. The view is blurred by the wall of water that springs from the relentless shower. Gray clouds have built a natural ceiling that is letting festive raindrops loose. The fall enters in triumph. The house across the road seems to tilt in the violent wind that keeps blowing relentlessly, its joyful race reminding of a merry laugh. The sense of freedom is marked in all of the elements. Their time has finally come. The cherry tree next door nearly touches the ground under the powerful gust. The winds bring it to its breaking point, twisting it and contorting, only to let it go as abruptly as they attacked it, just to show that they can. People are moving in a rush through the street, attempting anxiously to complete their daily tasks. Their seemingly frenzied movements reveal a desire to find shelter from the weather. The very view of the seasons battle seems to bring the cold closer to ones body. A soaking wet dog limps near the pavement. Its fur might have been white at some point, but now its closer to gray. Mud stains cover its ears and nose, obscuring its sight so as to make it trod aimlessly. The father of the family across the road is on the terrace again. No coffee cup is in his hand this time. Hes leaning against the wall, his posture limp, as if he will faint at a moments notice. His eyes are glazed over like a pair glass balls. Staring fixedly into the distance, he doesnt appear to see a thing. His right hand trembles as he lifts a half-burned cigarette to his mouth. He breathes the smoke in listlessly. He seems to forget to blow it out. His small boy approaches him timidly. Looking up at the expressionless face of his father, the boy pulls on his sleeve and says something in a rapid and shy manner. The father drags his gaze from the far-away spot and looks down on his son without seeing him. He keeps looking through him for a few seconds, enough time for the boy to grow scared. He starts shivering and quickly turns away into the house.

Week Three

The wood-chopping day has gotten off to a cheerful start this weekend. Nature has decided upon a merciful gift to humanity, rewarding it magnanimously for responsible preparation in expectation of colder days. If it werent for scatters of rotten leaves across the ground and icy prickles of frigid air cutting over the faces of the workers, it could have been mistaken for a warm day. The wood-chopper has been set up on the pavement. Men in stuffed parkas stand casually around it, their faces gone ruddy with the cold. Although they rub their hands together every few seconds to maintain circulation, cheerfulness does not abate. The work is very loud and extremely tedious, but the camaraderie is a rare pleasure in modern world. They circle the machine intermittently, pass on an occasional log accompanied by an expert opinion. They feel manly and strong. The wood-chopper trembles as it works, whether from exhaustion, or to flaunt of its power, one cannot tell. The ceaseless growl it lets out is undoubtedly just an interlude, a prequel to the storm that will ensue. Sporting a pair of thick-skin gloves, a man throws in a huge tree branch. The mighty machine lets out an animalistic roar as it quickly devours the meager portion. During its messy meal, giant spits and curses in its metallic language. Smithereens of wood, earth and rock spill out from its enormous mouth. The grotto makes another deafening bellow before settling back into the threatening growling. The mother from across the road brings out some coffee for the workers. She has brushed her light-brown hair away from her face. She is wearing a freshly pressed shirt and jeans as opposed to her normal garb of a ratty old t-shirt and sweatpants. She pauses for a moment to chat with a neighbor. She nods at some part of conversation and smiles. Adding a few words herself, she lets out a laugh, throwing a quick glance towards the working men as she does so. Strolling in the direction of the men, she casts a quick glance toward her house. The terrace is empty, the windows shuttered. She gives the coffee out and taps the workers shortly on the arms. Her merry laughter resonates in the crisp air. Her eyes glitter with wild joy and her arms are restless, touching everyone hungrily, as if desperate for human contact. Her walking is uneven, unplanned. She appears drunk with the force of her audacity.

Week Four

The prolonged and painful struggle of the linden tree has at last been ended as it has been stripped of its leaves. The dead ones form a maroon river around it. The branches are timid in their nakedness, drawn towards the house as if seeking shelter from the sharp wind. The street is barren, as its inhabitants are hidden in the warmth of their homes. Biting winds are ruling the view. The boy from across the road runs out of the house. His run is in no way cheerful, no childish glee in the race. His tiny face is pinched and his eyes are wild. He does not turn around or look back. He keeps chasing until he reaches the road. Once he has made it, he freezes suddenly in place. He remains unmoving for nearly a minute, his posture frigid, his eyes fixed on a spot in the distance. All of a sudden he relaxes and sits down on the pavement. Reaching for a pebble, he bends his entire body toward the ground. He fiddles with the pebble for some time, fingering it slowly, as if memorizing its texture. His eyes are pointed to the ground and when he looks up, they are red-rimmed. As if he suddenly remembers the presence of the pebble in his hand, he throws it in a bush with a movement that is meant to be forceful, but he barely reaches it, his running and crying having sapped his strength. He looks around him for the first time and seems to acknowledge that he is alone. Picking up another pebble, he throws it into a neighbors window. The neighbors child appears on the window. The boy says something to him, but the child waves his head, and with a few clipped words goes back into the house. The boy walks the pavement as a plank. He approaches the linden tree, kicks a few of the dead leaves and then stands contemplating the giant. After a few moments, having made up his mind, he starts climbing the bark. However, the fist branches of the tree are away from his reach and, failing to catch himself, he stumbles and falls to the ground. He doesnt start wailing or shed a tear. Lifting himself up and checking for scrapes, he wipes his pants and adjusts his jacket. His mother appears on the window and calls to him. He replies without looking in her direction, turns away and walks in an unknown direction, one leg before the other, as if walking a plank.

Week Five The public bus is crowded with people. Managing to catch a seat is an insufficient comfort when the vehicle is so packed with people that they are forced to lean onto people in order to remain standing. The small population of the bus is a chilling picture of Serbian society. Ghostly silence envelopes the setting, even though there are people travelling together, they have yet to exchange more than a few quiet, hurried words. When they do speak up, they do it in a shy, nearly frightened manner, as if afraid they will be castigated for having words. A mother murmurs a couple of sentences to her gloomy adolescent daughter. Her words are quiet, their rhythm flat and emotionless. The girl is portraying all of the signs of teenage angst, but even that lacks energy. An old man is leaning over a young womans seat. His body contorts as he tries to keep himself upright. He is wearing a dusty black coat with several buttons missing. The old man is shaking and sweating at the same time. One of his eyes is swollen a dirty rag barely covering it, and not doing anything to conceal the purple bruise surrounding the bloodshot eye. The mans breath is hitched and labored. An ominous wheezing sound is heard each time he takes a breath. The woman in the seat determinedly holds her gaze in front of her, refusing to meet his eyes, lest she feel the sufficient amount of pity in order to relinquish her place to him. A middle-aged woman is standing next to the old man. She is holding onto the rail in order to maintain her equilibrium. Her hair is greasy and weak, falling listlessly around her shoulders. Her face is set in a scowl which does not abate for the entirety of the 45-minute bus ride. Her tight face is pointed directly into the fog outside. She casts an occasional disgusted glare in the seated girls direction, whether in an attempt at moralizing or in plain jealousy over the seating arrangements, is left to questioning. A small child trills out a merry laugh somewhere in the backseats. Every head turns in that direction with a reproachful glance at the faux pas. An old woman enters the bus on one station and tearfully begs for money, explaining that her son is in need of surgery and charity. Not a head turns her way. All eyes are determinedly fixed upon some indistinct spot in the distance. The middle-aged woman is the only one who doesnt feign deafness. She turns her head slowly and gives the old woman a withering glance filled with contempt.

Week Six

The picturesque Bosnian village bears healing influence on the jaded city personality. In a place where people still smile to the neighbor and help them carry their bags into the house crime, poverty and disillusionment seem blissfully far. A couple of village women stroll through the street carrying buckets of fresh milk. Their pink cheeks glisten and their eyes sparkle. The ruddy faces burst with health. The nature is opulent enough to make up for the material want. The greenery is bright enough to hurt ones eyes and the quiet helps with comprehending the phrase deafening silence. The peaceful soundlessness settles on the ears like a warm earmuff, and envelopes the senses, providing the mind rest. Large fruit decorates the proud-standing apple trees. A flock of sheep grazes languidly in the garden next door, their lazy movements seem to represent the timelessness of this natural haven, where clocks serve as mere ornamentation in the homes of people who still use roosters in lieu of alarm clocks. Light breeze ruffles the winter roses in the garden as a small wilted petal falls to the ground. This miniature sacrifice is less painful when looking at the vibrant, vividly red roses, as their crowns burst with colorful life. Grass blades lightly swing in the wind, their yellow hue glittering in the autumnal sun. The village cemetery stands solemn guard on the small hill. Plants that have been planted around the graveyard appear to be both tokens of love and affection as well as sentries that vouch for the souls peace. Older women work calmly on the tombstone decorations. They replenish flowers and make coffee for mourners and those who seek to pay their respects. Their sole purpose in life is to give comfort and they do so quietly and unassumingly. The ancient tombstones seem to defy time and death itself with their age. The letters are longfaded, but the power of memory lingers distinctly in the air. Several chickens walk around the garden, perfectly at ease with the peaceful surroundings. A small chicken encounters a fox and squeaks loudly. The mother hen runs to defend and is joined by the rest of the poultry. The foxs hair rustles and with a sign of surrender it moves away.

Week 7

The hectic frenzy of the household is a sharp reminder of the upcoming change. The alteration of scenery was abrupt and rapid. Stripped of the personal possessions, the apartment already has the feel of a foreign place. Boxes and packing bags are scattered on the floor. In the left corner are stacked six boxes of haphazardly piled boxes. Furniture has been moved over to the right corner, the green velvet armchair that could never match the chocolate brown couch, no matter how hard Mother tried to pass it as boho chic, has been turned over in the rush. The carpet stands crookedly, a blob of some indistinguishable goo stuck to one corner. The pale beige walls have been relieved of the beloved paintings and in their absence the fact that the house hasnt been painted in four years shows in humidity stains in the corners. Other signs of neglect show themselves in the mayhem. The floors are in bad need of redoing. The floorboards creek with every step, the squeaky sounds resonate through the empty rooms. The thirty-year-old windows let cold air into the room, towels and all shirts that have been put under them are an insufficient buffer. Air is astonishingly cold in the bathroom. The window is wide open, letting wind in through the green netting. Dusty bathroom tiles are obscured by sheets and blankets being aired in every available corner. Towels are scattered on the floor so as to limit the damage from empty shoes. There is a shoe track on one of them. The terrace is a patch of sun. No furniture lies here. Only a sunny spot is there with the small coffee table. The table is wooden and silver-painted, with a hand-made mosaic tile in beige, brown and burgundy. A ceramic cup of coffees stands on the table, half empty. The liquid is reflective and cold. Chairs are out of order in the kitchen. On the one closest to the window lies a pile of sundresses. The white one was a birthday gift. The marine blue one is a tender memento of a summer in Tuscany, a token of sunny strolls and flavored wine with bread soaked in olive oil. The red prom dress is too youthful and needs refitting in the chest area. The silver bow strewn across the back of the chair was the ornamentation on a midnight swim.

Week Eight

The view from the Avala tower causes enough breathlessness to make up for the breathcatching climb. As the steep track winds seemingly endlessly upwards, heart starts to thump, sweat prickles from every pore in the body, a searing pain cuts over the right hip and blood pressure skyrockets. The birds song, the crisp mountain air-the natural bliss of it all- fades into background as ones own throbbing heartbeat becomes the only measure of the time passing. Intake of breath. Exhale. Repeat. Despite the harrowing effort of it all, there is an amount of peace in this modus operandi. The sole purposefulness of it-no thoughts beyond those of reaching the summit-holds a cleansing affinity to it. Once the goal has been achieved the reward is intensely gratifying. Together with the feeling of ones success which naturally carries its share of pride, is the picturesque scenery. The town of Belgrade stretches itself elegantly as it flaunts its many territories and brandishes the memorable historical monuments. The skyscraper Beogradjanka flies into the sky with determination as its history and significance lead the way. The mausoleum built by King Aleksandar stands erect on the left from the tower. It is slightly lower and made entirely out of black marble. Two gray columns stand sentry at the doorway. A set of stone steps leads the way to the doorway. Children race each other around the monument, attempting to see which one of them has the strongest equilibrium. However, they steer away from the entrance. An air of solemnity engulfs it and causes them to remain respectful. The inside of the mausoleum is windowless, but the air is fresh. Therefore, there is no feel of dankness. It is not richly furnished. An altar of sorts stands in the center of the square room. A marble plaque distinguishes it as monument built by the King for his people as mark of the greatness of Belgrades most notable mountain. As natural beauty, history and youthful joy merge into unity, the magic of the mountain becomes palpable. For decades past, it inexorably attracts people from all walks of life to discard their differences. Inequality does not exist on Avala.

Week Nine

The first snow day has arrived abruptly and astonished with its cold bite. Waking up to a snow day on a Saturday brings some pre-holiday cheer to a household. The whiteness that covers the grass recalls the giddy joys of childhood, the many games in the snow, yet it provokes nostalgia. The snow has the crisp cleanness to it that only fresh snow can have. It has changed the scenery so drastically as to render it unrecognizable. Hills of the white substance pile on snowflake after snowflake-with fresh material coming from the sky every few seconds. Neighborly differences come to attention more than ever when the weather strikes. The lazy and the hard-working, the tolerant and the impatient-they collide with each other in the forceful struggle to face the challenge. The old neighbor next door has trouble with leaving his yard in his small truck. Red in the face, his eyes bulge with the effort of turning his steering wheel. His cussing resonates in the frigid air and it carries across the street. The neighbor next door feigns ignorance of the situation. He walks the street enveloped in a warm parka and puts one foot in front of the other in order to build a crude pathway. On his returning journey, he traces back his steps with a determinedly cheerful expression on his face. The man from across the road gets out of his house and leans languidly onto the wall. The pile of snow slowly turns into a large hill as the flake fall on tirelessly. The mans wife joins him on the doorstep. Their eyes are fixed on the narrow pathway. Small, cynical smiles appear on their faces before they return into the house. A bird lands on the snow hill, its tiny legs shivering as it fights to stay put. The bird sticks its beak into the snow and pushes through the sea of cold in search for food. All attempts fail and the bird shakes itself, as if battling for strength and shoots into air. Children from the neighboring houses run into the street dressed in their warmest garbjackets, parkas, furry gloves and caps. They drag sleighs with them and squeal as the y jump into the powdery snow, making snow angels, building improvised sleigh slopes and start passionate snow battles.

Week Ten

The concrete path that leads from the house to the gate is covered with a mixture of slush, melting ice and water. Father sprinkles salt over it in order to prevent life-threatening accidents. He removes frigid icicles from the rooftops. The muddy snow scrunches under rubber shoes. Icy water drips form the leafless branches on the trees. The shovel scrapes over the slush. Sounds of scraping surround the street as households wake from the winter stupor in order to make the road more usable. The neighbor from across the road stands in front of his door as his mother-in-law scrapes the snow. Shes wrapped up in a thick scarf, furry gloves are on her hands. Her face is puffy and red from the cold. The man next door drags his shovel around limply, transfers the snow from his doorstep onto the street. His small children roll around the mud gleefully as the y scream and revel in the pleasure. He glances at them occasionally and makes admonishments about the cold and wet socks. Their mother looks upon them balefully and complains of their filthy clothes. The old man steps out of his house and stands in front of his truck, and lights a cigarette with a trembling hand. He takes a long look at the bustling activity and slowly shakes his head, coughs out some smoke and grabs a shovel himself. His grandchildren join him, at first in slight mockery-they throw snow balls at him and giggle mischievously. However, they soon tire of the game and begin pushing heaps of snow out of the way with their tiny hands. The old man appears astonished for a few seconds and then bends down to show them how it is done. A beautiful blond little girl chases into the street. Her lofty curls billow in the wind in the absence of a cap. She makes a little twirl and skips across the snow and runs toward a friend. The two of them hold hands and dance. The slush sprays around them and sprinkles their jackets, but none of it spoils their amusement. Their smiles are gleeful and the pure, unadulterated childish joy resonates through the neighborhood.

Weekly prompts, online assignments and comments on the blog

Weekly prompts, online assignments and comments on the blog

The creative writer does the same as the child at play. He creates a world of phantasy which he takes very seriously that is, which he invests with large amounts of emotion while separating it sharply from reality. Any attractive story, compelling lead character, or even a properly despicable villain cannot be all that unless their creator deeply believes in them. Therefore, an author needs that small trace of insanity that helps them delve into layers of imagination unapproachable to other people. But only a trace, mind you. For the story to be believable, it needs a firm grip on reality, no matter how much of a fiction it is. I would guess All that glitters is not gold ? (in response to Vesna Kolarevics Transforming a Clichee prompt)

Fiona Riley had never contemplated finding herself in such a horrendous situation. Standing on the platform, as her ridiculously curly black hair billowed in the wind, she considered the bleakness that was her future. Her estimable father had passed on, leaving her with nothing but a small number of despicable relatives who repeatedly ignored her pleas for assistance. She was on another dull railway station, on a yet another miserable winter afternoon, awaiting a man who was to become her employer. The wretched future of a private tutor beckoned in all its glory. She would be incarcerated in some gloomy country estate with no other company except for a pair of insufferable little brats all day long. Ms. Riley, a male voice said behind her. She turned to find herself face to face with a very un-Englishly dark, astonishingly handsome young man. Scott Turner. A pleasure to meet you. ( Transforming a clich)

Growing up in the suburbs of Belgrade is a blissful experience. Being far enough from the suffocating traffic, yet near the theaters and parks, makes it the perfect place for family life.The sunny mornings of my childhood, the endless maze of mysteries yet undiscovered, friendships merely begotten. Flat and pristine as a new dish, with nearest hills miles away, Batajnica could be said to be typical, with its neighborly grace and cluttered houses, but in my childhood it is still a mystical land of hidden passageways, dark gardens, garages that just begged to be jumped from, apple orchards that yearned for a ravishing. A place where adulthood has yet to happen.

Your description of hometown has a sort of raw power which I suppose only true disillusionment can give. It was very touching and I would guess that it reached a spot in every one of us.(in response to Milos Cvetkovic for Describe your hometown)

http://muse.jhu.edu/journals/river_teeth/toc/rvt.11.1.html

The story Fiction by Michelle Bliss is a tear-jerking narrative which could leave no one indifferent. The author makes a masterful, if bitter homage to a deeply troubled college student after his killing spree at Virginia Polytechnic Institute.

Alternating between factual information coupled by original quotes from the people involved and personal experience, the author magnificently conveys the confusion of people who sat next to a quiet kid in class not knowing he would one day kill 32 students and himself in a psychotic rampage. We are able to sense the powerless rage beneath the words, the desperation in being unable to comprehend his motives, the fury that the shooter has chosen that particular way to finally express himself and that his actions have drawn too much attention to himself and too little to his victims. I was particularly moved by the part where we are given a description of the effects his shooting has had on people, their emotionless and, at times, cruel reactions to the pain of the victims families. Another rage-inducing part us the fact that the murderers teachers had noticed and reported his troublesome, frightening behavior, yet no action was taken to investigate the matter further. An excerpt from the story should illustrate the sad beauty of this message, the only way the author had of communicating with the assailant: In this sense, I hear your voice all the time. I heard your voice when Ryan Lambourn, a twenty-one-year-old man in Australia, created a video game called V-Tech Rampage that traces your route from West A.J. to my post office to Norris, allowing players to shoot bystanders who flail their arms and scream. Shine by Collective Soul, with the lyrics you wrote on the walls of your suite: Teach me how to speak / Teach me how to share / Teach me 26 River Teeth 11.1 ~ Fall 2009 where to go, is played for the course of the game. I heard your voice on the radio when Neal Boortz, a nationally syndicated talk-radio host, asked why your victims couldnt defend themselves against you, armed with a gun in each hand, rushing into classrooms averaging 24 x 25. How far have we advanced in the wussification of America? Boortz asked, before continuing, It seems that standing in terror waiting for your turn to be executed was the right thing to do, and any questions as to why twenty-five students didnt try to rush and overpower Cho Seung-Hui are just examples of right-wing maniacal bias. Surrendercomplyadjust. I heard your voice from Nathan Jones at Penn State University, who dressed up as one of your victims for Halloween. Jones explained why he dressed up in a Virginia Tech T-shirt, complete with fake bullet wounds and blood dripping down his chest. Its not that it was funny, its that we are notorious and infamous in State College, so we have to do things that push the envelope just for shock value. He went on to defend his actions: The thing is, everybodys making a big stink about Virginia Tech. Virginia Tech was thirty-two deaths out of the twenty-six thousand that happen in America every day. He added, Thats the problem with college students. They all live

in an ivory tower of privilege. They dont understand, when it all boils down to it, its someone wearing a costume. I heard your voice from NBC News President Steve Capus, who aired your tapes mere hours after receiving them, letting the family members and friends of the deceased and injured stumble upon graphic pictures of you, holding your guns, the last image their loved one may have witnessed. I would all of mu colleagues to take the time and read this piece, I promise you will not regret it. For any of you who wish to find out more about the Virginia Tech shooting: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_Tech_massacre

Dear Katarina Sotic, The descriptions you have given have been very eloquent, the vocabulary is proficient and the style is excellent. I only wish to see the story developed further (in response to Katarina Sotics Writing project 1 rehearsal)