Corn stalks rattled in the wind. Rebecca could see the field’s sloping hollows filled with them, stretching far to the horizon in every direction, a monotony unbroken except for a ramshackle barn to the north. The moon was a sliver in the dark sky, a fingernail poised to slice through the stars and leave them [...]
“The city must completely disappear from the surface of the earth and serve only as a transport station for the Wehrmacht. No stone can remain standing. Every building must be razed to its foundation.” – SS chief Heinrich Himmler, October 17, 1944 Steam hissed and billowed up into Ellen’s face as she finished preparing the [...]
Sunil was walking down Delancey Street when he noticed the hat. It was propped up against the boarded up storefront of the old Brooklyn Bridge Café, its faded blue brim resting on the cracked and peeling paint. The hat had a simple black band and a few dents littering its sides, as if it had [...]
Sea foam sprayed across his face, its salt seeping into his graying beard. He could feel it coating the follicles, clinging close to his skin. From where he stood below the lighthouse, just beyond the waves’ reach on the shoreline, he could see the coast curving away to the north. The waves crashed and broke [...]
Avery’s tea was cold. The bag hung limply against the inside of the chipped blue mug, half-squashed by a tarnished silver spoon. He’d lost track of time, staring out through the kitchen window and across his unkempt backyard at the neighbors’ children playing some sort of cops and robbers game beyond the fence. Two boys [...]
In the next few months I’ll be writing things about baguettes, scarves, language, and generally life as a confused literature student bumbling about Paris. You can also read about the interesting study abroad adventures of other Penn State folks (and see their locations on the nifty map) on the Geoblog main page. Amusez-vous bien!
Painted by the talented Robyn Engel.
La sonnerie des cloches me semble trop proche; elle marque le temps, le coupe en tranches avec les mains rigides et les morceaux tombent lentement à la terre. Les notes sont pas timides. Elles frappent les brindilles et hachent les feuilles jusqu’à la chlorophylle saigne et tache les pièces de l’horloge sur le sol froid.
Welcome to the Symposium, a gathering of accomplished intellectuals! Coffee and pastries are over there, programs are on the chairs. I hear a professor begin to speak to a rapt female colleague. She leans in to listen, hugging programs and papers to her chest. “Well it seems to me the writer uses a post-Rabelaisian kind [...]