Portico by József Horváth

Authors University of Pécs students Gábor Hunyadi, Piroska Frida Szameth, Gyula Kiss, Viktória Kovács, Mónika Santos, Evelin Kiefer, Krisztián Wirsz, Éva Maloveczky, Annamária Varga, József Novák, and Eszter Marosi Edited by József Horváth Copyright 2015 The authors Available on Feedbooks and Issuu in PDF, iOS-, and Android-friendly formats

Authors

My Magic Mug

An English Wedding

A Life with a Cane Corso

A New Revolutionary in the Music Industry: Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta

How to Donate

Turning Point

Important Moments

Selfie Story

Visiting King Julian

A Once-in-a-Lifetime Trip

an extended selfie story

by Gábor Hunyadi

My name is unimportant. I am a 30-year-old ordinary guy, living in Pécs, Hungary. I live my rule-governed, law-observing, regular life. I am a useful, productive member of society, for I have a partner and a descendant, planning to have some more offsprings. I’m also a keen participant in this society, called consumer society, because I desire and consume goods advertised by TV commercials and other sorts of adverts. I started my life in a village, in Gerde. My parents were and still are simple people, with even simpler desires than I have. I grew up in a family-house with my mom and dad, my younger sister, and my grandparents. We always had two dogs, many cats and several domestic animals. My childhood was as ordinary as my present life is. I was loved, cared for, and taught in the way my forebears thought was right. I had my childish struggles and fights at home, in school, and in rivalries with other boys. I also witnessed the fights at home from the part of my parents and grandparents. I never wanted to be like them. When I grew up and left grammar school, I was completely aimless. Six years elapsed with idleness, without practically doing anything useful. I had many friends and had an excessive liking for going to parties, getting drunk, being hungover, and then starting everything all over again. This was the time I met my later partner. We got together gradually, and decided to leave our company, for they couldn’t keep up with us. They insisted on their lifestyle, which was not comfortable for us anymore. I realized that I didn’t want to be on the sidetrack of life any longer. I wanted to achieve something in this world, so I started learning and taking my job more seriously. Five years have passed since then. I got my driving licence first, and then moved on to studying of English. It took me one and a half years to pass the intermediate language exam, and another two for the advanced level. Right after that, I enrolled at the university. Meanwhile, I also gained a reputation at my workplace, and became considered as a reliable and hardworking workforce. During these years my partner and I got married, and our first baby was born in the autumn of last year. In general, my formerly marginalized life came onto the right, standardized track. Now, I am a 30-year-old ordinary guy, living in Pécs, Hungary. I have an inconspicuous past, an average present, and a predictable future. Yet, this past, present, and future mean everything to me, known as life. My existence will have no trace left, except for my descendants, because that’s what life is like for the average, like me. And I am content with it. My name is still unimportant, and this was my selfie story.

My Magic Mug a descriptive essay

by Piroska Frida Szameth Many of us have rituals, particularly in the morning, when our brains do not function at full capacity. Every morning, as soon as I manage to convince myself to leave the warm and cosy bed, with my eyes half closed, dragging my feet, I head to the kitchen. I know exactly where to find the only thing that can end my misery and bring me back to life: on the lowest shelf of the cupboard, a little bit to the left from the centre opening, that’s where my mug lives. Some people think it’s the coffee that helps them to wake, but not me. No matter what I pour into it, coffee, tea, milk or hot chocolate, it works and slightly raises my “midi-chlorian count,” and I slowly become aware of the world around me. There is something in the way it feels in my hand. I always hold it in my palm with my thumb peeping through the handle, gently massaging it in small circles, like I would treat a cat or a puppy, scratching it behind its ear. On the smooth surface, there are two tiny bumps close to each other, right behind the point where the elegantly curving white handle joins the lower part of the mug before dissolving in it. The moment I can feel them with the tip of my thumb, calmness fills my mind; they are still there, so the mug still has its power. I usually drink some hot beverage from my magic mug, and it takes some time till its whole body becomes warmer, but never too hot, as if it was looking after me, protecting me from burning my palm or fingers. Before the first sip, I enjoy the moment when the steam of the hot drink tickles my eyelashes, inducing my eyes to stay closed. The rim of the mug is a little bigger than the average as the mug itself isn’t the standard size either; it sits comfortably on my lower lip without tensing the edges of my mouth. First, I always hold it in my right palm, so that I can see the shiny, metallic logo painted on the black foil that runs around the entire mug, leaving less than a centimetre wide stripe at the top and the bottom, as well as by the handle. It reads, “STAR WARS.” Under it, in smaller letters, “Episode I.” When I finish my drink I slide the mug into my left palm, so that I can read the message printed in small, white letters on the other side: “May the Force Be With You.” I never miss reading it; it’s part of my morning ritual, and I know I need it to start the day well. It opens up my eyes in the morning, and makes me smile inside. Although originally intended to be some sort of a greeting formula among the Jedi, these words have been working on me like a magic wake-up spell for more than fifteen years. It is a decent age even for a human being, and here I’m talking about a mug. Needless to say, it’s my favourite possession: I cherish and look after it, but recently some micro cracks appeared on the inside. They are as thin as hairlines, dashing through the lowermost part of the mug, like a cobweb under the gutter on a white wall. No matter how hard I clean it, the coffee has dyed the cracks brown. I just call them wrinkles, the mementoes of its age. I hope we will grow old together.

An English Wedding by Gyula Kiss When I was living in England, I soon realized how beneficial first-hand experiences from an English family might be in my future teaching career. I grasped every opportunity to take part in events with the White family: Michelle, the cheerful business woman with a cynical sense of humour, Lewis, the rebellious rock fan, and Jordan, the hyperactive skater. I was lucky enough to join birthday celebrations, a Christmas dinner, a New Year’s Eve party, and even a teacherparent meeting. Something on my list, however, wasn’t to be ticked off until last summer: attending a real British wedding. When the younger boy, Jordan, and his girlfriend, Lauren, decided to tie the knot, the wait was over. My wife Anna and I caught an early flight on 20th August, and soon we landed in chilly London. The next day we went to the venue, a beautiful countryside mansion, at noon. We had plenty of time to wander around the breathtaking park, before the guests started to gather in the back garden for the canapé to grab some snacks and some champagne. We enjoyed some light-hearted chat with my English friends whom I hadn’t seen for ages. It was like being in a British film, with the ladies wearing lovely dresses and hats, the men wearing dinner jackets and top hats. An hour later, we were asked to make our way towards the front garden, where the ceremony was about to start. The groom and the best man were already taking selfies when we got there. In spite of the cold wind, everyone was eager to see the bride walking down the aisle; we were sitting on the edge of our chairs, turning our heads enthusiastically to make sure we didn’t miss the first sight of her. She did not disappoint the guests: she was wearing a lovely, ivory-coloured wedding dress with some glittery jewellery. The highlight of the ceremony was listening to their vows, which were moving and amusing at the same time. After we congratulated them, it was time for the speeches, which brought the house down; however, we shed some tears too. The wedding breakfast was fantastic, and the wine put us in the mood to show off our dancing skills on the dance floor. The party came to an end at midnight, which is rather unusual for a Hungarian lad. Luckily, I restricted myself to only a little alcohol, so I can recall the major events and I can tell my students about English weddings when the topic crops up.

A Life with a Cane Corso a descriptive essay

by Viktória Kovács Don't judge based on looks – this is true even for animals. In 2013, after thirteen years of living together, we lost our loyal, friendly dogs. After a short time, my family thought that we needed a new watchdog. My brother decided to take the reins on this because he got acquainted with a breed thanks to one of his colleagues. He started to show us pictures of this breed, Cane Corso. At first glance they looked terrifying, mostly due to their robust appearance. In the pictures my brother showed us, the dogs’ ears and tails were cropped, which gave them a slightly diabolic look. Cane Corso is an Italian mastiff-type breed, which is called the Ferrari of the canine world, mostly because like the Italian sport cars, they are fast, athletic, beautiful, and impressive. They make an excellent guard-dog, because of their protective, dominant qualities. In addition, they are loyal and gentle with the members of the family. They strike the perfect balance between protection and family companion. These qualities have been proved by our cane corso. The day came. We could bring our new puppy home. It was a sunny day in April 2013; I was traveling home from Pécs, and my brother waited for me in Nagykanizsa, from where we continued our journey to Szepetnek, where the breeder lived. We were excited, and started brainstorming male dog names. We couldn't make up our minds about how to call him. Finally we agreed on Rocky. When we first saw the puppy, he was a little scared; his black fur all shiny with a white spot on his chest, looking up on us with his adorable eyes. Rocky is two years old now, but his arresting looks remained. He gives us his best “I-didn't-doanything” look when he tries to look innocent. He is an energetic dog, and he is unable to stay put, so this is the reason why he had to undergo surgery; his cruciate ligament ruptured. The operation took two hours; it seemed that it would last forever. That night I couldn't sleep I looked after him. It was the longest night in my life. He suffered because of the after-effect of the sedative, the pain, and the fact that he couldn’t move freely. Fortunately, he got better and he is again a lively playful canine. As a dog-owner, I have realized that owning a dog is a bigger responsibility than I thought when I was a child. It is my duty to teach him, play with him, and take care of him.

A New Revolutionary in the Music Industry: Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta by Mónika Santos You likely know her by her stage name: Lady Gaga. She is an American singer and songwriter who grew up on the Upper West Side of New York City. She attended an all-girls Catholic school, where she was often made fun of because of her appearance and provocative style. She wrote her first ballad when she was 13 and started performing in nightclubs and bars at the age of 14. Her music style is described as electro pop and dance pop. Her songs revolve around sex, violence, power, religion, drugs and freedom. She is only 28 years old, but is already one of the best-selling musicians of all time. Making her debut in the music scene less than a decade ago, she divides people not only with her provocative style in music and fashion, but also with her live performances and music videos. She has been seen to appear in a bubble bath dress, dressed as a hatching chick, in a lion’s mane or in her underwear during a New York Yankees game. Yet her most outrageous outfit was being dressed from top to bottom in raw beef during the 2010 MTV Video Music Awards. Besides her extravagant style, she has been also attacked on several occasions for copying other artists, mainly Madonna. On many occasions Lady Gaga appeared wearing nearly identical clothes to Madonna's. There are also some similarities in their music videos and lyrics. Madonna said when she heard the song “Born This Way” that "it sounds familiar". Gaga is an outspoken activist for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) rights worldwide. She attributes her early career to her gay fans. After her mega-hit “Poker Face” was released, she admitted that it was about bisexuality. Her other hit song “Born this Way” is about homosexuality. To show her support in higher circles also, in 2010 she attended the MTV Music Awards with four gay and lesbian members of the United States Armed Forces who had been unable to serve openly because of military policies. She often gives speeches during her performances about equality, self confidence, and self acceptance. My favorite quote from her is, “Be yourself and love who you are and be proud. Because you were born this way, baby." Many people disapprove of Gaga's style, but I think they might be just afraid of accepting change and new styles. She has a flamboyant and diverse personality, and she is constantly experimenting with new musical ideas and images. Always wanting to do something original and fresh is what makes her different from all the other American singers that sound the same to me. Yes, I agree with the accusations that she has copied Madonna on several occasions, but the older singer served as her biggest role model - and imitation is the best form of flattery. Also as long as it doesn't bother Madonna, who cares what others say. Besides, nobody ever took styles to the extremes as much as she has done.

How to Donate a process analysis essay

by Evelin Kiefer

Usually during the Christmas holidays our heart tends to go a little softer, and if you do it once you might like the feeling and do it all year around. These are the weeks when we remember, that Christmas and life are not just about receiving things, but also about giving. Giving is appreciated no matter how big or small, or in what form it comes. The next two main steps of choosing to whom and in what form to donate may be switched up. It doesn’t affect the results if you decide what kind of donation you can give and then pick to whom to give it to or the other way around. One of the main steps in donating is deciding to whom you want to give. I suggest choosing a cause close to your heart, because this way you will feel more dedicated. After you have an idea of what you would like to support, do your research on the internet or ask your friends and family. You can check out the organization’s website, their Facebook page, or just do a random search on the net. It’s important to see what they do with the donations and what kind of work they really do. This is a difficult step, because there are an endless number of causes you can support. You can either chose a person, a family, a group, or an organization. The next step is deciding on what kind of donation you would like to give. Donations can come in many forms: money, supplies, food, used things, as well as time and actual physical help. Deciding this might depend on your budget limits and your free time. You can transfer money to an organization, buy an extra kilogram of flour in the supermarket and give it to the representatives of an organization, take old blankets to a dog shelter, place a plate of food for the needy in your street, give somebody an hour of your time to help out with whatever they needy, or pick up someone’s Santa letter and fulfil it. To show you an example I would like to tell you about my donations. The cause close to my heart is animals, so I support WWF with a small amount every month all through the year. This year I picked a local animal shelter and send them a small amount, which I hope helps make homeless cats’ and dogs’ days a little better. No matter what you pick and how you choose to do it, what is important is to help.

Turning Point a narrative essay

by Krisztián Wirsz It was the year 2005. Despite the pouring rain outside, the hectic metropolis did not cease to bustle, not even for a second. Inside a lousy room of a youth hostel in Central London there I was, sitting on the edge of my messy bed, surrounded by my comrades from all over the world. On my right sat JD, a Malaysian guy from South Africa, on my left was Gaeton, a French-born ethnic Ethiopian. We were busy doing nothing but rolling joints and kicking back, talking nonsense while listening to the aggressive beats of some loud ragga music. As it was raining outside we all decided to do some housework, and so we washed our clothes. Unfortunately in our hostel there was no appropriate place to hang the wet clothes to dry, and so we had to make do with putting all the damp rags on the handrails of the hostel’s corridor. It gave the place a special feel, similar to a refugee camp. The miserable sight of the wandering cockroaches on the floor did not manage to lift the mood of the atmosphere either. JD passed the joint over to me, and as I was taking a long deep toke, looking at all this grime, I felt deeply confused and thought what the hell am I doing here? Not being able to make any sense of the situation I decided to let go of these feelings and had begun to fall into some blurred, alcohol and marijuana induced oblivion, thinking about home and a girl I had left behind. Then suddenly a shout broke the silence. It was my roommate JD, shouting in the corridor in his heavy South African accent with someone I could not yet see. What I could see however was the empty space on the handrail, where JD’s favourite pair of jeans had previously been hung up. JD had started to run after the perpetrator whom I knew nothing about at the moment but felt compelled to follow my buddy in the chase. Running down the hostel’s filthy corridors I realized the thief was Massimo, a 40-year-old crack addict Sardinian, another illustrious guest of the hostel. Apparently, he had snatched JD’s completely wet and dripping jeans and was now running down the rainy street of Inverness Terrace, pursued by an angry South African shouting in half English half Afrikaans, and a Hungarian guy still puffing on his joint. For a fragment of a moment I could see the whole scene from the outside: the miserable rain, the drug addict Sardinian with a pair of wet jeans on his shoulders, a shouting South African guy running in his slippers, all the passers-by, the transexuals in the street elbowing in their windows offering doubtful pleasures, the commuters lining up in the queue at the tube station, all the filth, and all the jumbled madness. There I was, standing in the rain, laughing like a deranged idiot, taking it all in, all at once. This was the moment I decided I needed a change, that I had to get my act together. This was the turning point.

Important Moments a narrative essay

by Maloveczky Éva Agatha Christie once said, "One doesn't recognise really important moments in one's life until it's too late". The truth of it became fact for me after July 8, 2010, when I became the victim of a car accident. I often see those fragmentary images, and the vividness of them returns to me again and again. It is Wednesday, early in the afternoon. I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a car, chatting about something trifling. A golden car is coming from the left lane. I shout, “Hey, you moron, what are you doing here? Go back to your lane!” Then, WHUMP… and blank, unbroken silence. “There is a cobweb on the windscreen,” I wonder. I realise that it is a car crash, but it is rather like I’m sleeping. I don’t feel pain, I only see how bizarre my knees are like those stuffed toys. I’m already in an ambulance car. I don’t know how, I simply know it. The boy is asking me, I’m answering, but I don’t know what we are talking about. There is no time, there is no space. I’m in the hospital; it is very cold. My Mum comes, “What is she doing here?” I think. I recognise the doctor’s face, a childhood memory, when he says I need surgery. I try to persuade him to come with me to hold my hand. When I am woken up, two days later, I meet my doctor, who, now I can declare it, saved my life. He is very kind when he slowly starts to list my injuries: three broken left toes, a broken left ankle, two broken knees, two broken thigh bones, a broken right hip bone, a broken right shoulder, four broken and three cracked ribs, and some internal damage to my liver, lungs, and kidney. Finally he says he could hardly believe that they could wake me up. “Will I walk again?” I ask. “Nothing is impossible,” he answers, and leaves the room. While I am lying in bed, I am thinking about those important moments, Agatha Christie mentioned, and I feel that I must not let those moments be too late. So at the age of thirty-six I have to make a new start: after six months’ lying I have to learn sitting. Later, I learn how to use the wheelchair; within a year I can take four steps with the aid of my crutches, but without rest! Four years have passed since that hot summer day. Four years, a great deal of effort, seas of tears and pain. I still can’t and will never, run, jump, what is more, I can’t even walk as healthy people do. I still can’t come a long way, only some fifty meters. I’m still shuffling and lurching when I’m tired; but I every night whisper “Thank you” for all of these. And I never forget Agatha Christie’s sentence about recognising really important moments in time.

Selfie Story an extended version

by Annamária Varga I was born into a working-class family with two older brothers. I was raised in a little village near the Croatian border, in Somogytarnóca. My mother used to work as a head nurse in a social center for children with disabilities in Barcs for more than thirty years. She is retired now. My father used to work in the local Brick Factory for ten years before he was retired. They both enjoy their free time as senior citizens. They still live in that little village where they brought us up. When I was a very young child my mother realized I had a great voice to sing, so she decided to matriculate me in the local elementary school where I could study music at a very high level. My first year was followed by my second year when I started learning to play the violin, which lasted for seven more years. When I was 14, I started learning to play the piano, on my music teacher’s advice. I spent eight years with that, but I still consider myself a beginner. At the age of 18 I had an inspiration that said I should start learning to play the guitar. I do not know why I thought it would be a great idea, but it has turned out that actually it was an excellent idea because I play the guitar every single day and it really helps in organizing my work with my students. After graduating from high school I started college in Szombathely, studying music and conducting a choir. I spent four years there and eventually graduated in 2009. I could not have been more grateful when I received my diploma with honors as a Music Teacher and Choir Conductor. Music has always played a major role in my life, and it always will; not just the music I studied back in college but pop, rock, hip hop, chill out and my newest favorite, dub step as well. When I get a bit overwhelmed with everyday work I just put on my headphones and enjoy the bass boost coming towards my tired brain that washes off all the pressure and pain. I love to sing English songs because I when I was a kid I realized its ameliorating effects on pronunciation in English. My other love is learning English, but that is a whole different and a much longer story. I will leave it to the reader’s imagination.

Visiting King Julian a narrative essay

by József Novák As a practicing father, I am regularly confronted with an important question: "Where do we go in the weekend?" We cannot stay at home for several reasons. The kids would probably go crazy between the walls or my wife and I would go crazy because of our kids. They, thank God, are always overloaded with energy. My daughter Esther is 7, and my son Peter is 4. They are at that beautiful, never returning age when they can be grateful for every little attention and they can be amazed by every little wonder of the world. The ZOO in Veszprém would be a perfect destination to deal with the energies, popped out of my head on that sunny Saturday morning. We looked at each other with my wife. Done deal. We agreed after lunch that we would travel to Veszprém. Let me explain who King Julian is. If you are familiar with the world of cartoons today, you have to know the film Madagascar. It is about four friends: a lion, a hippo, a zebra, and a giraffe, who are about to leave the ZOO of NYC for a better place. During the journey their boat sinks, but they reach Madagascar, where they meet with the lord of the island, His Majesty, King Julian. He is an infinitely egoistic, conceited, and selfish but generally benevolent, ringtailed Lemur. After the lunch and a coffee, we got into the car and began our journey to Veszprém, about 130 km from our home. It promised to be a beautiful journey: the kids were sleeping in the backseats and at least I could chat with my wife without any interruption. Next to the kids we learned to appreciate this kind of luxury. The kilometers ran fast, and we arrived in the city. Fortunately, we also found appropriate park place, which is not as easy as it sounds. We entered the ZOO. There was no question which way we had to go: straight to the animal stroking place. Usually there are little, sweet goats, but now there was something else, something more interesting: there was His Majesty, King Julian and his brothers, the whole Royal Family. Kids were shocked, but not just ours, the others as well. They had the opportunity to touch a real cartoon hero, to stroke an original ring-tailed Lemur. Of course, we did not miss the other residents of the ZOO either. We saw lions, zebras, giraffes, rhinos, and many other animals, from the most beautiful to the most dangerous. My daughter commented, "Chimpanzees are very similar to humans." I agreed with her. They looked sad, in their cages. But maybe this is the only way them to survive. On the way home we talked about our experiences, recalling the animals we had seen. My wife and I spoke about those many kinds of animals that live on Earth, and how sensitive the balance was in nature. We stopped at Lake Balaton to take a look around, but unfortunately the beach was empty, only swans swimming in the water. The wind began to blow, so we continued our tour home sooner than we planned, to avoid catching a cold. I hope we can participate in many similar adventures in the future. I heard there are African elephants in the ZOO of Nyíregyháza.

A Once-in-a-Lifetime Trip a narrative essay

by Eszter Marosi I’m quite interested in the old world, arcane places, ancient histories, especially Egypt. One of my big dreams was to touch those giant columns in Luxor, to go inside a mysterious pyramid, to bathe in the colorful Red Sea, to lie down on a sandy beach, and to enjoy the warmth of the sun. This dream came true last February. I was so excited when after two years’ scrimp and save I had booked and paid the airfares for my fiancé and me. Our flight took three hours from Budapest to Hurghada, one of the most visited spots by tourists and quite a good gathering place for trip makers. It was very early in the morning when we landed, so we were exhausted, and eagerly wished nothing but a shower and a comfortable bed. When we arrived at our accommodation, we were amazed. We forgot the lassitude we had had, thanks to the hotel, our room, the pools and the sea-view. It was all marvellous. The first thing we did was go and put our legs into the sea. That moment I thought nothing could overshadow our joy. The first jaunt of the second day drove us to Luxor. This city was also called in the ancient times, Thebes, which was usually mentioned as the “world’s greatest open-air museum”. The path that leads to the entrance is flanked by animal statues in a row on either side. When we entered through the main entrance of the Temple of Karnak, we felt so puny, due to those monumental pillars covered with hieroglyphs, the statues of pharaohs, and a huge scarab in the center of the temple. Legend has it that when a pharaoh marched in the desert and met a scarab, the troop had to turn in another direction so as not to hurt the revered bug. In these hours, we felt as if history had come alive. Fortunately, our miracle didn’t end there. After we crossed the river Nile, our next destination was the Valley of the Kings, beneath the giant cliffs. Our first glimpse was of the Mortuary Temple of Hatshepsut as we looked through from the window of our bus. Nothing compares to this temple in Egypt. It was offered for Amon-Ra, the God of the Sun. As we were jolting up between the rocks, the vale started to figure. At the main entrance, we bought the tickets, allowing us to visit three of the graves, whichever we preferred, except the sepulchre of Tutankhamun, which was for extra charge. The dale included many tombs had been built for the pharaohs and powerful esquires. We went inside the graves of Hatshepsut, Ramesses the Great, and Amenhotep III. It was delightful to see the sarcophaguses, which had been there for thousands of years. Although we couldn't visit the Great Pyramid of Giza, owing to the revolution in Cairo, we spent a lovely week in Egypt and I’m sure once we will go back to fulfil my long-time wish: to go inside the Great Pyramid.