This is the latest in a series of Mass Observations undertaken by fresh students on the BA Creative Writing Programme at Edge Hill University, Ormskirk, UK.
10:32am. Wilson Building
A fresher student stands at the two vending machines. He takes a quick
glance, takes a step back, then continues to look at the wide selection of
power drinks and crisps. He reaches into a pocket and brings out a handful
of change and a crumpled note I can't make out. He inspects the coins
in his hand and removes a two pound coin. The coin makes a loud clank as it
travels through the vending machine. The bag of crisps he has purchased
(Cheese & Onion) rattles and rustles as he takes it out of the machine. He
inspects both vendors once more before settling on the crisps he has just
purchased. He leaves. Outside a gardener revs up a pair of hedge-cutters.
Daniel Holland
Untitled
The first thing to harden your body is not the numbing wind, it is the solitude that lives in each ripple.
The lake shares its home with all living things, which I have to say is a personal bond that even us humans need.
To the left is the untold truth in dark waters. Inspiration is a friend in many forms, from laughter, whether put on or not. Comfort from a stranger makes the ferns dance and the clouds roam. I people-watch for realism. I intrude on animal conversations, never the human ones.
Here I stand, in the middle of life and death only to find I am wandering myself.
Claire Lorraine-Baker
The Running Track
I take leave against the track fence, looking for inspiration across the field. Runners pass by doing their circuit of the track. The trees rustle in the light breeze, almost like they were showing their appreciation with an encouraging applause.
The contented quietness is suddenly disturbed by a dumper truck, flashing lights, loud siren, louder engine, and even louder driver. He watches the runners pass by and calls to his mate, “You could do with joining them and losing some of that fat.” His mate replies with a hand gesture and realises his embarrassment as a group of students pass by and catch him in the act. Some amused, others disgusted.
Barriers are in place to restrict unauthorised access to the building site, and a fence is in place to restrict unfit people from the running track. And yet both barriers have been breached by the scavengers from the sky.
The builder, cigarette in hand, ironically reads the safety signs, straightening the sign ‘Danger Heavy Plant Turning’. I watch, half expecting a 2 ton geranium to start twirling past me.
The runners pass once again, developing their stamina. The dumper passes with its wares, ready to develop the building site. The students pass with books and bags in hand ready to develop their knowledge.
A friendly face greets me and offers me a hot beverage to take off the chill. I decline, hoping the sun will develop through the clouds and share some of its warmth or my deadline to approach.
Darren Hindley
Round the Lake
There’s lots of wind. There’s lots of ducks.
“What’s my name?” shouts a girl to a man as one of the ducks wander casually through my legs. The duck seems to be eating grass, which cannot taste nice at all.
“ Me mum taught me sooo much,” I hear in a thick Geordie accent, No reply comes from anywhere. While I look into the lake something disturbs it and shatters my reflection making me look monstrous, and I swear ducks don’t eat grass as another “chows down” on some greenery.
Listening to the people sat next to me I notice they are very loud. All they do is talk, drink, talk, drink, talk for a while and eat something, talk, drink, talk then eventually walk away. By which time I spent to long noting down what they were doing in general, rather than their specific actions.
The walkers on the other side of the lake appear quite quiet to me from here…
In the distance some industrial building tape ruins the lakes picturesque landscape but I guess that’s ok if it’s for the greater good. Suddenly the ducks are frightened by something beneath the water. A Fish perhaps? or maybe something else more interesting than a fish. They all fly away in any case leaving me duckless.
I see a sign post naturally curious I walk over. This is what I discovered:
The wild life around campus includes, “The Mallard”, “The Coot” this being my favourite one, “The Common Frog” and last but not least “the Canada goose. To name but a few of the exotic British creatures here.
The ducks are louder than the people here I swear, and who in spite of my disbelief in them having a diet consisting of grass continue to eat more and more grass based foods.
The waters murky and the rock pools are dry. Open grass, big lake and high up modern buildings. Kids must love it if they ever visit here it’s like a play park. There’s a shifty looking man in the car park but I’m sure he’s nice if you talk to him. Two builders walk past with brightly coloured hats; one’s hat is yellow and the others is red. “Has it been cleaned yet?” One says to the other “yea, reckon….” His voice is lost in the powerful wind that nearly pushed me on my arse.
I decide to try and make sentences out of the bits of peoples conversations I pick up
“Some people! Got to, yea, I know, sunny isn’t, boring wasn’t, can’t we, hyper?” looking back this could have never worked and doesn’t make a lot of sense. I then revise my strategy and try to listen out for interesting sentences. The most ear catching of all was, “ I love a good rumpus! I… “practised”(with the mandatory hand air quotation marks) it all last night”. The man appears to notice I have clearly heard what he just said, looks embarrassed and walks away calmly.
A blonde girl smiles at me I say hi she says hi back. I look at a big bald guy who just stared me down, fair play to him, I guess I shouldn’t stare at people
Dominic Brooks
Areas of Edge Hill
It is a cold, blustery day and the sun just cannot seem to fight its way through the fast-moving clouds. A boy in bright, white trainers, but dark trousers and T-shirt casually saunters out of his hall door and- wait, no jacket!? It is cold outside; “get wrapped up!” I feel like shouting out the window… I am turning into my Mother.
Next, a girl walks out of the same door, dressed a little more appropriately: jeans and a brown jacket, she does not want to draw too much attention to herself during her first week of University. Bag over her shoulder, she walks steadily to class, her mousey, shoulder length hair neatly brushed.
The bright sun has finally beaten the clouds, its warm rays shining off the majestic trees. A gust of wind suddenly blows and glowing leaves flutter to the ground; autumn is here.
Claire Gell
Doors of Reception
The trees chuckle under the fingertips of a cool breeze. I’m comfortable
here, pen in hand scratching away in my journal, my only thought being that
I wish I’d tied my hair up and then maybe I wouldn’t have a problem with the
wind bullying my hair onto my face. I certainly wasn’t chuckling.
A guy with a cheeky grin passes by me to reception, with five more in deep
conversation about having another haircut in Southport. It seems that
everyone has something to smile about today.
Then I realised that I wasn’t as alone as I felt.
Here stands a girl, waiting for something. Her hair waving in the wind, she
seems nervous as she checks the time on her watch. Biting into her lower lip
softly, she clutches a black file to her chest for comfort. Her face warms
when she spots him striding towards her and her smile lights up her whole
face. He smiles back with a small wave, and then they grip each other into a
long awaited hug. I know now that he was the something that she had been
waiting for; it’s nice that she didn’t have to wait very long, unlike me.
Before they turn and walk into reception they reach for each other’s hand.
Safe now, her mind relaxes and she chuckles to a remark from him as they
disappear in a swirl of green.
What am I waiting for today?
A team of burly construction site workers head off to do their job. The one
with the pencil tucked behind his ear leads the way, with the others
marching half-heartedly behind him.
Two young girls giggle uncontrollably at each other on their way to class.
No worries flood their thoughts today, they are just happy to be in each
other’s company.
I’m startled from a slow train of thought by a car horn in the distance. The
angry sound resonating around the car park a few feet away. Disturbing the
peaceful sound of the trees in a pleasurable state of happiness. Bloody
wind.
Students are hurrying from reception in different directions to get to their
destination and dry leaves dart between their feet. Everyone seems to be
going somewhere today, but where am I supposed to fit into this mass of
thought?
The stench of overused aftershave clogs up my senses, as a group of scouse
lads come snarling through the reception doors. Two girls follow close
behind them, “I hate when someone thinks it’s funny to spin the doors dead
fast as they walk through!”
This comment sets me off laughing quietly in the corner as the smallest lad
shouts back, “You’re fit!”
I’m surprised she didn’t mention the stench coming from the lads in a retort
but then again she might have thought he was ‘fit’ too.
I check the time and with five minutes of nosey scribbling left I stand and
walk after the cloud of aftershave to class.
Rachael Boczek
Creative Writing Observational Exercise: Two Locations
Friday 24th September, 2010
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Student information centre, 10.25am
As I sit down, I notice how remarkably quiet it is in here. A young brunette girl is sitting across the room, filling in some sort of forms on yellow paper. She looks uneasy and I can't figure out whether this is just her natural demeanour or that she is having difficulty with the questions on the aforementioned form. Suddenly, her mobile phone, which is positioned to her left on the table, rings loudly. She drops her pen and hastily grabs the handset, flips it open and greets the caller with a quick "Hello!” After a couple of seconds, her soft but firm Irish accent politely but assertively informs the caller that she is in no position to talk and she will call them back. She hangs up.My attention is then drawn to the two voices busily chatting away behind me. I glance around and notice two middle aged female employees, leaning on the either side of a door frame. They are discussing their holiday entitlements for this year and one of them seems determined to take some time off soon to begin her Christmas shopping exploits. She explains that her twenty year old daughter, who works, is having trouble with child care for her son and is worried that this may disrupt her routine.I hear the Irish accent again and look up to see that the brunette has completed her forms and is now asking the assistant where she needs to take the paperwork. She is directed to another sector and is told she must hand the forms in there. I get the feeling that she didn't quite grasp what she has been told as her verbal nods in acknowledgement of the directions given, seemed to be a little half-hearted. She thanks the assistant for her help, turns, then proceeds to walk in the wrong direction.
Meanwhile, the two ladies behind me are in the process of concluding their discussions. They end their chat and part company.
Outside of the Performing Arts building, 10.37am
As I approach the building, a young man dressed in a black tight vest and jogging pants exits and briskly walks towards me. His pace quickens as the biting wind cuts through the air. I shudder just looking at him.
A group of students are huddled together outside of the entrance. They complain strongly about the temperature, using expletives to strengthen their feelings towards the cold. Despite this, three of them light cigarettes, their addiction clearly commanding the sacrifice of the warmth available indoors. I notice that one of the males of the group has no socks on. I wonder whether this was due to their being no clean ones available to him that morning or was this simply a fashion choice. I feel compelled to ask but I quickly realise that to do so would be rude and extremely inappropriate.
In my peripheral vision, I catch sight of something moving next to me. I turn quickly and spot a bee, or is it a wasp? The insect is busily travelling from flower to flower. I decide that it is a bee. It momentarily lands on my jacket. I don’t flinch. Bees and wasps don’t bother me. However, if it had been a spider, I would have bolted like a racehorse when the traps open.
I hear the noise of heels and as I raise my eyes, I spot a bearded, middle aged man, running from one of the buildings exits. He is wearing brown trousers, a sky blue shirt and a black tie. Despite the fact I readily admit that my style is nothing to admire, I can see that his clothes do not match. He looks tired as he slows to a jog and at one point, he looks like he loses his balance. I envisage an embarrassing and potentially dangerous stumble onto the concrete, when, he seemingly regains his balance and disappears around the corner.
The bee is still working hard and during my visual observation of the running fashion show, the bee has been joined by a couple of colleagues.
Two boys pass by, one of them tearing open a bag a salt and shake potato crisps. He offers some to his friend, who declines the offer. I realise that is has been many years since I came across a bag of salt and shake crisps and for a moment, I reminisce to my childhood. I think of the time, when aged seven, I used a chair to climb up to the cupboard for the vinegar bottle, in an attempt to turn a bag of ready salted crisps into homemade, salt and vinegar ones. I dropped the bottle, smashing it all over the kitchen floor and left a puddle of vinegar for my mum to clean up. I decide I will buy some salt and shake crisps later.
I decide to go for a little walk. As I walk around the side of the performing arts building, I notice that there is a dance class in progress. As I watch, it reminds me of a scene from the popular eighties movie, Fame. I suddenly realise that I am staring through the window of a room containing many scantily clad girls, almost young enough to be my daughters. I decide to move on in fear of looking creepy. Oops, “TOO LATE!” I mumble under my breath as one of them spots me.
As I head back to the main building, I am almost hit in the face by a falling leaf. As I scan the floor and wonder how many leaves have fallen from that one tree alone that morning, I ponder over how long it take one full leave to actually grow from a branch. I decide to ‘Google’ it when I get home.
Anthony Jaras
Untitled
Sat on a cold, hard bench; doodling mindlessly in my notebook, tapping my
feet as if I’m waiting impatiently at a platform.
Then it comes, speeding past. A sports lecturer kitted out in his ‘Edge Hill’
polo and shorts teamed with clean, fresh looking trainers jogging through
the double doors.
They shut slowly behind him, ch-chug ch-chug ch-chug.
Next, a couple shuffle quickly past holding hands defensively, a warning to
any straying eyes. They bustle through the doors in an awkward silence.
The doors shut slowly behind him, ch-chug ch-chug ch-chug.
Slightly slower, a shy looking mousey haired boy stumbles through,
struggling to navigate his way at the same time as reading his copy of ‘?’
The doors shut slowly behind him, ch-chug ch-chug ch-chug.
Plodding grumpily, shortly after, a grubby builder, I can only assume has no
business here except to warm up as he breaths into his palms before rubbing
them together then pulling a used tissue from his sleeve and sniffing
loudly.
The doors shut slowly behind him, ch-chug ch-chug ch-chug.
A pair of boys saunter past discussing the night before through hazy eyes
and croaky voices, pausing every few feet to stretch and yawn or pet their
alcohol-worn stomachs.
Finally, I rise from the bench, with numb cheeks and scurry off behind the
boys, stuffing my notebook in my bag. The door shuts behind me sounding like
a train leaving the station, ch-chug ch-chug ch-chug.
Rebecca Lunn
TWO LOCATIONS
The Lake
Clumsy me. The first thing I do is sit on a wet bench. I jump up cursing profusely at my inability to learn to look before I sit. I sit on the edge of the weird water fountain thing and stare at the ducks. They seem to swim in organized unison unlike the people who walk on the path. Some rushing to get to their destination and others walking casually as the wind makes its assault. I notice the ducks on the grass. I’ve never seen ducks outside the water. They are less organized, less entrancing. They are merely birds searching for something to peck on. They move ridiculously close to the people sitting on the bench and I can’t help but smile at their boldness. Silly Creatures.
The sound of the water from the fountain hitting the rocks I find somewhat soothing. This journey I begin to find tedious so I light up a cigarette and continue to observe.
Distracted I notice a fetching blonde with legs as long as a runway, she laughs with a friend whom I find less pleasing to the eye about something insignificant. “I know right! Fucking idiot!”
The cold begins to numb my hands.
Oh my goodness a duck suddenly waddles over to me. I was so distracted by the blonde girl I didn’t notice it making its way over. It’s the closest I’ve ever been to one of those birds so I take in its features. Feathers different shades of brown, eyes thin slits resting above its beak with a green outline. They are quite beautiful but I remain adamant that they are still silly creatures. Distracted by the duck a sharp hot pain lets me know I’ve reached the end of my fag so I toss it aside. The numbness of my fingers become too painful so I decide to leave the ducks be and move on.
Linda Olatunji
Around The Main Building
As I scrutinize my surroundings in the region of the main building at Edge Hill University, I notice a variety of things; some seem trivial while others seem to stand out above the rest. There are people waiting patiently at the bus stop, where the Edge Hill bus will arrive to take them to the centre of Ormskirk. A girl slightly shivers as the breeze passes through her long golden hair; she takes out a mirror and gracefully runs her fingers through her tangled mane. She then looks around, to see if anyone had seen her slight imperfection, then slightly smiles to herself as she realises that she has avoided people seeing not looking at her best.
As the bus arrives to take the students to their next destination, a bright red car tries to go past it, but does not succeed in this endeavour. The male driver has to reverse to allow the bus to complete its route. He scowls, and mutters some expletives under his breath; one can only imagine what his choice of vocabulary was.
A tall boy, wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck, settles himself on the wall at the front of the main building with a notepad and pen, looks around him and begins to write. I begin to wonder whether he is doing the same as me, taking in his surroundings and basking in the beauty that is the Edge Hill campus. The boy adjusts his scarf and raises his head slightly inclined to the left, as if something has caught his eye, he begins to swiftly move his pen across his page with look of concentration that shows his determination.
A large group of students walk towards the main building discussing what they want for breakfast. The boy with ginger hair says; “I really fancy some chips, but I’m pretty sure it’s too early to be having them.’ I laugh at this ridiculous announcement, as it is 10.30 in the morning, and most definitely too early for chips. The girl next to him replies, slapping his stomach, “You don’t need to be eating chips at this time or you’ll get even fatter!” The group erupts into laughter while the boy with ginger hair slightly blushes and changes the conversation to how the main building looks really beautiful, a statement to which they all agree on.
While standing in the freezing cold, clutching my pen and notepad, a girl with short, black hair begins to walk towards me. She is slightly nodding her head, as if to engage into conversation, until I notice that she has headphones in and is listening to some music. As she gets closer to me, she slightly tilts her head in wonderment, as if to question why someone would be standing outside in the freezing cold, writing things onto a notepad. Her face distorts into a confused look, and she raises her eyebrows at me as if to question my sanity. I begin to wonder what things she could be imagining in her head, as she walks away with a slight bounce to her step.
The sun finally decides to make a short appearance, creating some heat and allowing those who are standing waiting around sigh with relief. I begin to walk back to the entrance of the main building and take in my surroundings. Now with the sun out, I can truly appreciate how glorious the grass looks and how vivid the tree’s are with their variety of colourful leaves. I take one look back out onto the scenic view, and sigh happily to myself as I realise that this magnificent place, is now my home.
Main building
Walking down the long corridor, approaching the terrace café, herds of
sheep-like students disperse with curious eyes. The Sun beams through the
windows. A builder hands an electric drill to what I assume is his
co-worker.
There is an array of notice boards on the walls of the maze of a corridor. I
step outside. Fresh faces pass me in gusts of wind. The huge conker tree
sits undisturbed on the lawn like an ancient watcher over the University.
The numerous buses await the students to board; one of them is called ‘the
comfy bus’ but it looks anything but comfortable.
A group of students stroll pass me talking, ‘We are getting assessed’, one
of them says to his friend. ‘Are we?’ ‘No, I’m only kidding’. Laughter
ensues; I didn’t understand the ‘joke’.
A man wearing a fluorescent yellow jacket walks by holding a walkie-talkie
which is blurring in his hand; he doesn’t seem to want to reply.
Turning, I see the Reception with the doors spinning to the footsteps of the
students. On the top of the main building there stands a little green tower,
it resembles a bell tower of a church. The flowers beside me are bright pink
and white. Cars steadily enter and escape out of the University gates.
Three lonesome birds dance on the Sun lit grass and search for the day’s
scraps. A young man holding crutches hobbles by with his friend at his side,
while a pretty girl inhales a light, soothing puff of her cigarette.
Approaching me slowly is a bright yellow tractor with the engine running
rhythmically.
A flock of birds glide over the field adjacent to the front gates.
Christopher Macaulay
Untitled
The sharp-eared traffic attendant blocks cars from entering Car Park A. I can sense his growing irritation with the bright yellow ‘Hi-Viz’ jacket that he is sporting as he brushes the large hood out of his face again and again. His pointed, upturned nose could be considered rat-like, but placed alongside the rest of his features, I think of him to greater resemble an elf. He paces back and forth along the kerbside. The personification of boredom. It seems as if there are a thousand places he would rather be…perhaps back home on The Shire!
Darren Clifford
Untitled
The ducks quacked as they waddled towards me, looking for food. A group of students behind me laugh loudly at the expense of another student. A woman with a lizard tattoo on her foot walks past on her phone. “Ok...I still have it so were ok”, she reassures the other person. A man walks past her also on the phone. “Sorry? Yeah man that’s cool no worries”. They smile at each other and keep walking opposite ways. A bird flies over the lake just as a smartly dressed man walks out of the building and across the bridge. He gets halfway and suddenly turns back and goes back into the building. One assumes he forgot something, or forgot which building he was meant to be in. “Did you have to pay to get –“, “No I had a wristband”, the students behind me say. “It was like £7”, “But the thing was shit”. The ducks chase each other round the lake and settle to eat grass. Two women walk behind me into the building, both busy on their phones, both ignoring each other. One tries to sort her hair out but it’s impossible in the wind. Eventually she gives up and leaves it to blow around. The smartly dressed man comes back out and stops as he struggles in the wind to light a cigarette, then continues walking over the bridge and round the other side of the lake. The wind blows through the reeds and ruffles the feathers of the ducks asleep on the bank. The group of students behind me spilt, and all head in different directions in smaller groups. “Excuse me have you got a lighter?” someone asks behind e. I turn round to find them asking me, and so give them my lighter. They stand for a minute trying to light the cigarette then hand the lighter back. No thanks or anything, some people have no manners at all.
Rosie Austin
Library & Business School, 11:30 - 11:55, 24-09-2010
Two yellow ladders stood inside a makeshift tape fence like boxers in the ring. Poster for a poster sale. A workman, identifiable as such only by his day-glo vest, sat, fiddling with a mobile phone and smoking a cigarette. The phone has priority over the cigarette. More workers. One is holding a bottle upside down and sucking on the bottom. A man wearing a hard hat to sweep the ground. Girl walks past staring at me until I catch her gaze and she looks away. The only worker with a hard hat is the sweeping one. Until another appears, wearing his hard had atop another hat, a balancing act, the hard hat wobbling, threatening to topple off. People looking at me. They know that I am writing what I see and they watch me to see if I write something about them. A cackle comes from somewhere but I can’t decide where. One of those helicopter leaves from childhood comes spinning down to land on the ground in front of me. There’s a man in with the ladders. Referee? People and leaves moving here and there across the concrete. Man walks past. He’s holding his phone tightly in his hand, his arms by his side. He’s wearing jeans with a noticeable array of pockets. Yet he’s carrying his phone in his hand. A big guy with a moustache, wearing a heavy metal band’s tee shirt and playing with his hair the way a flirting girl would. The hat balancer returns. Girl with a hooded top emblazoned with the words LIFE GUARD stands aided by crutches. A man carrying a box, gritted teeth betray its weight or his weakness. His long hair styled in such a way that it covers his face. He has to jerk his head back every second or so to see what is in front of him. Plans his next five steps, casts the plan top memory, left right left right left, stop, head jerk, hair displaced, another plan quickly formulated and cast to memory. Another five steps.
Joseph Wood
Untitled
In the courtyard, three buildings surround me. The building directly ahead of me is eerily vacant; the eeriness amplified by the large number of individuals that circle it like predators of nature around the building. These predators all hold communications devices in their hands, some reporting to their masters vocally and others through the use of tapping buttons on said communication device. I notice that only a few stay for a prolonged time, most deciding to pass through the building or simply walk past it; even those who stay only stay for a few moments, deciding that no new prey will arrive and depart not long after. I sneak into this building when the coast is clear and make my way to the rendezvous point on the building’s roof. Once over the absurdity of the location for a rendezvous – a garden on top of a building – I see my comrade and we start to scout the situation. We are in one of the three scouting positions, the others being occupied in the two other buildings we neighbour. Our job is to observe what happens below whilst others obtain Intel from the other buildings. I notice construction work occurring to the west of my location and wonder what they are planning. The harsh windy conditions bite hard on both myself and the hunters below, with construction being slowed down with foliage blowing around and miniscule bits of earth drifting into people’s eye sockets faster than a blink of the eye. The individuals below decide to take shelter within their allocated areas, whilst the roaming predators put hooded material over the heads to shelter themselves from the bitter conditions. I look around and realise my comrade as vanished from her position. Realising something must be afoot, I retreat preferring to continue this mission another day.
Joshua Flint
Around The Main Building
As I scrutinize my surroundings in the region of the main building at Edge Hill University, I notice a variety of things; some seem trivial while others seem to stand out above the rest. There are people waiting patiently at the bus stop, where the Edge Hill bus will arrive to take them to the centre of Ormskirk. A girl slightly shivers as the breeze passes through her long golden hair; she takes out a mirror and gracefully runs her fingers through her tangled mane. She then looks around, to see if anyone had seen her slight imperfection, then slightly smiles to herself as she realises that she has avoided people seeing not looking at her best.
As the bus arrives to take the students to their next destination, a bright red car tries to go past it, but does not succeed in this endeavour. The male driver has to reverse to allow the bus to complete its route. He scowls, and mutters some expletives under his breath; one can only imagine what his choice of vocabulary was.
A tall boy, wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck, settles himself on the wall at the front of the main building with a notepad and pen, looks around him and begins to write. I begin to wonder whether he is doing the same as me, taking in his surroundings and basking in the beauty that is the Edge Hill campus. The boy adjusts his scarf and raises his head slightly inclined to the left, as if something has caught his eye, he begins to swiftly move his pen across his page with look of concentration that shows his determination.
A large group of students walk towards the main building discussing what they want for breakfast. The boy with ginger hair says; “I really fancy some chips, but I’m pretty sure it’s too early to be having them.’ I laugh at this ridiculous announcement, as it is 10.30 in the morning, and most definitely too early for chips. The girl next to him replies, slapping his stomach, “You don’t need to be eating chips at this time or you’ll get even fatter!” The group erupt into laughter while the boy with ginger hair slightly blushes and changes the conversation to how the main building looks really beautiful, a statement to which they all agree on.
While standing in the freezing cold, clutching my pen and notepad, a girl with short, black hair begins to walk towards me. She is slightly nodding her head, as if to engage into conversation, until I notice that she has headphones in and is listening to some music. As she gets closer to me, she slightly tilts her head in wonderment, as if to question why someone would be standing outside in the freezing cold, writing things onto a notepad. Her face distorts into a confused look, and she raises her eyebrows at me as if to question my sanity. I begin to wonder what things she could be imagining in her head, as she walks away with a slight bounce to her step.
The sun finally decides to make a short appearance, creating some heat and allowing those who are standing waiting around sigh with relief. I begin to walk back to the entrance of the main building and take in my surroundings. Now with the sun out, I can truly appreciate how glorious the grass looks and how vivid the tree’s are with their variety of colourful leaves. I take one look back out onto the scenic view, and sigh happily to myself as I realise that this magnificent place, is now my home.
Megan Shuttleworth
Diary Entries.
24.9.2010
Inside a cafe in the University, there’s not many customers at this time the breakfast rush has gone and dinner is a good two hours away, because of this it is unusually easy to find a seat. Whilst paying for my food the cashier complains of a headache, ‘Out last night?’ I ask. ‘No, we stayed in but my cousin has just had a baby’, she explained. I didn’t say anything else but wondered if it was the best way to celebrate a new born baby?
Sat down at a table a man, a mature student, sits across from me. He also looks like he has been out on the ale and the bags under his eyes reveal that he is immensely tired. He only has two slices toast. It might be all he can stomach. I know that feeling. As he goes to butter his toast he realises he has forgotten his knife so with a huff of frustration goes to get one.
In the long corridor of the main building, a place of former glory, I feel strangely at home. To this literary student the building seems romantic for reasons I can’t find the words to explain. Several students walk past in the ongoing hustle and bustle that is the main building. One catches my eye a very thin boy walks past wearing a superman t-shirt. I do like irony.
Samuel Tyler
Observation within the Campus Library
The autumn sunshine was welcoming, but the sudden breeze sent a shudder over my skin and gave me goose bumps as I opened the wooden doors from the main corridor out onto the avenue in the campus grounds. Students were walking in pairs across the small roadway, attempting to keep to the pavement, heels slipping off and into the gutter making girls laugh out loud. The dried leaves skipped round their ankles, the sound of chatter and laughter filled the air.
The doors to the Campus Library, painted green, reminded me of old corporation houses, all painted in green, street after street, row upon row, all the same. The bi-fold doors opened almost silently with a whispered swoosh and folded back neatly against themselves as I walked inside. The internal doors however, grated and ground against the runners, noisily exclaiming their industrial heritage.
I sat “people watching”; observing their comings and goings, in and out through the Library doors, a distant heavy clunking sound merged into the background amongst the general melee and the constant opening and closing of the doors became instantly annoying, and yet, within minutes the repetition seemed to become common place.
There was a hubbub within the Library, people standing waiting to be seen, groups in idle chatter near bookshelves, students posting returned books through the hole in the wall and others scanning books ready to use. A man in a dark jacket stepped forward towards the reception desk, then stepped back again mumbling his apologies. He thought it was his turn to be seen then realised, it wasn’t.
A delivery man with a yellow sack truck barged his way in through the entrance. He set off the alarm system that occupied the space just inside the internal sliding doors. The Perspex screen lit up in red lines that could be clearly seen glowing like neon rays within the structure and a beeper noise went off. Nobody took any notice – except me.
The delivery man went straight through to the back of the building with a set look upon his face; it was apparent that he had done this type of delivery before. The fact that the beeper had gone off didn’t deter him from achieving his mission. He simply ignored the beeping and the red flashing lights and continued purposefully to the rear of the building. He appeared again several minutes later – he neither looked left nor right just concentrated on pushing his now empty sack truck. His head was lowered aiming straight for the noisy, grinding, sliding door then out into the autumn sunshine.
The sound of a woman’s voice not English but speaking English drifted across the empty space between the Foyer doors and the Reception Desk. People quietened to listen, but didn’t turn their heads so as to make it obvious they were being nosy. Her musical tones and the intonation in her spoken words were almost tuneful and it made you want to listen more. After a few moments she stopped talking and the general hubbub began again. People had gone back to what they were previously doing or saying, no longer needing to eaves drop.
The man in the black jacket attempted to be seen again, he bowed his head in an apologetic stance almost in reverence to the Desk Assistant. He was fidgety and unsure what to do. His face looked sweaty and his hand constantly went into a pocket of his jacket fumbling with his keys.
One lone woman stood nearby, she held her thermos mug close to her chest and occasionally looked down into it. She didn’t seem to want anything in particular, just a spot to take a break.
She watched the delivery man arrive; allowing her eyes to follow him, her head turning in his direction as he walked passed her. When he was out of sight she went back to concentrating on the steam that slowly wafted from the mug. She took a sip, grimaced then placed the top back on the mug. Was the coffee not to her taste or was it simply too hot?
Students filtered through the doors in two’s and three’s talking, laughing, pushing. Others left singularly, books under their arm, bags slung over their shoulders. When both exterior and internal doors opened almost in unison, you could hear the thud and clunk of the bulldozers. Their mechanical herculean jaws on the building site in the near distance created noise as they worked. The exhausts bellowed diesel fumes and engine noise and dust wafted through the air and into the Library Foyer. As the doors whooshed and closed the noise faded and became muffled amongst the general chatter inside.
Outside the huge dozers continued to lift and sift huge chunks of concrete and rusty steel reinforcement bars, placing them in mounds forming hills of rubble. I watched machine operators trained for the purpose manipulating these vehicles, shoving the gears and throttles with long thrusting movements, the men forcing the levers into place. The mechanical jaws opening and closing reminded me of prehistoric creatures, dinosaurs ready to fight to the death. The dust they created lay on the carpet in the entrance. A grey powder where people had trodden had concentrated into a grimy slick. The smattering of fine gravel scattered over the heather flecked blue of the floor covering had petered out the further you walked into the empty space. The green plastic plants were covered in a fine grey powder that spoiled their appearance.
The man in the black jacket finally got seen to. He asked where the gent’s toilets were and the desk assistant gestured over towards the wall. The man in black hurried across the empty space, he didn't walk in an upright manner; rather, he tilted and leaned towards the gent’s toilet door like a bull in a Spanish bull ring ready to charge. I never noticed if he ventured out… maybe he is still in there.
Elaine Ormand
Untitled
Builders. Someone on a Yamaha rides past. The hall of the Business Building is deserted, not a soul about. A guy walks past, vividly talking on the phone. Another one, but he’s got a red shirt on. There is a man in a hard-hat, sweeping up the mess the builders left behind. Yet another guy on his phone. The man who was sweeping a minute ago has now pulled the barrier back and blocked the building site off again. They’ve all disappeared with their hard-hats and cigarettes. Next to me on the bench there is a woman. Helen her name is, I overhear from a woman walking up to her. I see Steve. And that guy with the glasses I met yesterday – he seems confused. A woman walks past with a bunch of keys loudly clinging in her hand. Two blonde girls with cups of coffee. A girl with bright red hair – for a minute she looks hesitant as to where to go, but then she looks like she has figured it out. A sign informs me that today is in fact the last day of the ‘Massive Poster & Print Sale’.
Don’t miss out.
I walk into the library: there are four girls trying to figure out how to get books out; I think they’ve succeeded. A sign is showing where to return your books – how useful. All I can hear is echoes of snippets of speech, mainly spoken in the Liverpool accent. An old woman comes in and walks up the stairs. Three builders come through one door, then walk out the other. They don’t look very happy. I go back out.
Back on the bench outside, Helen is still sitting. She is gazing at her phone. The building site has been opened up again, more hi-viz jackets and hard-hats. One of them is on the phone, one has a folder, the other, pliers. Everyone I see is squinty eyed and their hairdos are all over the place. Sun and wind. Awful combination if you ask me. There is a guy with a red hard hat that stands out as all the others have yellow ones. It’s the builder’s time for another smoke.
Janka Theisler
Untitled
The wind picks up, making it hard to write anything, so I move quickly into the Wilson Centre. The strong smell of coffee hits my senses immediately. Students hurry by me in groups of two or three, chatting eagerly. They are all dressed in sporting attire; Grey hoodies, tracksuit bottoms or shorts and trainers. Some pass by me with their arms folded close to their chests to keep warm. Some students occasionally glance over at me out of curiosity, as I scribble all this down. They screw up their faces in confusion and continue onwards. Those who rush past me with their iPods on don’t notice me at all. In fact, they don’t notice anything for that matter. They hurry along with their heads down, completely lost in a world of their own. A woman approaches me and asks where the toilets are. I politely point her in the right direction and continue my writing.
I glance out of the window for a moment. The running track is deserted. A pile of brown leaves swirl over the lanes and covers them. No sports activities are taking place. I catch a glimpse of one or two students’ crossing over the track as a shortcut, strolling over the rugby pitch which is also completely empty. Workmen sit idly by the scaffolding, which covers a small section of the centre’s exterior. One worker takes out a sandwich from his Tupperware box and begins to eat it slowly, whilst another shouts something inaudible to him. The sound of construction work can be heard in the distance, a mixed melody of buzzing and banging, men shouting and giving orders.
A few construction men pass the centre, dressed in their fluorescent green jackets and hard hats, talking amongst themselves. Their hands are buried deep in their pockets, their arms held firmly by their sides, a sure sign that the cold wind is getting to them too. I can just make out two men trimming and cutting down hedges outside, barely visible behind the lengthy branches and swirling dust. Neither of the men are speaking to one another. They appear to be too focused on their work. I move out of the Wilson Centre, paper and pen in hand. The sun has come out now, taking a bit of the autumn chill away.
Sarah Hull
Segments from a Studio
The round of laughter is broken as one of the groups asks a question.
“Are we going to do it?”
“If you two start.” Another one insists.
The talking becomes incoherent momentarily, as they rapidly discuss whatever they intend to do, one of them says something that gets an incredulous response out of the rest of the group in between giggles.
“Are you still drunk?”
The response is instant, as the girl this is directed at giggles also. Whilst observing this group I noticed one thing – they laughed an awful lot.
“No.”
The laughter and discussion continues for a while, the group agree and disagreeing with how they should conduct themselves. Eventually, one of the group members makes a suggestion which they all follow.
“If we go outside,”
That generally stops them from procrastinating. As they all give signs of agreement. Still the giggling continues in sporadic bursts. “…we’re trying to get that girl to look in see explained.
They walk out of the building, giggling loudly; to complete whatever drama exercise or activity they’ve been set.
Silence.
Wonderful silence
Broken only by the occasional opening of the far door – it opens with a very surreal sound. With hindsight no door, especially if it is automatic, can sound like a whale. Yet this door did.
The silence is shattered, by the same group of four girls and two boys coming back in. That opened the flood gates. Everyone seemed to pile out for everywhere and the noise level got incredibly high. I have no clue if the group had completed whatever it was they set out to do, it didn’t appear so.
Silence once more.
I really like peace and quiet.
I kept help groaning in annoyance when its disrupted.
Two girls walk out of the drama studio – the door is stiff and difficult to open and is in need of oil for it creeps slowly shut once it’s opened.
“Who’s Simon?” asks one of the girls they walk out.
A girlish scream is heard is synchronised harmony with something that goes off like a kettle but is most definitely not a kettle - it was too high pitched to possibly be a kettle. Unsurprisingly I am struck with a paranoid and worrying though and debate what to do for a while. I decide to do nothing. This was, after all a drama studio. Such things are to be expected.
Two guys walk past me and I notice something. Anyone walking in to the performing art studio was either wearing grey or black, if they were male.
One of them sighs, sifting his bag ever so slightly.
“I’m still organising,” the other says – either they haven’t got their loans yet or they are still waiting on accommodations.
“It’s so heavy,” the other complains about his bag.
“Move it onto your other shoulder,” the other responds
“I think I might,” he agrees.
The bag doesn’t switch shoulders.
Margaret Forsyth approaches me, which was unexpected. She then engages me in conversation, forcing me to close my notebook and respond. I miss more stuff than I already have in this exercise. I forget really how the conversation goes, in terms of specifics – but generally I know what was discussed.
Pleasantries were exchanged
I was asked how I was coping – I most likely mentioned something about getting lost.
She reminded me that if I needed any help to contact that I should contact SIC.
Two students are talking to a teacher, trying to find props. There was none in the drama department or the art department suitable. They didn’t give any insight in what they were doing, I got the feeling they were all doing their own thing, each individual group that is. They disappear round a corner and when they come back the subject matter has changed – the member of staff the students were with was talking about her baby.
Someone passes in front of me singing a little ditty to herself, off key and noisy - but then what do I know about holding a note.
She only sings it once.
A blessing.
Two more people walk past, discussing whether work is up on Blackboard yet.
The group that I have paid most attention to, it helps that they stand in a circle just in front of me in the middle of the space inside the performing arts building come back and I pick up the following snippets.
“Your turn to do the waiting,”
“I forgot” One of them forgot their work.
“and then…”
“Hmm?”
“I saw someone else”
I checked the time and swore, before pocketing my book and heading outside. I saw three guys; one was dressed in a white lab coat, goggles and blue latex gloves. Hindsight tells me they were drama students but as I went up to them intrigued, the only thing I knew for sure was that they were sitting on the bench outside of the building. They could have been studying science for all I know. I didn’t really believe that.
The second they admitted they were studying drama they had failed as actors.
When the one dressed up explained what they were going to do, they spoilt my afternoon. It could have been full of disbelief and panic.
Still I wonder how many people they got to believe that there had been a cyanide leak.
I did spend the rest of the day bursting spontaneously into fits of uncontrollable laughter.
Not a total loss.
Christopher Deller
The journey. The lake.
The stalls have opened – the starter gun, a drowned voice; “Off you go, begin.” The groans of chairs moulding the carpet, rustling of belongings, jackets bags et al. Mute words, as in tandem everyone anticipates the suggestion made motion for the door. In an active movement bodies bolt, ping ponging through the narrow corridor like dancing atoms. I too bounce, my left shoulder hugs the walls as my tatterdemalion blue rucksack spindles me left.
I brave the onslaught of human traffic in my wake, the perilous catacombs of corridors deceptive, yet enticing. A large gentleman sporting a tight Batman logo t-shirt surges past me, his long ebony hair matted below the crown from when he last slept. Hands bulging out of his denim-jean pockets, I halt immediately. Pondering whether to disembark on my quest and stalk this fellow through the myriad of faces. Intrigued that he may adopt the persona of his shirt and pursue a crime in action. I foresaw a future, becoming the newshound fated to document the deeds of the protagonist. Until, when slowly swallowed by bitterness and envy… I eventually become the evildoer.
After brief deliberation and deciding against a fate of villainy, I decide to fulfil my quest. Though, I decide firstly to empty my bladder before approaching the destination of streaming water. Therefore I apply my verbal indicator of; ‘excuse me, coming through.’ I U-turn left, almost tipple topping like a Reliant Robin braving a sharp corner at high speed, as I home-in on the stick figured door…
My quest for ‘the lake’ resumes. I pass the maze of oak herrings to find a varnished chestnut coloured door leading outside hidden by a veranda glass gateway. Outside is typically where a lake should be… yes. Now in desire to find the location scrawling upon my notepad as thoughts are projected upon the page like a technicolour yawn of ink. I clasped tightly in my palm a pen and a tattered crumpled map. This reaffirms to me that the bunker of water my desired location. “Yes” I mumble to myself, “It is time to complete this orienteering task,” as I place my finger upon the sky-blue filled ‘b’ image hoping that I have the latent ability of teleportation… “Alas!”
Approaching my intended flag, I pass an’ abstract statue of what is. Well, what seems to be a hybrid of a female cow sheep-pig? The modest statue grazing upon the concrete cinderblock of which it rested upon, surrounded by a blanket of grass and a balcony of plants. A wayward plastic shopping bag with the elevated view peered down. Dancing to and fro with the wind as it waves to the passersby, all of which seemingly unaware of the greeting.
The sign to the right of the statue, the text barely legible as the chilling wind freezes all concentration, ‘For your safety…’ the rest hidden from sight by overgrown grass, the inscription cryptic unless enquired by those brave enough to wrestle the small jungle of ten centimetre grass, ‘For your safety…’ The grass patrolled by vertical grey plastic totem poles shooting from the ground. I Fear to brave past them, for they would surely release a deadly sonar signal emitter to perforate my ears and liquefy my brain. Though, on reflection they were most likely lights…
In sight of the basin now, filled from a perpetual flowing staircase of water, traverses down leading to a waterfall streaming below. A violent drop within the tub, the noise of groans resonate a soothing tenor of water migrating to the lake. The liquid again reunited, edging out the droplets clinging on. Reluctant yet inevitably destined to retrace the journey…
My gaze traced down the concrete staircase to the source. Rectangular brick cinderblocks protruding out of the ground brimmed with: that’s right! Water, as it migrates calmly, orderly across the staircase of concrete. The Sky Bulb shoots down its abduction beam in attempt to scan the aquatic intruder, as it slowly vacates the manufactured coffer. The light creates a shimmer on the water’s surface, creating a sparkle, a bouquet of bright opaque crystallites. Molecules of light explode on the surface to create the glimmer like a silver disco ball, twirling within the light. Light, my eyes follow the light. My eyes hypnotised by the water strokes, strokes. It Moves, moves, constant…
Success! I finally arrive to the man-made basin, a sink of water catering various nomadic species of bird – predominantly duck. My vantage point leaned up against the wooden guardrail that is incidentally the right height to comfortably rest my notebook upon. My exposed fingers at mercy to the fist clenching cold, hands longing for the sweet release of the pocket’s warmth as the wind attacked in pulses. The frost bites at my fingertips in intervals, like a school of piranha gnawing at flesh leaving behind the scraps, red blisters.
My ears occupied by a passing siren. I thought to myself, perhaps the police to round-up the indisposed villains the Batman sporting t-shirt fellow had defeated. The noise slowly easing into the backdrop, drowned out by the whispers of the wind showering the lake with a confetti of leaves. The sudden quack! A guffaw threw my attention instantly to two Mallards, one male with his viridian head and straw coloured beak. The second a female, auburn filigreed with speckles of white and black. Both ducks wing in wing braved the comfort of the sheltering trees and plants pass me, teetering to and fro as they walk aside me circling the giant rectangular cinderblock.
My eyes move wayward. Broken by movement above, in the distance a building sporting the acronym; ‘FOH.’ On the rooftop, lay a regiment of birds lined up peering downwards at the lake – in attack formation. The lake, currently occupied by two Canada geese, with a community of Mallard swimming across the circumference and occupying the grass around seemed unaware or uninterested to the rooftop threat from above. Collections of birds swoon down scouting the dominion of the ducks skimming the reeds that shot out of the fringe of water, fireworks of green strands. Distant voices unheard, passers-by unseen. I was transfixed. The lake pulled me closer, a magnetic force to spare me from the tooth-marks of ice.
Until halted by the rail, the whispers now audible, “For our safety…”
Aaron Stewart
Rose Theatre Box Office
Faint sound of sirens in the distance, getting gradually louder…louder and then a sudden stop.
People leaving the performing arts building in sporadic sets of 2 and 3
“See you mate”
“Yeah pal im here all day”
6 more people enter the building as if against the tide
“Are we late?”
“For what?”
“Our lecture” replies a longhaired male
“We haven’t a lecture this morning, your thinking of tomorrow”
“Tomorrow is Saturday you Gobshite”
A man dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans drags a trolley past, the wheels rattling incessantly.
Suddenly another group of students 6 to be exact exit the building and stand directly in the middle of the path to discuss the finer points of purple hair!!
It appears as if they have been sent out on an observational exercise although they appear to be observing very little.
They leave, and with them the noise leaving nought but the gentle sound of the breeze and the faint murmuring of an aeroplane.
In the distance as if in a faint murmur the voice of a girl
“Where has today gone…”
Dave Sherriff
Untitled
‘Hi, thank you, thank you’ the man said as a woman let him through the door. Both exchanging smiles as they pass in a courteous way. Everything is happening so fast, I am struggling to capture it all that’s going on.
A group of rowdy builders stomp through the doors, one of them greets a lady in a Liverpudlian accent ‘Hi love, you alright?’ ‘Yes, thank you.’ The sound of my phone vibrating interrupts my observations. I answer ‘hello’, no reply, they hang up. Prank caller I assume. I resume my task. The double doors to my left seem to be causing a nuisance to some people, failing to observe that they are pull, not push. Providing much amusement for me.
Something is happening in Hale Hall in front of me, people keep changing seats; it could either be a meeting or musical chairs without the music.
Three of my lecturers pass, speaking loudly to each other in a talkative manner. They enter a room to my left. Meanwhile, a guy from my class approaches the other side of the double doors, stands and proceeds to take notes. We both laugh as we know that we have to write about this now. Sounds of heels getting louder echoed off into the distance as a smartly dressed lady passed by.
From my left, a door opens and my three lecturers enter the corridor; this time, holding cups of tea, one of them says to me ‘taking this in.’ I nod and laugh and carry on writing.
My lecturer Ailsa holds the door for her colleagues, but then some smartly dressed men approach, so out of politeness, she is forced to hold the door for them too. I laughed, because I can relate to having done the same and being stuck with the door because I couldn’t quite get away fast enough.
A man with a yellow rucksack, and bald head stops to speak with a guy with dark hair and a suit. This situation is familiar too, where people stand in the most obstructing place and decide to have a conversation or business meeting. This also amuses e as they dodge to each side when a person comes passed. They say ‘nice to see you’; ‘nice to meet you’ then part with a smile.
I move to go upstairs and sit on a window ledge: I can see the bright, dazzling sun through the white criss-cross windows. Light seeps through the blood coloured tree and the wind forces it to sway sideways like a ship in a storm.
Jessica Hewitt
Untitled
A library is usually imagined as a quiet place, but the first thing you notice is how loud the bloody doors are. All you hear is the opening and closing of the doors, but it doesn't seem to bother anyone else though. Not a lot does bother people here, for example, a delivery man walks in and sets off the alarm. He doesn't slow down, nor does he show any sign of actually noticing he's set it off. No one in the room bats an eyelid either at the sudden interruption of the alarm.
There is a woman sat not far away from me. She is drinking from a flask with her eyes fixed upon the entrance. Clearly, this woman is expecting someone or something to happen. She doesn't notice me watching her. She has quite an angry look on her face, which makes me wonder what she's waiting for. I look away from her when I realise that the low hum of chatter of everyone talking at the same time dies at exactly the same time. I look around, wondering what made everyone stop talking, but instantly, the chatter starts up again, and my eyes are drawn to the woman with the flask. She is now surrounded by women, and I instantly notice each of the women are speaking with different accents.
I turn to see what else I can see from where I am sat. There is a woman stood outside smoking a cigarette, wrapping her arms around herself because she is cold. I watch her for a few seconds, thinking how much I would like a cigarette right now, when suddenly, she disappears. I watch the space where she was stood, wondering why I never noticed her leave. I glance around outside to see where she has gone, but I can't see her. I glance back at where she was before, and somehow, she is stood there again, in the exact same place she started with. I frown in confusion. I watch her for a little while longer, and she disappears again. I have no idea where she's going, but upon observation, I realise that the place she's stood vanishes when the doors open and close, and there is a reflection where she is stood, which mirrors and similar but different space to where she is stood. I laugh quietly to myself before getting up and leaving the library.
I've made my way to the top floor of the business building and stand beside a window that overlooks the roof garden. Despite how beautiful the garden looks in the sunlight, the only thing I notice is how cold and windy it is outside, and despite the open window I'm stood beside, I cannot feel the weather from outside. Looking down, I notice a girl breaking a brownie in half and offering it to a girl stood beside her. Judging by the conversation they're having, they've only just met. Even lower then these two girls are a further two girls reading a map, and pointing in various directions.
My attention is drawn to the windowledge just below me. There is a broken wine glass there, with some form of dried liquid staining both the broken shards of glass and the windowledge itself. I frown as I wonder how it could have gotten there, and how it might have broken. I also am intrigued to know why it is still there, because if it should have happened to fall, it may have landed on a student, which could result in a nasty injury.
Dan Conmara
Observations: Wilson building. 26/09/2010
A trampled poster, “I love vodka! Last day!” drifts ominously across the discoloured concrete between two groups of pale students. Inside three students exchange identical information, all trying to delay the irresistible onslaught of awkward silence. The jangle of keys echoes through the long corridor. A small woman supporting a large clipboard stares at nothing. Two more students amble past, discussing their hopes for the future, “two hundred pound! Do Blackwell’s only sell books?” Outside the building, one of them picks a poster up and scours the page for a Blackwell’s logo. Back inside; a small woman supporting a large clipboard stares at nothing. A well fed man sits down opposite me to finish his pie. After achieving this goal he indulges in a drawn out display of public flatulence. Mass exodus follows. “How long does this enrolment last mate?” “About 20 minutes.” “Piss take.” Just outside the door a small women supporting a large clipboard stares at nothing.
Ryan Hawkins
Untitled
The wispy clouds are blown apart by the breeze. Someone shivers, wearing shorts.
‘Alex could have a cloth, it could look like …’ Group of girls, group of boys.
‘It’s fucking dead.’ Walking out of the building, a group of students stop to stare at something in the sky. Someone points and they laugh.
‘Wankers’ someone shouts, maybe at whatever is in the sky.
‘Do you see dead people?’
‘No.’
‘There’s a group over there … dead people … can you see them?’
‘Erm … yeah.” They walk away. They don’t look like dead people to me.
Only one of the windows opposite has diamond decoration, as though somebody got bored. A big blue lorry reverses slowly, and somebody moves out of the way. A man’s head looks out of the glass of a yellow JCB, like the song, from where it is floating, looking proud of himself. One piece of lavender hovers over the others. Bits of trees dance, and sand lands on black leggings, and a pile of leather rides a bike labelled Ninja. A long, long line, like primary school children, walking in pairs, holding hands. ‘Any spare change?’ They laugh.
Leaves are scattered, scratching at the floor. People are still wearing shorts and shivering: The North.
Leah Burton
Paper Jungle
They scurry around me, desperately searching for material objects to calm
their subconscious mind. The sound of quiet pitter-patter folds perfectly
into a delicate balance with the turning of pages. They are bright and
fresh-faced. An array of colour and vibrancy, similar to that of an African
sunrise, eager to face the day ahead.
Robot-like technology seems somewhat inferior. The lonely, dark screens are
a mere shadow upon the nearby jungle of words. The chairs bow in admiration,
pending the opportunity to experience the splendour of the ‘masterpiece’ they
call a book.
Sarah Batty
