Behind the running
track
“Jay-sus!” A broad, possibly Irish accent breaks the
tranquil silence behind the running track. Swiftly followed by a builder, in an
orange hi-viz vest, jumping back from a man hole that’s surrounded by wheel
barrows and mini diggers. A hornet and a wasp hover and land on a bottle of Mountain Dew. The cold breeze blows them
away just as they take off. The wind
carries in a strangely familiar smell, like wet chippings; bringing back
memories of visits to parks in childhood. It also brings the cold that ceases
the heath from the sun immediately. Why
did I leave my coat in my dorm?!
Sand is concealed in the cold gust, either from the pathetic
excuse for a beach, or the work men digging. Streams of people filter behind
me, their chatter almost drowned out by the buzzing of a drill on stone, or a
hammer on nail. Hammers remind me of Thor, and ironically, maybe, a girl walks
by in an Avengers Cat’s t-shirt. The same one I purchased yesterday, the same
time I got my new coat, which hangs, unused in my dorm. The wind blows from a
different direction, and the sun burns my shins and chest. The builder in the
orange hi-viz vest holds onto a tree like a venerable child onto a teddy. His
work mates beat a supporting piece of wood next to the skeletal tree with a
hammer like a giant hour glass on a pole.
Funny how they’re planting trees in the countryside;
replacing what they ripped down to build a fake beach and lake. Above, a plane
fly overhead, just under the faintest outline of a half moon, hanging,
alienated in the baby blue sky. Behind me, seagulls sit in rows, like builders
on iron garters. A contrastingly beautiful butterfly passes overhead, flapping
frantically in beat with the hammering.
The clusters of grass planted by the manmade lake lean in
the gale, like hands of the dead reaching for the builders; maybe for
disturbing their peace. A girl dressed head to toe in black walks by and I am
envious, she must be so warm. She walks across the bridge opposite me and her
black figure is reflected in the rippling water below. Walking back to my dorm
to get my coat, a student sits with a large cup of Starbucks something, writing
in his notepad like myself. I hope he isn’t writing about me.
Lauren Butler
We were sent out for a wander today- to different parts
of the campus- to find things to write about. I’ll be honest, at first I didn’t
think much of it at first; I kind of assumed there would be nothing interesting
to write about and then I had a mini-panic thinking I would have to turn
something really boring into this amazing masterpiece so that I could impress
my new tutors, but, hey ho…
I started off by The Hub; a garish building with
floor-to-ceiling windows that was pretty modern looking, with the exception of
the odd old architecture that joins it to the rest of the main building. I sat
in there for a while, The Hub I mean, and people watched. Not that there were
many people to watch. There were two men outside doing what looked, I joke you
not, like they were watering the floor. Not the plants, the floor. After
staring at them for a little while I turned my attention elsewhere, thinking
that there was a good chance that I looked a right stalker. To my left was an
older man, not old just older than me.
He was alone and watching with wide eyes the BBC News on the TV that was hung
high on the wall in front of him. I couldn't quite make out what was going on
and I was practically on line with the TV so I couldn't see the picture that
well. Not that it mattered, I weren't meant to be watching TV!
The Hub was starting to fill up a little when I spotted a
familiar face; God, what was her name? Anyway, I got up from my table and made
my way towards the actual main building passing a group of girls, one of whom
had quite a large floral tattoo rising up her leg from her foot, that were
chunnering away about their drunken episodes from the night before. There was a
woman in a long white science coat walking in the opposite direction to me, I
freaked out a little and did a double take before realising that a) I wasn’t in
some sort of lab experiment and b) that I wasn’t in a film either and that
watching a woman walk around in a coat I've never seen in ‘in the flesh’ was
definitely not something I had experienced in my general day-to-day life
therefor qualifying it to definately be something of interest. The woman nodded
and smiled and went on her way- nothing abnormal there. Except maybe the
science coat; I’ll have to get used to that.
Walking through The Hale Memorial Hall was like walking
through a time warp. I looked behind me and saw a normal, everyday kind of
atmosphere then I turned back around and saw something that would look modern
in the 1800s. High domed ceilings that casted slight shadows at the peak were
lit up by the blinding sun that seeped in through the large windows. Old wooden
(were they oak?) pillars separated the long walls into sections as the room
stretched out in front of me. It really was quite a sight. The only thing that
was out of place was the charity tea and cake stalls that were set up in the
middle of the room. Hmm…
I made my way outside of the main reception area and took
a seat on one of the stone benches on the grass. I looked up at the building in
front of me; it was old and powerful looking. I remember when I first came to
look at the university, when I drove up the driveway to see this great building
stood firm in front of me; at first I thought it looked like Hogwarts, but then
sitting on that bench in the front garden I changed my mind. It was more
sophisticated than Hogwarts- to compare it to such was an insult- it was more
along the lines of a stately home, or maybe something similar to what I
imagined Mr Rochester’s house was like in Jane Eyre, I don’t know. Either way,
I'm putting my money on there not being a two headed dog hiding behind the
accommodation blocks right at the back.
Stephanie Mills
Dance on the Wind
A Large staircase painted a violent shade of orange looms
in the distance, a curtain of soft green foliage sways in the wind in front of
the stairs often obscuring parts of them. Consequentially the gently brush of
nature acts well to reduce the angry modern architecture, the staircase sits
there, pointless, leading to nowhere, proud as punch. It lords itself over its
older and smaller counterparts, their wrought iron frames creaking in the
wind. All of a sudden the hush of campus
is disturbed by a stampede of students, so very many of them, all rushing
around eager to get to where they are going, living life at such a fast pace
they don’t have time to slow down and look at the world around them, all
believing that there is not enough time to look out at the buildings or watch
the wind blow through the trees.
As the melee of students move across campus they talk and
laugh with each other, discussing classes past and future, one girl turns to
her friend and asks in a thick northern accent “Have you done the assignment
yet?”
“Of course not” the other reply’s in an equally strong
accent. Peals of true, friendly laughter trail after them as they continue on
their way, melding with their laughter the ring of applause comes pouring out
of a nearby window, a muffed voice speaks out to the room, saccharine sweet
laughter follows their speech, a false laugh delivered by those who are keen to
be liked by all others around them.
Workmen and grounds keepers emerge as if out of nowhere,
toting their heavy tools and machinery, ready to begin the days labours. Task
one, cleaning the pale cobbled paths of the campus. High powered jets of water
assault the ground, stripping away the evidence of late nights and cheap
alcohol. A group of four boys strut around the work men and their never ending
battle with the remnants of nights out; the boys meet their friends on cobbles
still darkened with grime. Like peacocks pluming the present themselves to one
and other showing that they are worthy of a place in the group. Their greetings
permeate the air around them, warming the chill wind that cuts across campus,
rushing around buildings, cutting around corners to catch unsuspecting students
with a chill breath.
The wind begins to pick up, lifting the first of the
pale, crisp, golden autumn leaves and sending them skittering across the
ground. The leaves dance together to a silent melody, a bitter sweet song that
only they can hear, oblivious to the world around them they twist and dip
intertwined in a beautiful dance. Jealous of the others beauty and grace more
leaves begin to release their deathly tight grip to the branches high above,
dropping to the ground where they too can dance on the wind. Sensing the leaves
desire to dance the wind blows harder, filling his lungs with a great breath he
exhales lifting the brittle leaves from the ground. Full of joy the leaves
embrace the wind and welcome him as a friend whilst students pull up their
collars and wrap coats tighter to their bodies. Like shimmering gold the leaves
dance madly brushing over each other, rustling with joy, they are happy to
dance and be free after so long anchored high above the heads of people,
ignored by all of those who do not take the time to look at them, the people
are busy constantly moving, never still, like ants swarming their nest. After
so long high in the tree tops only ever watching and wishing, the leaves are
finally free, finally they can dance on the wind.
Keshena Capell
Here Come the Ducks
Again!
A moorhen comes darting towards the bench I sit on, the
top of its beak bright red in the sun. It walks on two legs in a fashion I
always imagined prehistoric raptors would, leaning from side to side ever so
slightly as it moves. Aren’t raptors supposed to be distantly related to
chickens or something? I can't remember. Not that moorhens are
anything like chickens. The moorhen doubles back before it can come too close
however and disappears into the shrubbery around the lake.
There’s a pathway winding around the back of the bench
and with the sun high in the late morning sky you can see people’s shadows
approach almost before you hear their footsteps. There’s a shadow coming closer
now and I wait a few seconds and yes, there’s the footsteps too. I raise my
head to spare the owner of the shadow a glance. Student, around my age, he has
a backpack and I watch as he veers off the concrete path to stroll across the
grass taking his route directly across. I don’t bother to watch him until he’s
out of sight, instead turning back to stare ahead of me. With the wind blowing
the way it is, a kind of music is made by the rustling leaves on the trees
around me, punctured now and then by the loud quacks of the campus’ resident
ducks. As a long procession of people continues down the path behind me, I hear
snippets of their sentences as they pass, a mismatch of words, phrases and
exclamations that I forget as soon as hearing them.
I see the moorhen again. It’s pecking around on the
ground in the distance. Out of the corner of my eye I spot another moorhen. It
moves almost cautiously towards the other. The first moorhen looks up and sees
the other and darts away off in the opposite direction. I glance up at the sky
and note that I can still make out a quarter or so of the moon, faded against
vibrant blue.
A group of friends hover in front of the peculiar statue
to my right, chatting. I see that some of them are clutching twigs and sticks
for some reason. They coo over the moorhens and one comments on how she gets
‘baby moorhens’ on her farm. The other girls gush excitedly at this and ask if
they can visit. They walk off together and soon their chattering fades away
completely and it’s quiet once more. Or it would be if those damn ducks gave it
a rest.
Suddenly a loud shout erupts across the lake. It startles
the ducks so much that they take flight, quacking in surprise.
Just then a girl with a cigarette walks past behind me
and as always the smell of the smoke reminds me of my grandparents. The memory
is fleeting as the wind blows the smoke away. The sound of a far off rumble
above me makes me look up at the sky in time to watch the progression of a
plane flying overhead. It leaves a white streak against the blue sky in its
wake. It looks so small up there against the vast expanse of the sky.
I lean over the back of my bench and see a rusted hair
pin lying on the ground, discarded and forgotten who knows how long ago.
A new moorhen had appeared. There’s three of them now,
all carefully steering clear of each other. Then three ducks appear, invading
the moorhen territory, and come right up to the bench. They are so close that I
can make out the wet sheen to their feathered bodies. Fresh from the lake then.
The three ducks make their way past and waddle over to the next bench along.
They wander over there for a bit before making their way back over to
where I'm sitting, this time hovering in the shade of my shadow. They
stare at me, quack once and waddle off. Curious little things they are.
Three girls walk past, their conversation centred on
potatoes. It reminds me that I still haven't eaten today. Two more
girls walk past and one laments how she’s ‘actually starving.' It’s a hyperbole
of course but I understand her sentiment.
Here come the ducks again. Two girls stop to watch the
ducks for a moment and start to name them. Susan, Margery and Cecilia. I look
down at the ducks. The names fit well enough I suppose. Susan and Margery take
flight suddenly, leaving poor Cecilia behind. She quacks indignantly, clearly
not pleased, and takes off after them.
Alexandra Worthington
Mass observation exercise
I walk round to the wooded area behind the Arts Centre
and find a place to sit on the steps. Colin the gardener says ‘morning’
as he drives past his noisy little wagon. It definitely feels like autumn
now as there is a cutting wind brushing through the trees, chilling an
otherwise sunny day. Colin starts to mow the grass beside some students having
a lecture. It appears they are having a lecture similar to ours as they soon
disperse to different areas amongst the trees. They start to take
pictures of various points of interest. One group are instantly drawn to the
mock Las Vegas sign that has been erected.
It reads:
“To the fabulous Anthropocene era,”
I remember this sign
being brought in last week. An artist named Robyn had commissioned it to
celebrate the 80th anniversary of Edgehill. I remember this because
I coordinated the several trucks that it took to bring the sign in. After
getting them all in Robyn thanked me and left. Just as she was leaving my
manager came around the corner and bollocked me for being stood there doing
nothing. Sod’s law I guess.
Colin is now feeding
some birds near his wagon. It’s a couple of Coots, those weird little birds
that remind me of Velociraptors from Jurassic park. They squabble over pieces
of bread, their little legs flurry with excitement, moving faster than what is
logically possible.
The group of
students have now reconvened and 4 or 5 of them are performing some sort of
choreographed dance whilst another films it on their phone. They finish
and receive a round of applause. I don’t think they quite deserved a round of
applause but thats just me.
The trees around the
area all average around forty foot in height but vary in shape and type.
In between these trees there is a metal statue. I have walked past this
statue before and thought it rather ugly. I realise that it may be a conceptual
but without knowing its origin or intentions I just find it out of place.
The group of
students return to their little spot after another outing around the area. I
wonder if any of them feel conscience that I’m staring at them and writing in
my note book. They are all intently focused on the tutor, so I think not.
I become suddenly aware that someone could be watching me. I turn around to see
a group of girls sitting at a table inside the café in the arts centre. The
reflections of the trees on the glass that separates us makes it easier to see
out than to see in. I am self-conscience now. Have I been sat here the
last half an hour with my arse crack out? Very possibly.
A light breeze ripples through the reeds, the trees whispering
softly to themselves as a couple of girls walk by, smiling and enjoying the
warmth. The occasional leaf tumbles forward a short distance before pausing as
if to examine its new surroundings. A van goes past, its engine no louder than
a soft purr as it navigates the twisting road. Someone, a woman, sits on a
bench in the sun, studying her newspaper, kicking off her shoes to warm her
bare feet. As a couple of girls pass, chattering about their class, she pulls
out her mobile for a swift conversation as she watches a mob of people exit the
red brick building, waiting for someone.
A moorhen releases a lone call,
seemingly announcing the tide of people suddenly flooding from the building.
Most chatter in a large group with the occasional loners satisfied with the
company talking on their mobiles provides. A flock of birds slowly circle
overhead, diving low behind a plain looking building only to return a moment
later as if searching for something. The swarm of people slows to a casual
passer-by, immersed in the world inside her phone. She appears to have dressed
for warmer weather then hastily donned a jumper noticing the cool wind.
Swooping low overhead a plane
heads to a location unknown, a delusional bird attempting to pursue it. A woman
walks by, her heels clicking loudly on the path, rarely tearing her eyes away
from her phone for long enough to avoid tripping over a wondering duck.
Loud giggles announce a
group of girls wondering towards the lake, seemingly searching for a
place to sit, oblivious to the moorhens that go to meet them. One of them
deliberately places a twig on the ground, laughing about putting it to rest
before the group slowly turn and return the way they came, seemingly
unsatisfied, trying to act as if a brief visit had been all they had intended
when they arrived.
Another plane flies past, higher
than the last, leaving a trail of white behind as a group of ducks noisily
chatter about it. A girl possibly dressed in her pyjamas lounges on a bench,
enjoying the sun. Her phone catches the sun and reflects it in a dazzling
flash, a moorhen strutting past either oblivious or uncaring. Satisfied with
her short stay, she swiftly leaves, keys clanking in her hand.
An excited shout from across the
lake startles the ducks into a brief fight. Walking with a purpose, a man and a
woman stride by, well dressed and discussing law. Their presence seems to have
triggered the arrival of others heading in the same direction, split into
several smaller groups. An elderly woman with white hair made even brighter by
the sun stops for a rest, taking a quick drink of water from her handbag before
slowly wandering on her way.
Among a casual stream of people
walks a man, his shoes squeaking with each step. A sad looking girl passes in
the opposite direction looking cold and uncertain followed by a more confident
girl with hair a shade lighter as if an echo of a past persona.
The wind picks up again,
encouraging a small cluster of ducks to stray from the water, approaching the
nearby benches in pursuit for food. One wags its tail, shakes itself then moves
on, undeterred by the failure, methodically searching the grass for scraps. The
reeds bend in the wind, waving to the ducks patrolling their grassy domain.
There is no doubt that the ducks are the kings here. A swarm of minute flies circle,
keeping a respectful distance, pulsing as if dancing to an unheard beat.
Momentarily finished begging for
food, a duck settles itself on the grass, getting a brief rest before its
friends notice and encourage it back to its feet. A male with brilliantly
orange feet pauses by the bench, its whole body lurching with each call. It
tilts its head to study me in return, his emerald head almost glowing in the
sun, before re-joining its friends.
A couple of girls arrive to
examine the strange sculpture but leave swiftly, laughing at the unidentifiable
swirling block. Rooting through her purse, a girl passes with a yellow t-shirt
so bright it is almost blinding.
Another plane passes,
practically silent, only a twin set of white trails indicating its presence.
The sky is almost cloudless, the few there are appear in rough lines as if
painted by a giant brush. As time passes, the shadows move until finally all
three benches are warming in the sun much to the occupants’ delight. Discarded
feathers are scattered in the grass, no longer needed.
Two women stroll along,
the younger one dressed brightly in pink, the elder in black, a contrast to
each other. A flock noisily rise into the air, startled by a source only known
to them.
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