Tuesday, September 25, 2018

Observations - 21-25/09/2018




Stephanie Pattinson

The stale sweet smell of finely cut pages lingering around my nose, sending shots of pain and delight pulsing through my brain. Chattering feet curdled with silent murmurs, pounding feet and working minds. Heavy breathing as pounds of flesh drag pounds of paper up never-ending flights of stairs making their way closer to the sky where the true silence lives. Sheets of glass protecting them from the tiny daggers falling from the heavens that they were submersed in just a moment before. The wind scratching at the stone surrounding me, trying so desperately to escape, escaping itself and the harsh world outside. Half empty shelves of countless information fill my heart with dread, as wonder if these silent beings will someday become obsolete. As their both rival and allies sit by their sides glow with fibers and light, useful information so easy to pick out of the air. The pounds of flesh drawn to them so quickly only a short glance is gifted to the paper sleeping soundly on wooden shelves. A sad existence for such beautiful and celestial beings, but by me they are loved. My heart flutters as my skin meets their spine, opening them up to discover a whole new world of possibility. Streams of grey and green flow beneath my feet, as my heavy eyes fixate on the singular tile disturbing the pattern of its peers. Standing out so clear in a sea of stripes, fixating on the embodiment of me secured to the ground, stepping over it, letting the moment slip through my fingers along with the thought. Braving the cold once again, the wind still screaming to break in but safe in my arms I hold a world, a loving embrace and a new adventure.   


Rebecca Finney

The feeling of death hanging over a world full of life is cast by a bruised sky, heavy with rain that, slowly at first, then all at once, falls from the clouds in ashen sheets. Wind passing through the trees – which are growing bare with the turning of the season and reach into the sky with curling, twisted fingers – taunts the water, upon which a single moorhen bobs between the reeds. Across the lake, a bridge patterned with dirty footprints is a hazy shadow, breached every so often by an out-of-place myriad of colour. A yellow raincoat. A pink polka-dot umbrella. A red backpack. Intrusive. A consistent stream of activity set apart from the water and the reeds, the trees being tugged back and forth on the bank, while the lake and the life hidden beneath it remain in place, unmoved. Another world, ignored by time, broken out of its reverie only by the sour stench of smoke wafting over from a cover hidden by the rain. The smell of it is tangible in the air not just to the nose but to the tongue. A film coating develops and succeeds in smothering the petrichor in the air but little else. And eventually the rain subsides, leaves behind only a memory of itself in the puddles strewn about, and the sun peaks through a gap in the blanket of clouds. Somehow, the world seems greyer than before. 


Gemma Parkinson

A day is anew, the weary young things wander through as the morose firmament bears down with harsh fingers of light. They wander as they walk, those things down there, in groups or pairs or alone.
The tables are like that – it seems the only people interested in eating are the people who need a distraction from their own stark solitude.
How sad it is – HUB – the connotations of such a word being that of a centre, a core, a heart – how sad it is then that there be such fragmentation. Souls just dispersing, gliding back and forth, here and there, not sure if they are coming or going. The centre does not hold.

Table by table, chair after empty chair, I wonder how many will be filled and how many are left barren, left to feel the unwelcome draft of passers-by, stirring silently in its own unworthy shame.
Then, all at once, the Heavens break down, the rapturous drums of rainfall overcoming the hum of small talk and footfall. I look out at it, the grey-filtered exterior, the ground of mirrors, the unquiet trees, and I feel it all over again.
Dread. An unbearable weight of wakefulness. The anxiety of simply ‘being’.
And I wonder if they feel it too, those lonesome diners below. With their phones clutched in lifeline, sitting in groups – intimate, close – that don’t speak, that say nothing.
Maybe I just can’t hear them, could that be why some lean in with every word?
Maybe it’s the noise – rain, footsteps, screened media – surely it couldn’t be from all that non-talking?
Maybe, perhaps, suppose it’s just me. Couldn’t that be so? Every time I raise my head, another new person enters and another leaves, one whom has braved the storm and one who prepares to brave it. A seat becomes emptied then filled ad infinitum, until I realise perhaps I’ve been here too long.

By and by, I gather myself, leave my perch and prepare to join those moving bodies, facing the horrors of this dark day all over again.


Catalyst
Kerri-Alice Brown
The atmosphere is filled with a warmth that has a welcoming presence, with the added scent of coffee wafting through the air. Whilst glancing outside I feel sorry for those who have the brace the torrential rain and forceful wind. As I sit on the cold, duck egg chair I gaze around and admire the silence of those deep in thought. The silence is overcome by the light buzzing of a nearby vending machine and the muffled chatter of grouped students. The clicking sound of keyboards echoes through the building. The majority of the computer's sit deserted with few screens displaying advertisements for campus sport and social media, while all the remaining screens remain blank. As I gaze up I am taken aback by the sight of a giant desk lamp towering over me. The buzzing of the vending machine stops and once again the building is overcome with the tranquility of silence.

Bethan Jones

Kitchen staff are shrouded in layers of black thread that in any other environment would be considered emo. Especially with the way they don’t seem physically capable of showing any form of emotion other than “the coffee ran out this morning”. Or whiskey. It’s 10pm somewhere. With Lumiere praising ‘the delicious grey stuff’ in my ear, it’s almost comical. A tragic parody of ‘Be Our Guest’.

All the chairs where I’m sat are armless, spinny chairs with either red or blue scratchy fabric. The sort of design that school governors use to ‘get down with the kids’. But behind me is a green chair. It’s such a sad chair. All of its friends are missing. It must be so lonely. Feel so abandoned. I don’t see any other green chairs about. His name is Steve. Steve must be so sad. He’s been assigned to a table with two reds. He must feel like such an outcast, the only one of his kind in a swarm of red and blue. I empathise with Steve.
Oh god, someone is sitting on Steve. Steve looks very uncomfortable.


Kira-Nerys Johnson

Sitting alone within the Catalyst, we cannot help but feel small. The name alone radiates an air of importance; how could we be anything other than miniscule in comparison?
The rhythmic drumming of feet from somewhere behind us, slowly moving to loom overhead, gives the sense that the building could be alive somehow. In a sense, it is. There is never a moment where we cannot see another living being, they flitter to and fro, questioning emails, finance, all manner of issues, and the life force of the building – wrapped in royal uniform – assist willingly.
What happens above us is unknown, so we focus on our immediate surroundings. Our resting place is comfortable, but not so much as to make us dread having to stand later. The colour, green, almost apple, and neutral enough to go unnoticed, were it not artfully illuminated. Indeed, standing proudly before us is a magnificent imitation of a desk lamp. This lamp magnifies the shrinking feeling, dragging it to the front of our minds with renewed vigour. Perhaps we truly are small, our seat merely a scrap of fabric and our convenient table nothing more than the base of a push pin. We should feel grateful that the pin itself has been removed, though perhaps its presence lingers, embedded in the floor.
Upon closer inspection, our table is not secured, so the pin must lie elsewhere. Though we notice, now, their memories on the floor, large, sharp points. They all face the same way, and the urge to see what they direct us to is almost unbearable.
Pure emotion pulls us away from our quest, as a sense of urgency infiltrates our tranquil space within this vast expanse. A new soul has entered, seeking assistance. Within moments, the air clears, panic subsiding.
Suddenly we don’t feel small anymore, the sound of ‘Catalyst’ isn’t intimidating, now we understand.
A chemical reaction of sorts has occurred, and, though the building and its life force remain the same, we are changed.
With one more glance at all we have known, we move on.



Shannon Hutton

The large, pristine hall reflects light on its marble flooring in ways I had only imagined a cathedral could. Behind me, the thunderous whir of coffee machines was able to withstand the sound of music echoing from the upper floor. The smell of a dozen combinations of breakfast foods, combined with the bitterness of the coffee scalding my tongue, was more than enough to make my stomach grumble. Students and construction workers alike sat around me, each with their own stories to tell, and woes to spill. The blinding luminescence of safety jackets as builders left to carry on working was an eyesore amongst the neutral colours of the interior. I look down at the table, which was stained from ink and coffee during its years of service.

The tables were emptying out now, abandoned by students with dark circles, nursing hangovers and confusing timetables. The whirring of the coffee machine had stopped, replaced instead by the unmistakeable sound of Bon Jovi hammering through the speakers. I shifted in my seat, steadying the table as it swayed on uneven legs. The three thin-legged stools nestled around the table were the colour of ripened aubergines and only mildly comfortable to sit on. Even so, I still perched upon one and waited for the roar of the coffee machines to come back to life. It was a sound I was very quickly beginning to familiarise myself with. It had blocked the oncoming waves of gossip circling the tables around me. Nattering students with meticulously organised lunches and highlight that could be seen from space could spread rumours quicker than my pen could fly over the black pages of my dog-eared notebook.

The coffee machines reanimated. I heaved a sigh of relief, tightened my grip on the warm coffee in my hand. Perfection.


Rebecca Holderness

Catalyst
A freshly peeled sticker; A newly unwrapped present. You can almost smell the paint. Where my body sinks into soft fabric, there was once nothing but the turbulent air outside. I have seen how this place began as a shell, and how it has now developed into an ecosystem. Here there are so many bodies, brought from so many different corners of the Earth and country, all with different life experiences, yet all in need of the same warmth and nutrition of books. We are all clustered together here, and yet we are each wrapped in our own minds. We are all thrown together, yet we are so immeasurably different. 
Rows of computers sit, unoccupied, awaiting their host. There is a hush, but the pleasant sound of discourse lightly grazes my ears. Gentle voices; cheery tones. Two males. They talk as if friends for life, but who can tell whether they met yesterday or yesteryear.
There is a lack of movement outside. The path is untrodden but for the occasional footstep. We should be accustomed to such weather by now; our flesh should have hardened to the elements, but we do not wish to be caught out in our environment. Instead, here we cluster in this synthetic nest, all cocooned in our skin-tight materials. We wear the same materials as the bearded man on the chair, or the girl with the laugh, but each with an individual disguise or flourish.
What a laugh; a feminine tickle.
This place is not my habitat yet; surely it is nobody’s. Two coated bodies stroll around campus. They don’t belong inside here. Neither do they belong out there. This is not my home or theirs, but it is closer than home now. We will return to it each night as if it was home.
“Fifteen”. “School trips.” “The rush from school trips.” Are they aware of how they throw their words out for me to hear? Do they care? Do they know that I am a creature of camouflage listening into their every word: stretching and stealing them to fit my narrative? I think that must make me a thief. Does it count if they are throwing their words out anyway? I’m only recycling.
Outside, two builders pass by, incongruous amongst the trees and natural green of the grass. Their green is too bright, too artificial. It stands out like a blaring alarm. Did they create the ground below my feet? They have such different wisdom and strength from that which I possess.
If I touched my fingertip to these enormous glass windows, I would be so close to touching outside. How is it fair that we shut off this wild air from its flow, in the same manner that we would cage a wild animal? The air has a will and a journey of its own - it should drift freely.
I inhale deeply and smell nothing; my nose is still plugged with illness.


Ellie Morris

The fabrics of brand new winter coats rustled with dry, synthetic friction against quick-moving, puffy-sleeved arms as bodies hurried through, their determined faces and fast feet being the few discernible features I could note. Some figures appeared more aimless in their new environment, dragging their squeaking, squelching trainers across the room with hands in their pockets, then circling back to find coffee or restrooms.
I leant on one cold hand, only managing to pick up odd words and phrases in the jumbled threads of conversations around me. Drink machines hummed loudest of all, washing out secondary layers of nonsense noise, idle chatter, guffaws and sniggers. My other hand sought the warmth of a cup of tea too hot to drink, yet the waves of cool peppermint made my eyes water as I breathed in the warmth and steam rising from my cup. 
The tips of my boots barely skimmed the ground from the slab of granite on which I perched – frigid, hard and not entirely unlike a kitchen countertop. One toe pointed towards a word, another to a crack in the floor.
Upside-down and backwards from my position on the slab it was almost difficult to make out at first, but the word “Opportunitas” was spelled out in wide-spaced font, pale and faded in its attempt to blend seamlessly with the surrounding marble tiles. If it weren’t for the outlines that prevented its camouflage, I have no doubt that it would’ve joined the countless other words that jumped at me from screens or waved from flags, only to immediately evaporate in my mind not long after reading. Opportunitas held my interest with its stillness; it was an original period feature that never buzzed or flashed or demanded attention with screaming, modern neon glare.
I followed the fixed stone letters with my eyes, joining the marble tile tracks in grey lines and gradients to a distant corner, where the floor glowed in shades of violet and orange. The hues faded in and out of clarity, taking peculiar forms of either solidified, geometric shapes or vibrant rippling mists; the swaying, glowing masses were nothing but reflections from above and outside, yet the entire floor seemed to dance as passers-by sliced through them with their long, languid shadows, scattering colour in all directions.

Kate Wilson

A house of knowledge safeguarding the literature of great minds. A new structure built by the men of today, created to hold information to improve self-knowledge. Keeping alive an old generation of heroes, admired for their outstanding achievements and words of wisdom, now aids the new generation of philosophers, teachers, thinkers, creatives and modern-dayheroes. A shiny, new time capsule holding historic pieces of art and power. 

Vast windows replacing brick walls designed to let in natural beauty only reveal the dark and dull world outside this day. Stormy winds of angry gods shake and beat trees with crookedframes. Washed clean by fallen tears as wise men weep with the knowledge of tomorrow.  



Five thousand cold pieces of steel replace the nurturing wood and suck all warmth from literature. No books belong in such a vacant body. Time pushed forward too far and stretched beyond reach. A British Library this is not.  

Hush, don’t speak – an old rule long forgotten. Sparks of excitement come from pupils within. Hushed giggles and low conversations of ‘first impressions’ and nerves of impending lessons. These faces joyous despite the stormy gales. No dampened spirits here today.  

Our new generation of free spirits take up this space to grow their minds and learn new skills but lessons of old are needed I fear. Respect the past, the books, the truth. Respect the thinkers of yesterday and the gods long departed. Respect the ideas which shaped this country, contained within these texts. Lower your voices and read in peace. Give quiet your thoughts and let your own future-shaping ideas time to grow.


Lydia Roskoszek

A grey blanket of cloud covers the sky above the university campus. Small droplets of rain fall from above and land on the concrete ground, coating the paths with a layer of water that quickly form into a series of puddles. Students cling to their umbrellas for dear life, running for cover to escape the freezing onslaught, and their saving grace – a tall, dark building in the distance, the true heart of the university campus – opens its doors and allows them access to its safety, warmth and comfort.


Inside the Hub, the smell of fresh coffee is mild and barely noticeable, but it starkly contrasts the unrestrained, lively chatter of the students, who are currently shaking the water off their coats and complaining about the awful weather. The nearby Starbucks stand is quickly swarmed, the third-years diving forward like moths searching for light. Five minutes later, once everyone has been seen to, a collective sigh can be heard from every student in the room at their first sip of coffee or at the first bite of sandwich.


I seek refuge in this building myself, removing my coat and perching on a tall, purple stool among the sea of second and third-years. I feel so different, so noticeable, yet so invisible at the same time. Then again, I can’t help but feel at home. Like one day (not right now, but one day), I could truly be one of these people. One of these adults. A real adult.


But I know I have a long way to go before I reach that point.


The loud, upbeat tunes of the nearby radio distract me from my thoughts. They contrast strangely with the chatter of people and another source of music coming from the other end of the food hall. It’s a simple tune, probably just a man singing while he strums an acoustic guitar – a calming melody which, to my disappointment, is quickly drowned out by the obnoxious whirr of the coffee grinder by the Starbucks stand.


I let out a sigh, but surprisingly, the surrounding students don’t seem to notice nor mind. They continue to tap their feet and sing along to the radio above them without a care in the world, waiting patiently for the sky to clear and the paths outside the Hub to dry.


And they all look so happy.



Leah Warren

The Hub is a husk - most buildings reveal themselves to be. However, it is an intrinsically decorated husk; posters and banners overlay each other in a patchwork of support groups and upcoming events. These areas are camouflaged as containing life and colour, but the bare cream walls fall flat – only the shades of passing people pretend at a living space. Skewing reality, the bustle of people queueing for coffee, climbing the stairs and curled into the scarlet sofas belies the impression of a building bursting with energy.
Deceptively comfy-looking couches are grossly paired with painfully bright fluorescent chairs, placed in such an orientation that each conversation appears private, intimate. A white table squats in the center of the arrangement, the mark of spilt coffee staining its top. Reflections of the overhead lighting shine white and blue, friendly enough when heads bob underneath.
Coffee aromas and a damp musk mask the scent of sterile cleaning equipment, detectable only in the loneliest corners of the main room. It’s not altogether an unpleasant smell, but has the misfortune of marking the more unpopular places. In this moment, these areas seem to be the peripheral of the lower floor – people gravitate towards the center and away from the rain-spattered glass.

Observation of the Hub by Craig Lowe

A regiment of lines stand motionless and connected on the floor. They hide a pattern which reminds me of the varying greys of the moons surface. Atop them stands metal clothes horses. Looking at one of them causes my eyes to be struck violently with colour. A hand coated in carmine red slapping me across the eyes. The criss-crossing structure is draped in fabrics. Woollen icicles still as if motion does not exist.


A person brushes past a piece of fabric. It begins to sway, a pendulum of woven flowers encased in a white circle, laying atop a green field.


I move to a chair, which is the colour of 6 decade old hair. Next to me stands a daunting wall of clearness. It is held together strongly in place by a skeleton, grey as ash. I cannot hear small green leaves scream in the wind and branches creek as the clearness holds the noise behind it's inch thick body. A stones throw too far away to be able to hear.


I look to my left. The depth of the room is striking. My eyes begin to run left, moving quickly to the fire exit at the end of the room. Its green sign lures me in, a distraction to the soundless roar of bad weather outside.


Clare Mason- Creative Edge

The room was filled with a gentle chatter that made the room buzz with the excitement of fresher’s week. Each circular table was surrounded by five orange chairs that looked as if they would be at home in a 1990’s TV sitcom. They were circular in shape and were the kind of chairs that anyone lacking stomach muscles would struggle to pull themselves up from and would find themselves stuck there for a considerable amount of time. In the chairs closest to me whispers of the night before could be heard. Regrets and confessions. Mistakes and triumphs. Trials and tribulations. They focused on the bad of the night, with one girl sipping her reusable coffee mug and raising her eyebrows on hearing the antics of her fellow course mate. 
‘You did what!’ She exclaimed, her eyes widening as she did so. There were further mumbles between two men both with the long hair of Rock star. One had crossed his legs in a way that was like a circus performer and the other was hunched over resting his head in his hands. They both moved subtly to the melody that played around them. The music was similar to that which would be played in an old school club and would more than likely remind the warriors from the night before of their decisions, good or bad. This and the brutal aboriginal based art that flashed above them reflected what they had endured the night before. It danced on the sixteen different sized boxes in a way that would cause even those without epilepsy to fall victim to its power. The animation moved similar to bacteria growing or DNA being created. It evolved the more a viewer looked upon it. They rose and fell until they became nothing, and the animation started again. 
The rest of the tiled grey floor was occupied by static people waiting in line for their hangover cure or waiting for their next lecture. The bitter smell of espresso filled the air and could be smelt on the top floor where it met some premature Halloween decorations that sang enthusiasm. 
Each person stood on their phone avoiding eye contact with those around them. Two girls with fiery vermilion hair stood close enough to talk but still chose to glue their eyes down to the electronic devices that hypnotised them. All the room awaiting the next night or events so that today could be repeated.


Isabel Tyldesley
The sand-coloured wooden hut offers protection. It’s mauve-cushioned seats welcome you. True, there’s an entire building between me and the torrential rain, but something about the Hut comforts me.
A flock of girls also take cover, gathered around one corner of the large olive couch (surely, they could spread out a little rather than sit on each other’s Designer Knees?) and chirp like Seagulls gathered around a juicy piece of gossip.
The sound of high-heeled shoes echoes against the floor.
click click clickclick click clickclickclick click click click
Trees outside wave for help against the wind, green leaves reach out desperate to grab onto something, but they are only ignored by the girl – unprotected by my Hut – that is fighting for survival herself. She struggles with a plastic mac over her head, chestnut hair at a 180 degree angle, and looks at me, jealous of the hut that protects m – oh, dear God, she’s looking at me, pretend you’re a moody artist staring at the rain, oh God.
click click clickclickclick click click click
“I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but maybe, maybe—”
Is she a creative writer, or something?”
“No waaayyyy!”
Snippets of conversation swim their way to me amidst the wails of the weather. I don’t know whether the scraps are linked, but I wouldn’t be shocked.
Rain and wind crash against the glass window, like the ocean smacks a cliff, and drowns out the eight-or-so girls, so I turn my attention to my little safety Hut.
click click click clickclickclick click click clickclick click click click click
A lamp stands tall at the edge of the hut’s table, his white arm stretched proudly high to defeat the darkness, unaware that he is OFF on the wall. He’s humble, turned to face the wall shyly; he doesn’t want you to thank him, he’s just doing his job.
click click click click click click clickclickclick click click
Rays of light trample the gales and dominate the sky. The flock of girls leave; it’s safe to venture out once more.

Nathan Dawber

The Creative Edge building, morning.

A collection of two dozen different TVs are mounted on the wall, arranged carefully to form an oval of dancing animation, the screen pulsing along with the accompanying music. 
It is below this where they congregate. Only a few at first, chattering quietly amongst themselves, then more. Dozens, forming an orderly line to the lecture room, boosting the soft conversations ever louder. But when the doors open, they siphon through into the theatre, returning a certain calmness to the hall. 
Only a few moments later, several latecomers show. One seems nervous, hurriedly slinking into the theatre, trying not to draw any undue attention to himself. Another walks with confidence, waltzing in like he owns the place. 
The smell of coffee fills the air, as two women waiting in line have the immensely important debate whether to get a medium or a large. They chose the latter. A tiring night perhaps. 
As the lecture finishes, the students come swarming out in droves. One grabs a quick coffee as she exits, whereas another tries to take the elevator, just to find an out of order note barring his way. With an irritated grunt, he turns to walk up the stairs off for his next daily trial. 

‘Eavesdrop Observation’ Task

By Conor Dwyer

A modern knight of flowers stands proud with his twenty first century morning essential, taking swigs from it dependently, watching the entrance expectantly. He presents himself with tall leather boots adorned with his romantic rose crest; a tie, scarf and satchel to match. The epitome of autumn.

The radio hums, backing singers for the hushed, echoing voices of the calmly chaotic building. The coffee machine pierces the ears while gifting the nose as a small wagon like refectory brews our hipster knight his drink, making the nose envious and the tongue wanton.

The floor, segmented like an irregular Victorian factory wall, hides secrets. Like glitter off a crystal, the bleak grey floor winks when the light hits in a calculated manner, kissing the knight’s greaves commanding respect.

Friends of said knight have arrived, leaning into discussion of the miserable morning and soaking that they received to get here. The marriage of one of the friends’ sister pulls him away immediately, the threat of distance and rain uncomfortable in his mind. He bids his farewell and departs.

Glass walls everywhere give a fish tank perspective into lonely classrooms, gloom steadily seeping in from the ashen clouds the smother the light once again, a looming evil for our knight’s friend.

The volume rises now, a small army has assembled, their raised voices distorting one another as the high ceiling spits the sound wherever it pleases. The chairs around the grand hall are slowly filled, the near empty and once timid room now a hub of incidence. But just as pen touches paper, they leave. Newcomers and habitants before me rise together and file out; the murmurs and synchronicity almost cultish…

A fresh howl whips through the foyer and grips the ears mercilessly as the forces buffet out glass defences. An invisible blade attacking our once more solitary rose knight, forcing him now into retreat; the grace of his long coat and scarf make his defeat majestic and honourable as the loneliness, once more, rears its ugly head to remain as finality.



Alex Tucker

The sun reflects of the black pond’s surface and the distant pond edges sparkle like a mob of paparazzi, but, as the light grey clouds turn dark and converged, the dazzling flashes turned TV static. The spitting rain creates artificial waves, coalescing and conversing like a colour-blind chameleon. The cheering crowd of swaying reeds, dance in rabid fashion as each droplet hits its mark, enacting complex patterns across the blackboard pond. The black pond water is ploughed through by waves of tv static., and it turns a shade of eye-hurting grey.
Driven inside by the gnawing cold and heat-seeking droplets, the warm air hits like a wall, folding over us into a hug. A distant unintelligible song provides baseline to the clinking rhythm of cups and cutlery. The artificial lighting creates a warm, orange tint to the scene, distant chatter and laughter provide a comforting white noise.
Through the raindrop stained window, the glum, bleak world provides a juxtaposing backdrop to the cosy café. The whirring and buzzing of the automatic door draws the eye and ear to it, as rain-soaked students seek sanctuary from the harsh, unforgiving rain.
For the briefest of moments, the sun peeks out, bathing the drab outside in golden hue, the muted reeds regain some colour, the long grass shines, and the paparazzi return, as nature remembers that it’s supposed to be beautiful. But as soon as it arrives it hides, fades away. The bushes and trees, once displaying the ranges of the colour green, shy away granting only on tone. The light-tipped long grass loses their shine, their torch they wore on their heads.
The faint aroma of coffee tugs at me, pulling, luring, like a silent sirens song, which combined with my hands craving for warmth between them, lead to the purchase of hot coffee. The chocolatey smell tempts me into drinking too fast, and a sharp pain spreads across my tongue, tastebud to tastebud, as the world of taste turns bland and grey. 


Lilla Clark

Pressed up against the window on my right, the flecks of rain trickling down the glass are almost pretty.
From the warm safety of the café, I am able to observe the relatively wild outdoors in peace. The wind seems to be stronger than the rain, upsetting everything. Trees shake with varying levels of vigour and the long grass surrounding the lake is bowed to the whims of the weather; if I were outside, I’m sure that the shushing sound of the wind dancing through the foliage would be overwhelming. Though people do not necessarily hurry, they are nonetheless pushed along, as if caught in a fast currant. The surface of the lake is anything but smooth, rippling along with the wind. A bird valiantly sits upon the water, letting the small waves carry it along.
Eventually though, the wind calms slightly and the rain stops. The sun begins its slow battle to break through the clouds, and inch by inch finds itself out in the open. This time, when the wind disturbs the surface of the lake, it catches the light and sparkles like a cluster of stars. In the sunshine the green of the grass appears less dull; it’s brighter and full of life. All seems calmer now that the rain is gone, even when the sun remains briefly dipping behind clouds from time to time.
The patrons of the café are rather unaffected by the weather’s regular back and forth between chaos and calm. Everyone simply continues with their bustling, chattering and laughing. The hum of noise rises and falls, as steady as a heartbeat. The rustling of crisp packets being opened at the table to my left, and light conversation about music from the four people straight ahead of me is quaint in the best possible way. By the door a friendly sign loudly proclaims to any who walk in that a meal deal is on offer. As I take a sip from my soft drink, the tart flavour of rhubarb and apple tingles within my mouth; I wash down the feeling with a smooth bite of chocolate.
The only disturbance is from the cold breeze that creeps in whenever the door is opened. It chills my leg and reminds me that the unpredictable outside is waiting for me when I eventually leave my comfortable sanctuary.


Sarah Leeke
If one narrowed their eyes, they might be able to trick their vision into thinking there were no buildings; that the gently resting lake before them was the only thing to be found. Either way, the ears could not be deceived - the low hum of industrial life echoed in the backdrop; the amicable chatter of passing students, a constant but unobtrusive sound. The voices blurred and blended together with the fine whispers of a late morning breeze – warm enough that a coat would be optional, but light and airy enough to evoke brief shivers of those who passed through. Peaceful, but not silent; serene, but not lonely. The greying of the sky by a thin blanket of clouds offered more of a subdued tone than a harsh note: the promise of rain delivered itself in light, fleeting mists, to leave and to return as minutes passed by, clouds parted but not broken. Brief gasps of sunlight breathed through the gaps, an expansion and then a contraction, almost syncing itself with the heartbeats of the people it bathed in its warm, hazy glow. These movements of nature, too calm to be considered a force, seemed to carry life along on its shoulders. The greenery at the edges of the lake remained still in the breeze, unfazed, welcoming the air’s soft embrace. Half-ripples, perhaps almost quarter-ripples left texture on the lake’s fresh morning surface. A single goose (but not solitary, as not a hint of loneliness was to be felt) floated in the far corner, just as half-awake as the very space it occupied. For all the activity in the area – the people, the buildings, the air itself all conversing with one another – this world could never be described as busy, even with hundreds trickling through, because none ever stopped to occupy it. A heavenly bubble of life undeserving of being such a liminal space. A brief pause from whatever madness beckons on the horizon. Between whatever song the flora and fauna sing to one another, something tells me to stay a while longer. But the rain passes once more, as does the moment, and the voice says farewell. I make a note to myself to come back some other time. The lake promises not to move. I head to my next destination. Life goes on.

Beth Robertson

Outside the window, rain hammers the ground.

Usually, this would prompt someone to tell you to listen to that rain, (this is Britain, after all), but... You can’t. It’s just quiet. Like someone accidentally hit ‘mute’ on the weather.

Instead, I can hear chatter. Voices echoing from everywhere. The only thing is, I can’t see anyone. Every chair I see is empty, all of them slightly untucked from their respective tables as if they’re showing off just how empty they are.

I suppose with a name like ‘The Catalyst’, a little bit of strangeness is to be expected.



- Megan Wallace
It’s the time of year when summer fades into autumn. People are scattered around the room, seeking shelter from the rain persistently pouring outside. Most of them avoid the horrors of socialisation, choosing to duck their heads, seemingly enthralled by the phone screen softly lighting their face.
They ignore their surroundings. The monochromatic floor, the black and white walls, the warm orange and yellow seating that gives life to the studious atmosphere. Perhaps the most curious thing that escapes attention is the unexplained rectangular table covered by a large white sheet that sits far off to the side of the room. Above are strategically placed screens that vary in size. Animations weave and glide through each one, accompanying the lighthearted music drifting from the speakers. The only sounds that can rival these melodies are the occasional slamming of doors and the faint click of shoes against the floor.

Observation – Victoria Ogunsowobo


A cluster of students speak over each other; their words floating in and out of earshot. “Friday…the rain…friday.”
Then an abrupt scraping of chairs followed by the pattering of footsteps and talk about the rain and Friday fading into the distance.
Left behind is a silence cushioned by the Black-Eyed Peas humming from above where jigsaw pieces of a screen are misshapenly put together.
Lonely chairs now stand isolated from each other; backs half turned.
Splashes of corn and orange hug the walls whilst purple pillars hold up the celling.

Every now and again a crescendo of footsteps fade away and the Black-Eyed Peas are accompanied by the whirring of the coffee machine or the crisp wrinkle of a packet. Probably crisps.
A shy waft of coffee drifts over and hangs around long enough for me to no longer smell it.
The music takes a minor tone which seems to make the chairs slouch.
But nothing really happens.

Catherine McGuinness

The sky opens, the sound of rain falling fills the open space, a chill crawls up your spine with the cold that it brings. As the rain gets heavier the fountain in a small lake fights to be heard. Slowly the sky gives up and the fountain pushes on, the sound of water against water echos off the surrounding buildings as the clouds releases their last few drops. The wind picks up; russling the trees, leaves being ripped from their branches, bending of the long grass in the lake and pushing the fountain off course, a mist is cast along the lake and over the wooden bridge. A young woman tightly wrapped in a black coat catches the mist, wisps of her hair are pulled from her bun, and her face scrunches up as the coldness bites at her exposed skin. The woman starts jogging towards the Catalyst, careful to not spill the steaming cup, leaving only the smell of slightly stale coffee.
As the wind slows, so does everything else. Gaps of blue sky finally break the endless grey.

Rebecca Coppell 

The natural cycle of the earth begins, 
As autumn offers a new prospective, a chance to begin again.
It’s asif you can feel the excitement in the earth itself,
The rumble of the thunder, 
The squawking of birds, 
And the ever so faint whispers of the wind. 

You can see the residue, the glow of optimism falling from the leaves of a now browning tree,
Shedding the skin of a era gone by, 
Making itself vulnerable to the elements 
Stripped-back, naked-but unafraid.
Like a caterpillar ready to leave its cocoon, 
Comfortable in its surroundings, 
But curious of the promise that the world has to offer.
Ready to leave behind the memories last season brought.

The immense intensity of the sun beating down is now replaced with the pitter patter of rain drops delicately dancing along the spine of the leaf,
In a desperate attempt to lure it in to a false sense of security,
That this season will be better than the last. 
But as the temperature begins to drop, the leaves become weaker and fall, fall until there is no more promise, just an empty trunk and an empty cocoon. 


The Hub Starbucks - The Battle of the Serpent by Billy Strickland
 
The hissing sound of pure heat overpowers the dull roar of chattering souls. The secreted white fat from the vessel of the grazing beast heats like the unrelenting force of a fierce volcano. Like a deadly dragon the contraption of cold metal machinery emits steam while the line of caffeine slaves winds around like a magnificent serpent with prey in its eyes.
 
Behind the stronghold of white marble, three warriors dressed all in black, defend their fortress from the scaly serpent in what seems like a never-ending battle. To the warriors sorrow the serpent is infinite and forever living. Just when the brave knights seem to be reining victorious the serpent grows again. 
 
 

As I look down from the conflict I see my white receptacle of coffee, standing there on the table like a souvenir from the clash. My barista mind warns me to remember that the serpent is evil, but the caffeine also owns me… I am part of a war on both sides. 


Lewis Ravenscroft
Creative Edge

Displaced sounds and forms of light, everything slightly out of reach or sight, from where I sat hidden in the corner of this building. Nothing’s really here. Heels could be heard on the stainless ground, followed by rustling papers which came into view as they scattered themselves across the floor, trying to run, flee, escape something. The something, happened to be a woman in all black, very quickly collected them up like it meant nothing to her, another inconvenience to deal with. The sound of a printing machine could be heard behind her, the brethren of the papers scattered crying out. They aren’t really here.

On the opposite side to this, to my right I can hear the muted sound of machinery, the quiet hum of life possessed by the not-alive and unaware and then the steam, the sound which echoes through the vast Foyer, the almost rancid smell of fresh coffee, the conjuration of electric life sustaining fuel in a cup.

My eyes are caught to the things directly ahead of me. Lines. Shapes. Squiggles. Colours. Reflections of our world, the glass showing what’s happening on the media screens. The reflections also carry more light, more shadows and shades and more distortions of our world, they are in total sync with the melodic tunes over the tannoy. A loud song, about love, and wrecking balls, ever so loud, can be reflected on the faces oddly enough of every human in here totally disconnected from the world. They aren’t really here.

The disembodied voices of students can be heard from the entrance. Must be dozens of them. Almost like a cinematic experience, the surround sound creating an atmosphere of someones mind filled with a hundred dead voices without hosts...Who says they are here either?

This place of creation, and art and technology, isn’t really here. A place inbetween places. Everything at an odd angle, everything too out of reach, out of sight, from where I sit I am everywhere and no where. Am I really here?

Abigail Silvers
A torrent of rain pounds the pavement and the body of water separating us and the other students assigned to this task. They are barely sheltered under the sliver of a ledge above them, struggling to find a place to rest in order to write. We cannot withstand the downpour; it feels like shards of ice forcing their way into our flesh. The intense aroma of food greets us as we cross the threshold into the warm. There is a dull buzz of conversation; enough to be constant, not enough to be overwhelming. The greyscale sky has been replaced with a palette of blue and white. The rays of sunlight tickled the surface of the water, sprinkling crystals across it.











Friday, September 21, 2018

Observations - 21/09/2018





Daisy Staples
Observation – Creative Edge


R&B music is drifting from the speakers in the corner of the vast room. Sixteen screens are hanging on the wall, displaying a mirage of designs, from stars in a midnight sky to a kaleidoscope of iridescent colours. Students are spread out amongst the red chairs, some heads bent into the screens of their phones and others chatting with friends over a steaming cup. The expansion of the room holds two levels above and one below, with spiralling staircases and a glass lift like the one from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. One student is pacing back and forth across the room, appearing to be lost but buried in his phone, possibly in an effort to show himself as composed in front of the strangers milling around. Directly in front of me are the glass doors where the fountain cascades, blending in with the rain. Though the music changes the constant trickle of conversation remains, which builds in volume. So far I have counted eight people on their phones, all stood together and yet so disconnected like strangers. The design, as I walk around, is minimalistic and modern. On the second floor there are meeting rooms, computer rooms. I can tell this because the walls of each room are made up of glass, giving the illusion of open plan. In front of me, the glass of meeting room reflects the people walking across the room. I can hear the whirring of the hot drinks machine and a moment later the smell of coffee wafts up to the level I’m currently sat at. The coffee seems appropriate considering the thick coverage of grey painting the sky and the trees getting thrown about, signalling the cruel weather despite my being inside and watching from the window. One more floor up and I’m sat at a mustard yellow table covered with leaflets scattered about, while overlooking what could be a meeting. But due to the nature of one woman’s enthusiastic nodding and easy-going smile, it appears to be informal.




Observation – Second Floor – Catalyst Building – 21st September 2018.

Edward Price

The loaned laptop rested on the black table which, for a newly renovated building, I can’t help but notice the amount of marks and scuffs already adorning it. There are patches were stickers had been hastily removed, probably by the builders who were working to a strict deadline, and smudges of grease. Had someone eaten a burger on here? The laptop is silent, but the second floor has a hum about it. Various groups are huddled together, chatting and discussing in whispers. Others are playing on their phones or scribbling hastily with their headphones in. One guy is even bopping his head to a tune, tapping his foot whilst typing on his funky red laptop, completely oblivious to the hammering of rain against the landscape outside. It has a cool vibe in here, which is reflected by the slick and stylish carpet before me. It fades from a bright green along the walkways into a slick grey between the isles of books. How many books are on this isle to my right, 50? 100? I have no idea.

It smells fresh. Like a brand-new book that has just been opened. Like a box of polystyrene. I take a deep breath and the taste of stale smoke and coffee linger in my mouth but a sharp crack later and I open a can of Pepsi which solves my current pickle. Several people glance at me curiously before turning back to whatever they were doing.

To my left I can look out the wall-sized window and sitting back I comfortably watch the world battle against the strong, wet gale that heralds the end of summer. Umbrellas, trees and bushes all bend and sway as they are assaulted, but the buildings hold firm and strong, offering respite and shelter. Some folk are walking slow and steady with their heads bowed, others are jogging with disgruntled expressions. If the ground level was a battlefield, then the sky would be a playground. It tells a different story. On the first level, streams of lazy clouds go sailing by, fluffy and white, not a care in the world. Yet higher still are thicker, darker clouds which ominously crowd the horizon, as if they are watching the earth below in grim satisfaction.

Peering over the top of the laptop, I can see a busy table where a girl is thoroughly searching her bag and taking out various items which she carefully and quietly places onto her desk. Her keys scrape along the table, which probably left another mark, and a water bottle top gets popped and she takes a quietly controlled sip. She eventually sits down, takes a deep breath, glances around, then gets to work.



Kyle Spencer


A water feature spelling out environmental disaster  isn’t all I have in mind, however. Three ducks sit by the man-made canal, their heads tucked into their spines. Poor things. When the weather lightens up, one might imagine they’d arbitrarily use the set of stairs that just lead in to the river. Seriously? What is the deal with those things. The ducks have wings. They can fly out. You cannot convince me that those weren’t meant to invite students in for a dip. I even see some rubber rings strewn on poles around the Edge Hill Nile. It’s begging me for a paddle, but perhaps when the clouds let up.


Emma Coyle

Even on the greyest of days, it's difficult to forget the astounding environment we are in; our microworld is incredible, a hustling, bustling place of living and being. The driving rain and battering winds that soak your books and bones doesn't seem so bad, but on this day, they drove even my proud Mancunian blood inside.
Sanctuary. Sat by the stairs of people to-ing and froing, coming and going, there is less hustle, less bustle and a real sense of calm. The atmosphere is silent and still, but not heavy. You couldn't cut through this atmosphere with a knife. It is a silence so fine, it flows and freely envelopes every space. It is a warm, kind silence, bringing you in. Disturbed only occasionally by faint chattering, feet clattering and workplace mumbling.
For this is a workplace. It is easy to become so lost in thought, but this is where the formal and the informal come to meet. The straight-spined rigids, fresh-faced freshers and old-timers in pyjamas come to dance.
A conversation between the inside and outside world with the window as a mediator chatters on. A friend, with flames for hair and green snakes for laces, a fellow writer. She prowls the aisles, looking for her next prey, her latest edition. Blank screens line dull, white desks with empty chairs sitting by them. It's funny to think in a few, short weeks, the hustle and bustle of today will seem like a silence.
All around, people's busy lives continue. A pair sat close by gossiping about life, music and some topics that aren't so appropriate for public listening. Across the way, someone is being eaten up by her book. Headphones in, head down, absorbed in her own world even smaller than ours.
Out of the window, people meander, people speed along, and people fight the battering wind. Some are well put together and ready to tackle the day, some are ready to collapse at the first week hurdle and some are still rolling around from the night before. A gaggle gathers outside their house; one poor soul in just his shorts and t-shirt, with legs, now like icicles dangling from his body. A man passes, easily mistaken for a tortoise with his backpack as large as his entire body. As a selection of girls goes by, it's easy to believe I'm seeing things. Matching hair, outfits and walk; looking the same, walking the same, being the same. One lone wander braves the elements.

Overhead, the sky changes from grey to blue, to grey again. The sun peeks it's head through the clouds, checking if it's safe to come out. Unfortunately, not today, sunshine. The wind is so harsh, it beats the poor grass to submission, or are they dancing together? The wind and the grass flowing in a beautiful, passionate dance of nature. I think I'll stay here; my new book-filled home.

Monday, October 02, 2017



Creative Writing events coming up at the Arts Centre this semester:

Tuesday 10th October 7:30pm
Laid Bare Theatre Project 
presents The Value of NothingBy Kim Wiltshire
Directed by Joyce Branagh
Welcome. come on in. Take part in the project launch of ArtWorks, the new back to work initiative championed by the your friend and ours, the fantastic Vince Fine!
And so begins the press conference.
More like an event than a play, this Laid Bare show invites the audience to interact, be active and take part. In the world of The Value of Nothing, we are at the press conference from hell, witnessing the case of Vince Fine, an ambitious man, who seems to know the price of everything, but the value of nothing. As his world crashes in around him, the audience witness whether or not he can make the right choice – whether or not, in the end, he does know what to value.
As Vince champions his government ‘back to work’ initiative ArtWorks, the audience is invited to get involved with the lives of the characters. Multimedia elements and music create the setting, punctuated with human stories from young people about their real-life experiences of living on benefits in the UK today.
“This is where the real, human, down and dirty art is made. By us.”
Laid Bare Theatre: Theatre that asks questions
Tickets: £10 / £8 concs / £5 EHU students
FREE for EHU students who have signed up to The Arts Centre’s free membership scheme

Tuesday 14th November 7:30pm
Jessie Greengrass
Writer Jessie Greengrass was born in 1982. She studied philosophy in Cambridge and London where she now lives with her partner and their daughter.
Her collection of short stories, An Account of the Decline of the Great AukAccording to One Who Saw it, won the 2016 Edge Hill Short Story Prize and a Somerset Maugham Award and was shortlisted for the Sunday Times PFD Young Writer of the Year Award. Her first novel will be published in 2018.
The evening’s readings will also feature MA students nominated for the MA Award associated with the Edge Hill Short Story Prize.
Tickets: £5 all
FREE for EHU students who have signed up to The Arts Centre’s free membership scheme
November 23rd 2017  Launch of Atlantic Drift: Edge Hill University Press!

Arts Theatre, Edge Hill University, 7.30pm

Introduced by the books' editors, Professor Robert Sheppard and Dr James Byrne and with opening remarks from Pro-Vice Chancellor Mark Allanson

Readers: Chris McCabe, Zoe Skoulding, Trevor Joyce

This event is FREE, though please sign up for tickets. Refreshments will be provided. 

This reading will feature three poets from this new and groundbreaking publication of poetry and poetics and a brief Q&A.