Entirely
“They
don’t look like this in the city,” she says – or rather sighs, as a wistful
expression clouds her warm, pale eyes.
She’s
not even from the city.
I said
I would walk her home. We stand now outside her accommodation and I sense she
is reluctant to retreat indoors.
Gazing
out across the water, a cluster of angular buildings dominate our view,
surrounding the lake as though they are huddled around it for warmth. Were they
human, I imagine they might be heavily-built businessmen: their sleek brick
exteriors perhaps crisp grey suits, their sharp translucent window-panes maybe
dark aviator sunglasses. They assert their presence yet fail to command our
attention, for our eyes are directed skywards.
Laced
delicately across the impenetrable purple sky is a patchwork of constellations,
sparkling with the fleeting fragility of a wind chime caught by an autumn
breeze. The stars, tiny flashing lights many leagues above us, hold in their
gaze the comfort of home and the promise of future adventure. The same stars watch
over us all. Hope. Reassurance. Excitement. Romance. In this instant the sky is
at peace, yet concurrently alive with fiery energy.
If I
tilt my head backwards far enough, the walls of the buildings all around us
appear to enclose the celestial scene like sides of a photo frame. I tell her
this. She smiles and wordlessly agrees.
And now
her head is on my shoulder and there are tears in her eyes. I’m taller and she
has to stretch a little to reach.
All she
wants is a chance to let her feelings out, she sobs. Some time alone, the
chance to discover if her infatuation could lead to anything more. But she
knows she isn’t the only one vying for her beau’s affections, and she can’t
wrestle with the omnipotent guilt that comes hand in hand with doing anything
for herself. Her happiness depends on others. She makes those around her feel
good yet denies that privilege to herself. She stays quiet. Her feelings remain
a secret, whilst she watches others steal the rewards that should be hers.
I hug
her, wishing for her sake that she was hugging the one she loves instead. She
is amazing and yet she has no idea. I am intensely grateful to have made such a
wonderful friend in these short few days.
The
stars are so beautiful.
And so
is he.
He
strides past. Even intoxicated he is beautiful. Neither of us have seen him
before, but his impressive, muscle-bound frame catches my eye instantly. His
hair, a somewhat untidy shock of dark brown, dances across his forehead in the
wind. Despite the lateness of the hour, his eyes are clearly identifiable as
blue, and glittering. Their expression loiters in the no-man’s land between
mischief, incomprehension and innocence, but as they pass over us for a
fraction of a second, I feel the familiar rush of blood through my veins.
Longing. I wonder if he knows he is beautiful.
She
wrestles with emotions for one male of the species, and I sink into an
impulsive fixation with another, yet again. It’s always the same.
Hello.
One word. A start. Simple.
I can’t
say it. I can’t say anything.
Even in
the unlikely situation that I let my feelings slip, he would not remember in
the morning. And even if he did, he would not want to hear it from me.
All of
a sudden I realise I share her sadness entirely.
James
Sayer
RUST
Discarded, rust-covered
leaves lie scattered like fallen soldiers in the war against shifting seasons,
stuck fast to the glistening slabs by the falling rain.
A man stands with his
back resting against the brickwork of a building with his face upturned to the
slowly sinking sun. His eyes are closed, letting the sun warm his skin. He
takes a final pull on his cigarette, flicks the stub nonchalantly away from him
and swaggers off, leaving a cloud of grey-blue smoke behind him.
A girl of about nineteen
hands leaflets to passers-by, a smile spread broadly across her face. When she
is alone again her smile slides from her lips like water over ceramic tiles.
A young child whizzes
past me on a siler scooter, grinning widely and yelling ‘wee!’ Her mother
follows close behind as if caught in her slipstream; eyes open wide darting
left and right, seeking potential obstacles in her daughter’s path.
Two lanky teenagers in
football shirts, Liverpool and Everton, stare each other down as they pad
towards each other from opposing ends of a corridor, Lions fighting for pride.
Harry Snape
A snapshot of life
The atmosphere feels
still, damp. A light breeze filters
through the trees carrying a distinct autumn chill. It seems to signify that summer is over and
winter is rapidly approaching.
The trees rustle in
acknowledgement of the breeze. Crisping
leaves show a visible strain under the relentless succession of raindrops
cascading down from a sombre, murky sky.
It is raining. Under the trees the incessant patter sounds
as though we are in the middle of an Amazonian rainforest rather than a small
English town. This is a misperception,
for when you step out of the relative shelter of the trees onto the stretch of
grassy lawn the raindrops land so gently on your skin you barely notice it is
raining at all.
Three ducks waddle
contentedly around, quacking amicably.
Their feathers have an oily sheen which is accentuated by the weather,
but they don’t seem to notice the rain either as their razor sharp beaks peck
greedily at the lush, green grass beneath their webbed feet.
The rain suddenly
intensifies; I rush into the comfort of a warm building. There, from a large window, I watch the dull
sky disappear and a crisp blue one emerge, filled with fluffy white
clouds. The sun’s rays reveal themselves
once more and illuminate the surroundings in a haze of brightness. The world is rejuvenated, revived, returned
to joyful spirits. I step outside and
continue my journey.
Elizabeth Richardson
PERSPECTIVE FROM THE CANTEEN
I am
sat in the canteen at Edge Hill University with the task of describing what I
see. Something I haven’t done before so I am looking and listening in the hope
that I can describe this in a way that is interesting.
My
first thoughts as I take in the atmosphere and surroundings are how vibrant it
feels. Young, excited people talking and laughing as they sit with friends. And
I can plainly see the difference between the ones that have long term
relationships and those that have recently met and it is lovely to see
friendships forming and others blossoming as they get excited about the new
life they have embarked upon.
And it
is a nice place to be. The selection of the furniture is absolutely perfect. The
pleasant, stylish beech bistro chairs are pleasing to the eye and comfortable.
Some
are all beech, others with a blue soft cushion, some with a grey blue to add
more contrast. And they are mixed so there is no real pattern as to their
layout.
I am
pretty sure that when they are first laid out they are neatly placed around
tables with all the seats matching. But this is better. It looks more natural
and relaxing because of the way they have become separated from each other.
Behind
me is a glass wall separating me from the walkway and I feel energised by all
the natural light this allows.
Young
students walk by at different paces, some alone, some in groups laughing and
chatting, seemingly unconcerned by the light rain on their faces, in fact,
enjoying the feel of it.
In
front of me is a young woman and a middle aged man quite deep into a discussion
that I cannot make out.
It is
friendly and they clearly know each other quite well. But there isn’t the
intimacy of a father and daughter relationship so I am curious as to what it
is. Possibly he works for the college and she may be an account manager helping
him through his requirements as she doesn’t seem to be a student and looks
quite professional.
Beside
me is the TV and I can hear Mr. Cameron trying to excuse his latest plan to
murder more people in the Middle East. No one seems concerned by what he is saying
and it appears that no one is listening or watching.
I feel
sorrow that I am in this wonderful place, safe from harm and embarking on yet
another new chapter of my life and at the same time thousands of families are
living in mortal danger as the man representing me takes the decision to bomb
them.
Maybe
my new skills I develop over the next few years will give me the tools I need
to change this world in some way. Maybe the pen is mightier than the sword.
There
is a young man in front of me, about 24 years old I would guess. And he has
such a beard! Beards seem to be coming back in a big way. I have one today, but
just through laziness. His is well groomed and months old.
There
is a very well designed serving area just to my right that draws people to it
and seems to be the meeting area as I see various people stand near to it and
then wander off as their friends arrive. At a table near it Ailsa and James are
sat having a relaxed conversation and obviously have a great relationship.
Ailsa
is, as seems always to be the case, smiling.
There
is a very pleasant aroma in the canteen of coffee and toast. And it makes me
hungry.
I could
spend hours in here describing this place but I have run out of time.
Adrian Gannon
LIKE BULLETS
The rain came down
like bullets falling from a gun in slow motion, covering the crowds of people
stood below in a fine coating of the vapour as they waited for the bus to take
them the short trip into the small town centre. While some wait in the rain,
huddled beneath umbrellas or using hands to protect their hair, others walk,
not seeming phased by the rain falling from the sky above them. A group of
girls walk past, laughing at a joke that no one else would understand, arms
waving as they talked animatedly. Shortly after they walked past a lone boy
walks past, head down and not looking around him, lost in his own world of
thought. No one pays him much mind the same way he does not pause to look at
them from the corner of his eye. Too absorbed in their own worlds and to care
about someone else’s in that single moment. As the bus pulls around the
corner the people who had been lining up begin to move forward, bags over
shoulders and cards in hands. And then they’re all gone. The side of the road
is empty.
Rosie Hurman
A BLONDE GIRL…
A blonde girl half-runs by in a streaked skirt and flats, failing to
beat the fine rain – wet chunks of her hair stick decidedly to her forehead. Another
girl takes a different approach, speed-walking past me. She hoists a leather
jacket over her head, although this does nothing for the sodden ends of her
jeans, now black instead of blue. I wonder if she knows. The running track
curves away from us, looking more brown than red. Few people are around,
perhaps on account of the weather.
I take a seat in the makeshift foyer of the sports centre, sheltered
from the rain but granted a perfect view of those caught in it. It looks
heavier now, but more people pass by the window: interchangeable gym-goers in
grey/black sweatpants and trainers; underprepared students in thin t-shirts and
dresses; even a girl in a blue raincoat who had been taking notes on these same
strangers. She’d stood under the protection of an entrance for a while but had
since moved on. I didn’t recognise her, although I suspect she was charged with
the same task, just with better-suited shoes for the wet terrain.
The rain stops and starts. Indecisive, it stops again. A blind man and
his guide dog pass twice in both directions, the dog’s jowls and ears flapping
in sync with his lithe bounce. The reed-like plants beyond the window sway in
the breeze and the tops of trees ruffle as one fluid entity. The latter circles
the running track outside and throws stray leaves onto its path.
A pair of cyclists appear on the far end of the track, too far away to
see properly. A woman in an offensively blue coat and black leggings jogs out
from behind me – the automatic doors open a minute before she arrives, as
though triggered by a ghost.
From inside, I hear the familiar whir of the Starbucks’ blender,
although it sounds more like a violent vacuum. Blurs of conversations are
hidden beneath this and what seems to be a 1980s marathon on the radio. The
doors shut again.
As the woman stops outside, I get a closer look at her. Her round face is
set in determination, highlighted as her dark hair is scraped back against her
head in a ponytail. She sets off around the track. I wonder if she and the
cyclists will collide, having started at opposite ends of the track. Both parties
disappear behind the reeds. I wait a minute or two, but neither reappear.
Strange.
Hannah Price
