Observations (part 1)

Liesl Chesworth: The Entrance. Taxis and laundry bags

The entrance to the university campus is perhaps the closest thing to liminality a person can hope to encounter. The magnificent building, fronted by its own neatly-kept lawns, stands as a threshold into a world of academia that thousands of students call home. Just beyond this point are the gatekeepers – who have manifested themselves in the form of a security hut – and it is they who will decide the fate of those who seek to visit the university. Taxis and coaches frequent this spot like bees to a flower; collecting students or returning them, and if, at any point, there isn’t a taxi nor a coach to be found, there will always be several students waiting patiently for the next vehicle’s arrival, some of them smoking cigarettes to pass the time. Some sit on the concrete steps between the pavement and the security hut, surrounded by bags of laundry that are destined for the washing machines of their family homes. Others sit on their suitcases and swing their feet back and forth in anticipation. These people will be away for a while. Whilst many students will be travelling to unique, personal destinations, there is one method of transportation that is committed to taking them to a single place they all know and love: the free bus service into town. There is no rarer sight than seeing this bus in an empty state. It pulls up to its stop packed with students, its precious cargo, and once they have stepped off, twice as many people are ready to board it.

As the bus arrives at the front of university once more, and the next taxi pulls up, laundry bags are lifted into the crooks of arms, suitcase handles are grabbed, cigarettes are squashed into the ground, and the clockwork starts once more.

Jack Tait

Creative Edge: Adorable menaces win

10:45am

Amphibious birds sit stationary on a shallow tide, bobbing against the current. Their brethren waddling from window to window like hounds; hunting for their next meal. 

11:05am

The sun blinds the autumnal zombies, stirring their deep disturbed eyes as they move slow and weak towards their sandwich shop safe haven for thier caffeine fix before the day ahead.

A sudden echo of laughter and shrill screams can be heard above the cacophony of machinery as a horde of girls escape the confines of the large disjointed building to the right; eager to find a new purpose for the day. 

11:45am

Everything has its place in the area, the muscle factory in the distance forms jutting peaks on the horizon, with clouds emulating the smoke expected on any normal day. Slowly but inevitably, the living merchandise move's from the neighboring warehouses.

12:00pm

The amphibious birds approach, communicating in their native, hostile tongue.  Their scheme begins. A poor soul careless enough to bring their food outside is swarmed by the adorable menace. They feed the gaggle to the cute oppressors. You win this round ducks.

Maya Hutchinson:  A building filled with History

Maroon bricks separated by a thin soft brown, white window panes that hide the small lives of the many that have ever lived within. A relatively tall building that’s housed thousands and welcomes even more each year into its hold. Before it lies a garden of emerald who’s leaves dance in the breeze, each dew drop glistening under the sun’s rays. On this garden, figures frozen in action, frozen in steel. Statues that could have been inspired by someone’s lover or family, steel faces that no one will ever know whom they belonged to.

The leaves of the trees sway upon their branches, their green melting into a warm burgundy, signaling the end of a season.

A pavement whose original color is now lost with all the footsteps that have been made onto the stone, now it almost glows a dull yellow, contrasting with the green. The yellow path leads up to two lone steps that greet anyone to the building’s entrance, the doorway a black tinted glass door, nothing to hide, seeing through the glass gives a sense of security, that where you’re about to walk into has nothing to hide and is welcoming you from the brisk air outside and into its warm grasp.  Two sets of pillars on either side of the entrance, the very top of each pillar seeming to blossom with many folds creasing outwards, yet noting blooms from it. Instead it supports the building’s sigil, two chimeras standing and holding and oval that bears the stone carvings of three blossoming flowers.

Each person who walks the path that many before have as well, they all go to this building for different purposes, with different goals and desires, some stride into the place while others seem not quite as eager, yet all are likely to have one common desire, to succeed. A drive that helps them make every step ahead of them, much like a string that pulls ever so slightly.

Morgan Harrison: breezes and ants

The trees swayed in the wind, as though waving goodbye to someone unseen, with leaves dancing in merriment. The weather-beaten trunk bowed to the power of the wind, but did not break so easily. They sometimes stand alone, or in small cluster amidst a landscape of man and architecture, often unnoticed and unseen. People weave through them, past them, not thinking much of them. Both boys and girls struggle with fly-away hair and unzipped jackets flapping like the wings of a grounded bird. Some brace themselves against the cool breeze, clenching cups of coffee in their hands, hoping for the warmth to radiate throughout their body. Like ants, they rush about campus, scurrying to and fro from one building to the next.

Jade Mosley

The smell of nicotine was something that lay between loneliness and a fatal addiction to deaths close grasp. It’s his mother’s singing voice and forgotten paper in his bag. It lingers on his skin and plays with the hair behind his neck. Wispy, white tendrils curling, wrapping around each follicle tainting it with the stench of Cancer. The smoke plays the many moments he thought happiness lasted forever, and the smell flees to his brain. It relishes in between the lines and curves of his brain; then calls it home.

He probably never thought he'd call the burning of the smoke as it dripped down his throat, infecting his entire being home. But that slow burn meant him and he could have meant heated kisses in the backseat of the old beaten up Fiesta which broke down more than it started. It meant stolen glances as they profusely refused being together. It meant sneaking out at midnight getting caught in the cold downpour of their feelings as they danced in the overwhelming sense of completion, screaming into the darkness surrounding them and becoming each others light.

meant happiness.

He may wonder if he can call his friend home. As his smoke dissipates into the air, the Autumn breeze runs across the bare expanse of his arms, the cold showing but unknown to him as the heat of his cigarette burns through his throat and chest. But it’s easy to miss it when his friends by his side and the addicting taste and smell of nicotine is in between his fingers. He looks at him the way he’ll look at home.

He misses it.

He always does.

At least that's what he thinks.

Chloe Quale:

Stained Glass and reverberating laughter

Observational Writing- 22/09/17

The building is large with each room connected via long corridors. The décor makes the room seem old and grand, with deep coloured wood covering the floors and wooden panels and pillars running round the walls. A line of tall windows sit within each wall filling the space with light. Each window is adorned at the top with a stained glass image, each of a different design. The wooden fixtures give the room a warm feeling, the light taking on an orange hue as it reflects off it. The room holds seating for many people though not many sit in it now. A girls sits in the corner of the room observing a group of six as they sit together, loudly talking too and over each other. Though they are the rooms only occupants the echoes of their laughter reverberates around the room filling it from their table.

George Appleton

Students and grandfather clocks.

The health building and its surrounding pond and circular pathway is perhaps the least frequented part of the university and can even appear dull and quiet to the everyday passerby. Even the students passing by are few, making it hard to believe that only a five minute walk away is the heart of the campus. The still pond and lack of chattering students laughing over a coffee or their latest drunken exploits hilights the clear divide between the ever present static chatter of the hub and the calming silence of the western campus.

 Students stumble out their red brick accommodations, key cards swinging violently from their necks, mimicking the pendulum of an old Grandfather Clock, cruelly reflecting their lack of time. Already regretting living on the outskirts of action students rush to get to their early morning lectures on time. Whilst the student life in the West is perhaps the least populated, the flora and fauna bloom. The campus cat can be seen skulking through the bushes, as though deciding which students to entice over, only to run away at the last minute, enjoying the chase more than the actual petting. The ducks waddle around, disturbing the stillness of the water as their wings create ripples that expand across the whole body of water. The nearby pig statue appeals to student’s childish instincts as they all pose for photos upon the pig despite the sign forbidding it, acting as almost an Edge Hill rite of passage to all new students.

Joshua Taft

Chancellors Court, near the bridge over the water

I got here around about 10:40, and all I saw were phones, and they were everywhere. People were just milling about with their heads down, their arms tucked in and their hands cradling their phones as if it was a small miracle child that was to be revered for life. One chap stood out and that was because he was that busy texting and that lazy, he didn’t put away his phone whilst he was attempting to extract a cigarette and light it, and watching him juggle with a mobile, a cigarette case and a lighter was actually amusing to witness.

Returning, no doubt from the shops, was a girl laden with shopping, and like a young male to have just passed by wearing gym clothes, and both were now continuing on their way home. In a few windows were post-it notes that were used to spell larger words and sentences. Some were simple, like "Send KFC". One asked if anyone had Kik with an "xoxo" at the end of it, and another politely request for people to send food, presumably of any kind.

The wind was nice... it was the type of wind you enjoy experiencing. It didn't push and pull you nor was it non-existent and dry; it was a pleasant breeze that made you feel awake, relaxed and cool. The weather was affecting everything and it wasn't just the current climate but the climate of the night before. After last night’s rain, two benches outside a building in Chancellors Court, facing the Creative Edge building, were still wet and directly because of this, two women who were in anticipation for having a casual coffee outside were forced to relocate themselves to warmer areas for their very warm coffee. They sounded a bit miffed by it. The wind, on the other hand, was just soothing, and it created a parallel affect upon the water and shrubbery around it. Vibrations in the water made it look so much more tranquil and deeper than it actually is, and it was awfully tempting to dip a finger and see how cold it would actually be. The reeds and bank-plants and trees all were pushed and jostled as the wind blew and the noise it made was extremely relaxing.

And yet, despite the presence of the sun, the crisp and cool temperature permeated everywhere. Writing this numbed my hands and I yearned for a warm drink to revitalise myself. And then at 11:09, the sun came out and warmed me up considerably in that considerate way it bursts through the murky clouds to bestow upon a person one last ray of sunshine that was just beautiful to experience.

A lorry pulled into the barricaded work-zone wherein the new building is in development. It is extremely likely and essentially a certainty that it was delivering supplies and potentially even workers. Standing outside the wall was a workman in his green safety jacket for all the world to see him and notice him. Two lorries went in and after twenty minutes, both pulled out... two minutes later, I witnessed them passing through the car park by the Creative Edge building and presumably continuing all the way off campus.

High in the sky a bird was caught in the wind currents and the little creature was unable to fly straight - it managed to pull away and then it just drifted straight out of sight. Meanwhile down in the ground or swimming in the lake are the Canadian geese, geese I know to be classed as the most loathsome in all of Britain. As birds with such a reviled reputation, they were generally quite passive and ignorable of the events occurring around them, as I observed.

A dull throbbing of machinery as the workmen file away at their jobs like zombies prickled the ears but after a week of walking past it, my desensitised ears tuned it out ably and without struggle. There was a noise that went on behind me that I recognised as a match scraping against that red phosphorous on the box but when I turned around I turned out to be a bit of card scraping across the floor. In the distance, the sirens of an emergency services vehicle - two at that - when whistling and screaming past campus, and they must’ve been in a hurry for they were gone in minutes. One of those golf buggies drove past and the trembling of its engine added to the cacophony noise pollution of the distant cars, the rustling shrubbery and the tools of the work men's trade as they worked diligently. Another one went by and then noise it made resembled the purr of a not-so-terrifying creature but a cute and cuddly; I pitied the bloke driving it. It looked like it broke down a lot.

The smell was the same scent one would expect to experience trapped in a park. It smelt of grass and trees, of a domestic, manmade water source and of damp wood from the benches outside.

A poor cleaner was venturing across the bridge with a large grey wheelie bin and retuning it to Chancellors Court. A gang of people swept past in EH university hoodies and I desired one because they look really fucking comfortable and warm. A dead ringer for Donald Trump crossed the bridge with his hands on his hips and as he neared me, I acknowledged that it was merely a trick of the light. A goose barked as it swam down the stream; I looked down to type and returned my gaze upwards to observe only to find it missing. Sensibly, a peer donned her bright blue hoodie to escape the cold.

Pigeons flew down from the top of the Creative edge building and annexed the curving slope of the grassy knoll to their territory after the geese fled from it, back to the safety of the water.

Half an hour later, the geese started to approach the table I was sitting at, barking softly and toddling out the way of a man walking past with a trolley. Having reclaimed their annexed territory (the sloping knoll) they strutted their stuff like the kings they are. One brave soul took to a grassy part surrounding a building in Chancellors’ and two more followed his lead. One was very hesitant, however, and thought it would be better for the other geese to go off and to do their own thing while he nipped at his feathers in the middle of the path. Another one, younger than the first, decided to join him and the two spent a few minutes seeing to themselves before the younger one ambled off for his friends. The older geese remained where he was as the pigeons came back and they once again lost their knoll.

He put his foot down though as his mates came back and then they marched back to their home. They knew what these pigeons were capable of, it would seem, and as I was anticipating a flock of avian creatures to do battle, the geese let the pigeons have the hill by returning to the water but then the pigeons shot off ten minutes later, and I was left feeling anticlimactic.

A leaf also fell out of a tree. It was yellow and it was all the reminder I needed that winter was coming but only after autumn arrived first to drive the green and vibrant leaves from the trees.

Leah Davey

22.9.2017

A.M. Western Campus

Despite the bright and ever-present glare of the sun, the air holds a biting chill as it toys with grass and cattails, creating distorted ripples in the murky surface of the water. The cold leeches up through layers of clothes from the ground below, causing my whole torso to shiver. A lone, greying man leans over the brown metal railing and stares intently down at the pond. Despite the absence of ducks, he rips off and throws in chunks of bread. The crumbs are quickly lost in the churning of the water.

Cloth banners – no doubt of a trivial kind of importance – flutter impatiently at the urging of the wind.

Legions of high-heeled boots clack on the paving stones, and the links of lanyards collide with sets of keys in a repetitive but jovial jingle. A child scampers ahead of his family on his tiny feet, tap-tapping along the paving stones with an inquisitive voice and searching eyes. He talks incessantly with a high pitched lilt.

Laughter and murmured conversations are dragged past on the breeze. An intense but undecipherable argument strikes up from across the water, a group of girls divided into two teams much akin to rowdy supporters at a football match, only this time with no barriers to separate their flying hands and barbed words. After a few moments, they disperse as though they had never spoken at all.

Hurrying outside, a woman pleads, desperate, to a faceless voice on the other end of her phone for news of her sick son. Her face screams of a nervous and pitiful anguish. Another voice, from a faraway mouth, promises a distraught female friend, “one day, one day…”

Nearby, a girl perches on a low wall with crossed knees and her chin resting in her hands, gazing at the passers-by as though they hold the answers to all of life’s great mysteries. She likes what she sees and jots it down in her notebook with a smile. She is a Creative Writing student.

Lucy Barrett

Main Building

Outside

A piercing wind envelops the man, extinguishing his chance of lighting his poorly formed cigarette. Arching his frame forwards, he turns, concealing the roll-up beneath his leather jacket protecting from the gale. He continues towards his destination, but for several metres, approaches backwards, desperately triggering the lighter. A gentle smoky plume releases from the cigarette, exuding from the jacket. Success. He resumes normal walking in the desired direction, and hurriedly passes the bus stop to join his friends who had now almost completely vanished from view.

Outside

The bus stop was crowded. But the crowd was separated in to various cliques. Some, individuals, minding their own business, headphones in to impede the various sounds and harmonies. A group of boys. Although bitterly cold, the majority were without any jacket or covering, except for a small cotton-blend shirt, exposing the adolescent muscles and their growing egos.

Inside

A girl passes me. Aimless in her direction, looking around the walls and seating area. Unknown what she was searching for. I presumed either direction or inspiration. She beams a smile towards me, and I return it.

Outside

The bus stop has much fewer people than before. The crowd has now dispersed and scattered are individuals either glued to their mobiles are gazing aimlessly into space. No one speaks. But the sound of ignorance and silence swells loudly and an air of awkwardness rises.

Outside

Out of the large entrance doors at the front of the building, emerged the same girl from earlier. She now seemed to be walking with more conviction, more assured of where she wanted to go. As she approached the end of the promenade, towards the bench of which I was sat, I caught her glance, and beamed a smile towards her, of which she kindly returned.

Daniel Morris

Observational Piece

“13°. Partly cloudy.” A lie perpetuated by my mobile phone. Though a simple glance outside reveals the truth. The truth - pearl blue skies & a heavy breeze, sending the freshly-golden trees swaying side-to-side like a dancing couple on their wedding night.

Across the room – a fellow writer. Locked in deep thought, seeking desperately, those perfect words, that perfect sentence. Though were it so easy.

To my rear, the jocks. A space regularly reserved for learning, infested by those who in the current moment seem shamefully uninterested in such a thing.

A girl meanders along on her lonesome, slumping herself down to a PC, getting back to the hard stuff. Though to any casual observer she might seem ok, her rugged demeanour paints a vivid picture of drunken shenanigans, a story of a night rich with drink, dance & delight.

In the distance – the hunchback cleaner. Mumbling, bumbling. Frankly, it’s etched onto his face – this is his Groundhog Day. He’s on the brink, at his threshold. Resigned to this life of monotony. And to think – maybe he grew up with bigger hopes and dreams. An astronaut, perhaps? Maybe even a writer. Ha.

And last of all – there’s me. Like so many before me, fresh meat off the production line, larger-than-life ambitions. Though were it so easy. 

By John Brady

22/09/17 10:46
The Hub

The Hub is unusually quiet this morning. Outside, blue skies threaten to break out between grey clouds; the only life coming from a litter picker methodically eliminating evidence of rubbish and a few bleary-eyed students rushing to lectures they are clearly already late for, clutching notepads and laptops close to their chests. 

Inside the Hub, it is almost eerily quiet. A few lonely students sit at separate tables, ignoring the outside world with either their phone or a cup of coffee. Most look ill, either hungover or victims of the dreaded 'Fresher's Flu'. Tall window panes, arcing up to the ceiling and curving around the whitewashed building, flood the Hub with natural light, as tall banners and posters advertise meal deals and student discounts in bright colours. A television softly plays generic pop music, barely audible over the sound of students socialising. More enter now, in groups with steaming noodles, cool salads and bunches of fruit. They silently judge those already seated with sideways glances as they sit at elongated tables and discuss the revels of the night before and the horrors of the morning after. Their chatter and giggles fill the Hub with noise, creating a semblance of what the Hub normally sounds like. 

Staff wander around, in crisp black cotton uniforms with gleaming name tags. Wiping tables, serving tired-looking customers with caffeine boosts and tidying the area in a steady, staccato pace, they look bored. It is like watching a dancer perform a routine they have performed a thousand and one times, and wish they could replace with a new one, such is the ease and dullness with which they work. No matter how grubby the table, or how elaborate and creatively-named the hot beverage is, their job is second nature to them now, merely another task to perform in their mechanically steady rhythm. 

Courtney Hardaker

  The blinding autumn sun glitters across the rippling water that divides the Chancellor’s Court and Chancellor’s South halls of residence. A duck sails along the ripples between the rustling weeds that poke out above the water.

    A construction site merely yards away disturbs the peace, as the bangs from a bulldozer and from the crane hanging overhead causes three ducks to wade towards the edge of the water. One by one, they hop out onto the pavement, shaking any excess water off themselves as they did so, before clambering up the stone steps in single file. The largest, with the yellow beak and bottle green head, as opposed to the different shades of brown of the other two ducks, led the march towards the hill of grass which was still damp from the rain the day before. Occasionally, they would stop on their journey to peck at a piece of cardboard or an old cigarette that had blown off the bin. After deciding that they were not in fact food, they lost interest and waddled their way back to the water.

    Other than the chaos of the construction site and the difficulties of the ducks, the campus was relatively quiet. Apart from the occasional frantic fresher who hurried past, clearly late for a lecture of some sort, with their coats wrapped around them to shield them from the frosty wind. Surrounding all of this, post stick notes dotted the odd window to spell out little messages for all who could see.

Scott Meadows

The Bin Man

Tearing, chunk by chunk from a half loaf of Hovis, he waits. As each cluster falls from his hand, it attaches itself to the water below, as too do the dotted, golden wisps below - each fish darting at the prospect of food.

The particular nature of today only makes this elderly man's appearance more sublime, whilst the chill has begun pushing the crowds inside; and each gust of increasingly ferocious wind threatens to drive the creatures back into their hovels, yet they remain, almost through a mutual understanding they have with this man.

By his side, he carries a large black sack, set down momentarily, seemingly to allow himself these few moments of solace. A pair of green, heavy canvas overalls hang loose and restlessly upon two skinny legs, setting themselves finally atop two heavy-duty workers boots, completing an already obstructing ensemble. Where many would see little past a thick black mag, hanging against two narrow and tired shoulders, I can see that his proud stance amidst a vague hunch over the barrier, separating him from the waters admits a whisper of his youth, which only further encompasses his current frailty.

Dropping the final shred of brown bread to the mercy of the fish, he stops a moment. He looks out upon the scattering of beast and almost looks to admire his handiwork. 

He leans, laboriously lifting the black sack to his side, before taking the long, clasping spear in his other hand; before taking his leave. 

It is only now, when turning into a gazing beam of sun that has previously pressed itself against his back that he reveals himself fully. A delicate face, burdened with his many years, encumbered with two gaunt eyes, dragging loose, leathered skin beneath them. Whilst his black cap covered a majority of his head, it struggled to conceal the thin grey stubble of hair beneath it, like an old, worn scrap of carpet. 

As each slow step drags his body further from his perch, he glances briefly at me. A fleeting encouragement of civility between two strangers forces the shared sentiment of a smile between us, before he turns to continue on his route, none the wiser that any other soul had caught his singular moment of bliss, in this average day, in the centre of a busy walkway.

Millie Caunce

Observational Piece

The Creative Edge building is centred at the back of the University, a few minutes’ walk from the Main Building. As you approach the Creative Edge building you are struck by the mixture of luminous orange and a bland grey. Yet the modernisation is quite clear due to the open spaced windows and the large glossy sign reading ‘Creative Edge’ that are placed on the building.

Murky green garden chairs are placed in a bundle on the left hand side of the building. L shaped wooden benches sit perfectly in the corner, inviting individuals to perch themselves on the many available seats yet it remains eerily quiet.

As you walk away from the Creative Edge building you are left facing rather beautiful scenery. A clear lake is centred between the Creative Edge building and the spacious Chancellors Court halls that are filled with boldly coloured living spaces, cosy bedrooms and kitchens filled with all of the mod cons. The lake glistens as the early morning sun beams upon it. Large strands of weeds emerge from the water swaying gently to the harsh breeze. And clusters of lily pads can be seen floating swiftly as the breeze pushes them around the lake.

A grey bridge perks itself in the middle of the lake allowing the public to not only cross with ease but to also admire the lake with more depth. The lower part of the lake holds more beauty due to the corner which is known as ‘the small beach’. A patch of sand lies in the corner aiming towards the halls, with a wooden bench allowing you to sit yourself down and imagine the setting as a relaxing beach. This lovely setting also allows you to be close to the lake and view the many families of ducklings/ducks promptly swimming by.

Groups of dainty little flowers and trimmed bushes are clustered together around Chancellors Court representing a nature scene. Trees of different sizes also surround the halls, some resembling voluminous Christmas trees whilst others are much smaller in comparison and slimmer.

As you walk away from the setting of the lake you will come across three benches perfectly in line with one another. This allows you to sit yourself down and come face to face with steps made of stone which allow you closer access to the lake. Several eager faced students can be seen sat on the benches appreciating the scenery that is before them or quietly sketching away in their notepads.

On the left side of Chancellors court, you will come across a narrow path guarded by small metal fencing. Behind the metal fencing you can briefly see workmen who are completing the new library whilst chattering away. When you begin to walk away from the Creative Edge building and begin to head towards the right you are faced with a long widened path overlooking a selection of shapely trees and the Main Building.

Amy Sinclair

10:40 am. A mid september morning, where the last remaining summer warmth lingers in the air, battling against the approaching autumnal chill which grabs onto your skin with each gust of wind. The ruler of the lakeside burns in a circle of luminous white yellow as it stares down at its audience below casting out an almost god like omniscient ora. Once again, as with each day, the battle for the suns attention begins.

Perhaps the most intimidating competitors are the reedmace, congregating together, huddling around the edges of the lake building their strength within numbers. They aim to triumph by swaying in a slyly aggressive manner in synchronization to one another. The army of vegetation keep their stature elevated, as their elongated spines brush against one another, creating a hissing whistle which one could mistake as coming from a snake navigating its way through the nooks of the lakeside.

In complete contrast to the menacing arrogance of the reedmace, the lethargic lily pads sleepily spin in a circular motion aiming to win over the sun's rays through a desperate call for energy. Their deep green leaves act as resting places for buzzing flies to seek refuge from the water.

The most aesthetically grabbing contestant are the iris and hibiscus, their vibrant colours of lavender and bright yellow screaming out to the sun's rays. The dappled light breaks through gaps within the clouds and intensifies the colours as the flowers work with the breeze to create a dance, where they petals sway and swirl like they are performing in a ballet.

The oldest of the lakesides inhabitants are the twisted willow tree, five of them, placed on each corner of the waters edge. They watch amusingly over the reedmace, lily pads and flowers, their elderly branches rapping round in curled and contured shapes. Up close, hundreds of markings on their wooded skin tell years of stories, scars and weathering formed from age. Their battle for the suns attention is nearly non existent, they believe their purpose in the lakeside is simply to watch over, they are the grandparents of the scene.

The sun, moving its way across the sky, looks down below at the contestants. The light glistens on the water creating kisses of glitter like stars. It takes each into consideration, shining over the reedmace, gleaming down on the lilypad, lighting up the iris and hibiscus and warming the willow trees before making its decision. Upon deciding that none of the of the performances were worthy enough, the sun then disappears behind a thick cloud leaving the once brightened scene darkened and somber.

11.30 a mid september morning.

David Fitzgerald

The Building of Ancient Knowledge

A pathway filled with decaying leaves pass by the monumental brick layered building known as the library. This building of ancient knowledge loomed over the surrounding trees that rustle their leaves gently in participation with the refreshing breeze that found its way around the area. The windows of the building were tinted black yet were supported by a frame layered in green coats of paint as if the designer wanted to draw attention towards the windows yet not allow to see what was awaiting inside. The library would appear to be dormant if it wasn’t for the singular hooded student in black jeans and scuffed trainers who slouched their way out of the entrance as a dragon would awaken from its ancient slumber. By the entrance of the library there stood a bold, purple flag that also swayed in coordination with the breeze. Mere seconds after the wind would blow, a new leaf would fall victim to the force and would begin to spiral slowly, gently, quietly down onto the pathway below to join the rest of the leaves. One leaf would daringly avoid contact with the path and would instead lightly brush against the trio of black mysterious wooden figures that gathered to the right of the library entrance as if they were too afraid to enter the resourceful building. The figures appeared to be hunched yet upon closer inspection they remained without a head and a lack of limbs. The mystery of the figures are unknown to most yet one is always able to find the answers necessary in the building of ancient knowledge.

Caleb Anderson

Heart of the Campus

There lies an air of deafening silence, equally inevitable and jarring. Lone souls working – or, at the very least, giving a convincing facade of doing so – on assignments, with various degrees of success.

Sat not 20 feet away, a young man frantically attempts to write onto his tablet, sapping what little scraps of energy the empty cup of black coffee by his side will give him. This, alongside his clothing choice – which can only be described as “unique”, and even then, it doesn’t do it justice – and his wavering concentration make it all too clear that he has only just woken up. He looks at his phone – the third time this minute – and lets out an exasperated sigh. Whatever is stopping him from completing his work, whether it be a lack of time or a lack of company, it seems to be working. He looks at his tablet once more, being packing it away and departing.

I turn towards the Union and view the mass of humanity entering, most likely to flood the SUBWAY®. And yet, as time passes by, not one soul leaves the building. What once was a quiet shop is now no more. The peace and tranquillity it once held dearly has now been taken from it, leaving the employees – or, as they wish to call themselves, “Sandwich Artists™” - to put on their “happy faces” and begin sifting through the river of bodies, not sure when – or if – it will end. Taking one last glance down at the lack of souls entering or leaving, I slowly go the same path as the young man. As many before us have done. And many more will do so in whatever future lies ahead.

Their Home – Zainab Chohan

Those penetrating rays bounce off the water’s edge. It’s elegance hypnotizing. I shelter my curious gaze, with the palm of my hands, to peek closer. The green residue floats in ease as it secures its residence within. The abandoned float left within the center of the vast liquidized silver, losing all purpose. A few feathery friends come to visit, their heads bobbing, as if dancing with the breeze that accompanies the leaves, falling, creating those natural creases above the water’s surface.

With a sudden jolt, a venomous beauty distracts my gaze. The harmful yet casual creature wisps passed the nape, then vanishing so suddenly as it appears. The cold draft now begins to kick in. The small feathered friends begin to retreat. The fascination of their gentle swimming working wonders. The residence now on lockdown. The intruders peer down from above, their cry almost like a signal of war. Those white beings look down upon their vast ocean, our small lagoon, making rounds within the air as if plotting their next attack. One swoops down with such speed and hope of achieving something with their actions. Our small feathered friends still camouflaged within its habitats greenery, decide to take a detour.

Taking two caramelized sidekicks, a dark beauty emerges from the water’s edge, waddling its way toward the four large, meaningless steps. As if masters, they climb to their exit with ease and begin to browse the area. The female onlookers froze with delight, watching the cute waddling creatures pass by, with adoration and love. They eventually vanished around the corner creating such loneliness, we all looked down. The sun’s rays continued to crystalize the water’s surface, the green vegetation rustling as the breeze passed by, the sound like the rubbing of sandpaper. Forceful yet satisfying.

Just as all calmed, our three travel-some agents returned, gracing us with their presence. All eyes turned their way. Pens stopped, conversations now silent. The inaudible authority controls all nerves. We all observe, love and care as they pass, ensuring that none stands in their path. As if Royals, they scout the area and proceed. Their waddling still catching the spare glances of those who walk by, all still avoiding their path. As they approach, their vivid colours are enhanced. The browns, greys, blues and reds. Such intricacy and randomness, yet perfect. Not two feet from my seat yet they prune in such peace.

Like children in the summer, one takes the initiative and they waddle after each other. Playing tag, disappearing behind the marbled sculptures and reappearing with waddling surprise. The unconscious smile that formed, the sight could put tears in my eyes.

They decide to rest, waddling back to their habitat. Their feathery bodies shrinking as they continue. As they approach the edge, their heads pushed first. They dive back in, creating the ripples that forge one of the beauties of their homeland. As they vanish into their sanctuary, the wind continues to blow, ensuring its place within the habitat. The green inhabitants still resting, floating in peace. They rays of light gradually vanishing behind the everlasting rain clouds.

The cold now spreading…it’s time to leave.

Bethan Ratcliffe

It is difficult to tell whether the pond on the western side of campus is a tranquil place, or a lonely one.

The sun is out, glinting gently off the water, but the air is cold and biting to the fingertips. There are people. Not many, but they are around. Walking from building to building, slowly, with their heads down. Conversations are hushed, a little secretive. There is a sign that warns students away from the aggressive geese, but there are no birds on the water.

There is movement. Trees in the distance, hundreds of reeds in the foreground, swaying together. Despite their number, they barely produce a hiss of sound. The water is windblown, stripes of ripples across its surface. Somehow, the pond remains still. A small rush of air pours steadily out of a building through a vent; left over words from inside lecture halls filter out with it, but it is impossible to make out any meaning. When a flock of small black birds moves overhead, they make no noise.

Overwhelmingly, this is a quiet place.

An argument breaks out on the other side of the pond. Their voices echo, and they seem so small.

Amy Readyhough

22 September 2017

The faculty of Education Building

I spot a man feeding bread to the fish in a duck pond. On passing I follow the perimeter of the pond, closely followed by fallen leaves skipping across the ground. Around the pond are long swaying weeds eclipsing a small arched bridge ahead of a 3 miniature waterfalls which join to become one. Across this bridge leads to barren trees in shades of orange and brown, the branches twist and turn like the old nobley fingers of a boney hand. All the shrubs perish in the frosty air: the trees, the weeds, the bushes even the plants with large leaves almost as though they'd been there since the Jurassic ages. Though there are signs describing the wildlife which can be found by this pond, there are no rabbits, no ducks, no geese, nothing of the sort to be seen. A group of girls crowd another sign: ‘do not feed the Canada Geese’. They discuss the possible grammatical errors: “Canada” or “Canadian”, yet they don't comment on the lack of these creatures. A passing child chants “I want to see the duckies” to which the father replies “there are no duckies”. As the clouds grey and the birds fly south it is obvious that Autumn is approaching.

Kieran Robinson

22.09.17: An Early Autumn Morning.

The grounds brim with enthusiasm. Gaggles of the young drift like dandelions on the wind, listless but not without purpose. Despite many of them running on no rest, their conversations bubble with laughter and excitement for the coming year and the realisation of their truest aspirations.

The cold breath of September turns to ice, like the first hint of grey in the beard of a young man. The drifters respond with grimace and a quickened pace. The sun grins on in their wake, a forced smile diluted by the first whispers of autumn. Some meandering students cast their gaze to the ground, seeking a reprieve from the suns pale light only to flinch and squeeze shut their eyes at the sunlight reflecting off of perfectly slotted white flagstone floor. Convincing themselves that the light below is preferable to the light above, they continue to stare at the ground whilst marching towards sanctuary, found in the warmth of the HUB.

As time goes on the steady stream of students turns to a trickle in reply to the beginning of morning lectures. Those that are fortunate enough to have time to spare flee in terror of the mild mid-morning wind. With a new found peace brought about by the absence of activity and the rejoice of coming winter, the maple trees sway in rhythm with the wind; a vibrant dance painting a stark contrast of shimmering green against the static white flagstone floor that compliments well the window frames of the library. As children do with their parents, the flowers mimic the dance of their taller siblings, pale and white like the sunlight and as carefree as the breeze. A wasp shares in the revelry, alone in itself but invited to treat with the flowers, buzzing and whirring loudly from place to place, fortunate enough to have free time.