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
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.
