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.
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.
