The End Of Term

It's nearly the end of term and University is manic.

Students take the form of hawks, scavenging for computers and swiping their library cards briskly as they enter the never ending jungle of books. Panic takes over. Deadline days are drawing closer and the late night owls swoop in, hoping the twenty four hour library is back. It isn't.

Students scan the computer area and circle weak targets, praying that a seat will come free.

The printers spit out documents and images, tired from their ordeal. They jam and jam and run out of ink. Bang Bang Bang, they feel the thumps and thuds of angry and impatient students. They do not have time for this.

Scanners hide at the back of the room. Silently. Silently. No copywright tonight.

Vending machines stand proudly. Tempting and teasing as ten pence coins are jingled in clammy hands.

Books are heavy. Dusty. Over-due. Shoved into bags and taken away from their shelves, only to be crammed, penciled, torn and splashed with late night coffee.

Giver-uppers spin on charis. Maybe the dizziness will stop the anxiety. 1,500 words to go. Save your work. You can finish this tomorrow right?
Not likely.

A Gathering Light

“Words fail me sometimes. I have read most every word in the Webster’s International Dictionary of the English Language, but I still have trouble making them come when I want them to. Right now I want a word that describes the feeling you get – a cold sick feeling deep down inside – when you know something is happening that will change you, and you don’t want it to, but you can’t stop it. And you know you will never be the same again.”

Cracks

I met him in the middle of the night. He wore navy slippers and a plush, thick dressing gown that cloaked his frail figure. His hands were shaking as he ran a gold chain through his nimble fingers. A locket rocked in the wind, linked to the end of the chain. I remember feeling cold that night. Not from the winter chill or the fact that I was rapidly undressing, ready to dive in the icy sea below me; but from the sensation I felt as I realized that this man, this broken man wanted to die.
And he was going to jump.

It had been raining for ten days and I had flicked through every single page of the magazines I'd bought for the car journey. We'd moved again. I guess you could say it was almost a yearly tradition. Kind of like Christmas without the presents, excitement and joy but with the family arguments and resentment. I had gotten used to packing up our glasses and plates with newspaper. This weeks headline,"Step dad gambles rent money and steals kettle." Mum and Dave's relationship was crazy to say the least. She buried his mobile phone in the garden whilst he moved out every three months and weirdly took things from the house that he knew would annoy mum. So far he's managed to take the hoover, the remote control, the kettle and her bedside lamp. Every time we moved, mum would say those famous words, "New house, new beginning." I'd smile and play along but my sister Mykala wasn't as forgiving. "Yeah okay then" She'd mutter under her breath with a face that could break down a mountain. She was frustrated. I was frustrated.

We're all going somewhere

Glum faces,
Going places,
Bags on laps and litter traces.

Sitting down and standing up,
Sandwiches and a coffee cup.

We're all going somewhere,
Trying to move on,
On the coach and onward,
Why must it take so long?

Sitting awkwardly on suitcases,
Leaning against a wall,
Searching for your coach number,
but the writing is so small.

Ticking names off paper,
Counting by the head,
Packets of crisps won't fill your stomach,
Wish you stayed home instead.

We're all going somewhere,
Trying to move on,
On the coach and onward,
Why must it take so long?

Boredom starts to take over,
And your phone is nearly dead,
The newspapers a metro,
So you'll stare into space instead.

Bladders nearly bursting,
Where did you put the change?
Thirty pence to urinate,
Are the coach station deranged?





They're calling for your coach now,
You'd better get your stuff,
Onwards to your destination,
By now you've had enough.

On the coach you go now,
Juggling your bags,
Your suitcase has a dodgy wheel,
So you pull and heave and drag.

The driver is a jobsworth,
Checking every X,
You forgot to print your ticket
but they did send you a text.

Up the stairs you climb now,
Searching to find a chair,
Praying that someone doesn't sit next to you,
The journey would be a nightmare.

The coach is on its way now,
This is where it starts,
You said you wanted to leave this town,
But really its close to your heart.


We're all going somewhere,
Trying to move on,
On the coach and onward,
To find somewhere where you belong.

Scared Street

I am absolutely infuriated by a man who has just followed me to my house in his car. I was walking down a busy main road after a really great day, when a car beeped me. I looked behind me and saw a man waving me down, which was curious to me as I don't know anyone who drives a burgundy seven seater. The car drove on and turned down my road and I thought it would just carry on going. When I got to the top of my road, the car was waiting for me with a forty-something man inside, looking grotesque and sweaty. I walked on and the man focused on my every move. He drove off and then a minute later came driving up the road again. He pulled over and asked me to get in his car. I said no and carried on walking. He backed up and asked me again. I told him no and questioned his actions, calling him a, "Freak." He told me I was gorgeous and asked me if I needed a lift and by this point I was wound up, scared and a bit anxious. I told him he was scaring me and that it wasn't right for a man to be flagging down young girls and asking them to get in his car which seemed like it offended him. I walked toward my door and told him to go away, locking myself in. I looked through the key hole and the man drove around for a third time.

Men like this shouldn't be allowed to scare girls on their own street. I have been in London all day and was on my guard constantly. I thought I was safe in my own street but no. The area I live in isn't known for being pleasant and the street at the end of mine is infamous for prostitution. I'm just thankful it was daytime.

As I write these words, I can't help but look to the house beyond the wall, at the bottom of my concrete garden. It was probably quite normal once, even a home for a family. Looking at it now, this is not the case. Graffiti covers the outside of the house, "Reppin' S014" and "Thugz." Why, oh why would you write this on your house? The windows are constantly open, whether outside it be raining, snowing or an army of squawking seagulls. There's a pile of old and torn clothes next to the back door and I can imagine the stench. The concrete that covers the weeds is smashed and shattered from the wreck-less antics of the occupants. The people that live in the house can only be described as completely crazy. I am almost certain that the house is used for a crack den of some sort. Really. Welcome to St.Marys, the pride of Southampton.