Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

More documents

Recommendations

Info

Summer 2008 FICTION POSTGRADUATES Ben Hart 3 World Gone Wrong Carolyn Skelton 8 Parting Gift Jo Hurst 10 Hodge Johanna Yacoub 12 Magilligan Kate Simants 21 Canal Perry Bhandal 24 Chicken Jack Ali Sheikholeslami 35 Paradise, Etc. FACULTY William Leahy 38 Emotional Spaceman John West 42 December 1945... UNDERGRADUATES Laura Brown 43 A Lesson Learned Maria Papacosta 53 Piano POETRY UNDERGRADUATES Marc Spencer 11 Pantoum - The Prophet Kerry Williams 13 Decadence in the Bathroom 13 Been There, Done That Emanuele Libertini 8 Pure Research Mark Woollard 27 The Snail Jean-David Beyers 29 Thirteen Ways of Looking at Scissors 32 Filth Maria Ridley 39 Weeping Woman 45 CC’s Kerry Williams 48 Paranoia Shane Jinadu 15 Scarf Me Up 15 Johnny Marc Spencer 11 Haiku Visit us on-line: Metropolitan Lines http://arts.brunel.ac.uk/gate/ml/index Brunel University http://www.brunel.ac.uk/ The Department of English at Brunel University, School of Arts http://www.brunel.ac.uk/about/acad/sa/artsub/english 2 postgraduate fiction Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008 Editors: David Fulton Robert Stamper Subediting, Layout and Formatting: Samuel Taradash Metropolitan Lines is the literary magazine of Brunel University’s School of Arts. It exists to showcase the creative writing, prose and poetry of students, faculty and staff connected to the School of Arts at Brunel University. Questions, comments or submissions are welcome, and should be sent to david.fulton@brunel.ac.uk Any submissions should be sent as attachments to e-mail in the form of .doc or rtf files. Please, check your spelling and grammar before sending. The copyrights of all works within are held by their respective authors. All photographs by Samuel Taradash, except for page 42, which was was first published anonymously in the Soviet Journal Ogonyok, and is currently in the public domain. Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008 Contents Editorial Staff
World Gone Wrong Ben Hart 1. Trying to get to Heaven The rain slid cautiously down the angel’s faces, dripping off their noses and falling to the floor. Below them a lone hobo sought shelter within the church that they guarded, his knocking echoing out dully through the empty building. Bemoaning the lack of response from within the church, the hobo brushed his soaking hair away from his face and staggered out into the churchyard. Pulling his battered coat around himself as tightly as it would go, he lay down on a sodden bench and did his best to sleep. The night was a bitter one and sleep did not come easily to the hobo, but he was exhausted from the hardships of the day and eventually it took him, wrenching him away from the world and into a wholly better one of his own devising. For the next three hours he drifted in and out of consciousness, hearing the tongues of angels and men singing in unison to a tune that his mind couldn’t place. Gradually the music began to tail off. Then it stopped altogether. The hobo’s eyes snapped open and he saw the face of a policeman peering down into his own. ‘Come on you, on your bike!’ The hobo rolled off the bench and rubbed his bleary eyes. ‘I need to speak with the Reverend,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll be on my way’. ‘I’m sure the Reverend has better things to do than tend to the likes of you!’ boomed the policeman. He grabbed the hobo roughly by the shoulder and shoved him in the direction of the church gates. ‘I have as much right to be here as anyone!’ protested the hobo, gazing up pleadingly at the concrete angels that towered above him. ‘Sleeping rough on church property is against the law. I’m obliged to move you on.’ ‘Was Jesus himself not an outlaw?’ *** 2. My Name Is Nobody My mind’s a mess. Congested. Like a town centre in desperate need of a bypass. I stare out the window, notepad in hand, and chew at the skin around my well-bitten nails. It’s a fine old day outside: sunshine mingling sociably with a sweeping wind and deft flakes of snow. It’s the kind of weather that would usually sound poetic however you described it, but today my brain just isn’t up to the challenge. It blanks me, cutting my prose off before I’ve even written anything. Sighing, I clamber up from my seat and make coffee – black, no sugar. The caffeine does its best to stimulate but my body’s having none of it. I drain my cup and return to the window, its grubby pane now flecked with snow. I’m starting to think that the world’s turned its back on me. The girl I picked up last night left before it was light and didn’t leave a number. Nobody else is answering my calls. No one’s calling either. I lie on my bed, put a CD on and spend the next six minutes listening to 3 postgraduate fiction Bob Dylan attempting to cure America’s ills by calling forth the spirit of a long-dead blues singer. That fails to inspire me much either, so I turn off the player and lie in silence, counting down the seconds until I have to rouse myself and head off to work. I’m the assistant manager of a video shop. Correction: a back-alley video shop. Our closed sign’s scrawled on a piece of Weetabix box and our selection’s limited. Often I try to broaden our customers’ horizons, suggesting they try something a little artier than the norm, but rarely are they having any of it. Tonight it’s particularly quiet. There’s a new multi-national store due to open up the road in a couple of weeks and I reckon most of our clientele are saving themselves for that. It’s a sobering thought. I really don’t see how we can stay in business after it hits. I decide to amuse myself by staring at the wall and asking rhetorical questions. Who am I? What am I doing here? Basic existential stuff. A couple of girls come in while I’m doing this and leave hurriedly, giggling. It doesn’t really bother me. I get paid the same whether they rent anything out or not. Later, about ten, just as I’m preparing to head home, the shop fills up and I find myself bombarded with videos from all angles. A Hugh Grant flick here, a Halle Berry there. One kid, obviously underage, tries to get out a Van Damme – one of his later straight-to-video jobbies. I ID him and he presents me with a laminated piece of cardboard that he’s obviously scanned off his computer ten minutes beforehand. Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008
Page 1: Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008 1
Page 5 and 6: Glasses were cleaned, filled and cl
Page 7 and 8: ‘Gotta be done!’ ‘Got to!’
Page 9 and 10: He looked down at the box in his ha
Page 11 and 12: that visited upon us. For they like
Page 13 and 14: together though his thumb was free.
Page 15 and 16: presence of an extra person would h
Page 17 and 18: force gathered behind him to propel
Page 19 and 20: clattering whirr of wings startled
Page 21 and 22: Canal by Kate Simants He wasn’t a
Page 23 and 24: The teacher wrapped his fingers aro
Page 25 and 26: Pierre giggled as his mother’s ey
Page 27 and 28: This was as close to an orgasm as s
Page 29 and 30: eyes flicking between the camera an
Page 31 and 32: and sighed as if in prayer, then he
Page 33 and 34: paying patrons were sought and acqu
Page 35 and 36: Paradise, etc. by Ali Sheikholeslam
Page 37 and 38: lood in your way. Let me not rot in
Page 39 and 40: hand in which he held the fork, let
Page 41 and 42: his open window. I stretched to wat
Page 43 and 44: A lesson learned By Laura Brown One
Page 45 and 46: I could see Emma eyeing her suspici
Page 47 and 48: Rochester. It seems he does have a
Page 49 and 50: the way the boy behaves is to call
Page 51 and 52: eyes wide open. I don’t know what
Page 53 and 54:
Piano Maria Papacosta Lily When I g
Page 55 and 56:
“I'm sorry, I know it’s none of
Page 57 and 58:
a new place. All three girls had ma
Page 59 and 60:
month ago. Sandra looked at him aga
Page 61 and 62:
61 postgraduates Metropolitan Lines
show all

Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

You also want an ePaper? Increase the reach of your titles

Delete template?

Save as template?