Moving Finger - Issue 3 - Brunel University

nostrils, but as the train hisses, the smoke all-too-quickly disperses the scent. A bang of
the doors, a scream of the whistle and you are gone, yet still I stand like a statue among
the moving crowds, only this time alone.
Laura Summers
MY ROOM
Pumpkin brushstrokes that cover the wall clash starkly with foggy pink, twilight
curtains. The thick, rind-like texture of the gourdish walls is cold like melon skin. A
lingering air of peach pot-pourri meets the chemical fragrance of ‘Sunflowers’ left earlier.
In gusty weather wind ululates behind the heavy curtains. Shadows on the artex-stippled
ceiling create miniscule icing-sugar mountains and valleys with connecting passages,
spelling incomprehensible words.
Anosua Mitra
SUCH SWEET SORROW
The crackling fire warms and calms us. Its flames lap hungrily at the fuel. Its brilliant
yellow dances gaily on the walls of the old stone cottage, giving the impression the room
is in perpetual motion. The smell of tomatoes, onions and meat, simmering gently on the
stove, reaches us and we breathe the mouth-watering odours. There’s a faint aroma of
burning wood from the roaring fireplace, which mingles with the clean scent of the
cottage.
In the half-light Jamie’s face looks distorted and eerie, as shadows pay on his features.
He smiles and takes my hand, caressing it gently while losing his eyes in mine. The
bubbling of boiling water disturbs us from our reverie and we move to the kitchen to
check our dinner.
The rough grainy texture of the meat contrasts perfectly with the soft slippery feel of
the pasta ribbons. The taste of roasted peppers and tomatoes lingers on my tongue as I
take a sip of cool bubbly wine and enjoy its sweet, yet mildly acidic taste. I feel warm and
comfortable as he draws me to him. I breathe in his clean fresh smell and listen to the
rhythmic thud of his heart, yet the mood is finally sad for we know that tonight will be
our last, so our happiness at being here is mingled with regret.
Now sitting alone in my cold stark flat with its grey walls and dusty floors, I think of
the last words he whispered softly in my ear on parting, ‘I’ll miss you.’
Tracey Lebow
THE COTTAGE
It was a hot room. The fire burned brightly, throwing its warm glow on the polished
dresser. Lavender and bees wax permeated the air. Sitting snugly over the hearth, a
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