Moving Finger - Issue 3 - Brunel University

green and luscious, a comfortable bed for him to lie in. Shaking his head, the images and
thoughts blurring behind his eyes, he continued out of the room, not once looking at the
other figure huddled under the safe duvet.
Rosemary Braunton
RECURRING DAY
A sudden expansion of light illuminates the room, drawing it to its full height. The air
tastes as fresh and rich as ice cream. The shade sways with lazy indecision, then
plummets exaggeratedly into a cool grey existence. Outside warm petals flow in the clear
stream of the breeze, brushing seductively against leaves like a lover, memorising every
touch.
I sit alone bathing in the sauna of warm light, absorbing the rays which race over my
shivering skin, nerves pricking with life. The wind takes a desperate gasp and snatches
the sunlight. I race breathlessly around the breathless room, chasing the shrinking
shadows. Slashes of dying sunlight slide down the rotating walls, collapsing into
neutrality. Outside the blood-red blooms mutate to a moonlight glow, shimmering with
colourless shadows into a nocturnal creature.
I breathe with exaggerated sound. My eyes glitter in the moonlight. I settle and rest
for the recurring day.
Cassandra Phillp
THE TOP FLOOR
Climbing the circles up and up gives you motion sickness. Stairs visited by many feet,
the clomp of hooves on worn plastic. There’s a climbing frame of boxes and bags, a
wheel, a trolley, a Hoover, standing like the carefully-placed contents of a skip, those
unloved goods – not so good anymore – kept, but resented for size or shape.
The white of the walls, smeared and misty, scarred with lines and strokes from
careless moments. Behind the rubble a view of a thousand flapping leaves, begging for
attention, momentarily resting and then embarking on their static journey again.
A door, ajar with a broken lock, clings despairingly. An unstable sofa with the mark of
an iron on its arm like a burnt patch of grass, neglected and dry. The tiled coffee table,
adorned with brown circles. A mantelpiece of memories, stored and displayed. A photo, a
scrap of before, creased and wrinkled, crushed and reduced, the men’s faces so youthful.
The bed dips like a hammock and announces active guests with a gong of a spring,
playing the visible fibres of that mattress like a muted guitar. I eat cake.
Anna Sanczuk
THE PASSAGE
Slowly I pulled the grey string through the letterbox, my clammy hand grasping tightly
the key that dangled on the end as if half-expectantly.
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