Moving Finger - Issue 3 - Brunel University

THE QUIET MAN
Staring out the window, watching trees and fields pass by at a rate, unable to focus on
any particular feature, he sighs. His eyes introduce a confused world and I want to
embrace him, reassure him everything will be all right, but I can't because I don't know
him. I watch him leaning back in the seat, designed so comfortably for Virgin Trains
passengers. He moves, wriggling his shoulders and back, watching for curious eyes. He
catches mine. Damn. I quickly look away. I would've been less conspicuous if I'd held my
gaze. Anxiety creeps in, then goes as I realise he didn't even notice my look: I was just a
blind spot as his mind pondered elsewhere.
He leans forward and rests his chin in his left hand as he begins to stare again at the
strange world beyond the carriage barrier. I try to imagine what or who he's thinking
about. He says nothing, yet tells me a story. He looks agitated as he leans back, running
fingers through his hair as if his black mane is interrupting his thought processes.
His rugged hairstyle counteracts the immaculate presence. I picture his home in all of
its precision and mystery. I find myself wondering what it would be like to stroke the
creamy furnishings and bathe in the corner tub. The sound of a trolley noisily clanging the
edge of my seat makes me gasp and flinch. I'm rudely interrupted and forced from my
fantasy like a plug pulled from a deep bath. I glance to my left, looking through the tunnel
of cookies and sandwiches, and notice the quiet man has gone. Was I dreaming or was he
real? What does it matter? He didn't notice me anyway.
Natalie Selmes
FIRST SIGHTING
When I first saw him, I was startled by his beauty; he stood over by the floor-to-ceiling
high speakers, next to a cage holding a dancer dressed in black PVC with red lace trim.
Like all the boys and girls in the club, he had his make up on and the glitter on his cheek
was highlighted by piercing strobe lights, which danced round the clammy, smoke-filled
room. The androgynous pouting faces that spent the time, making their way round,
calculating which gender to pounce on next, sulked and retreated to a corner when they
saw him. They knew their Rimmel and No.7 would never match his natural beauty. His
hair, dark, cut in a layered bob, framed his face. His penetrating, aquamarine eyes shot
glances across a floor strewn with the butts of cigarettes. Odd shards of glass and puddles
of alcohol waited to catch dancers as they fall, but he didn't fall. He made his way across
the floor, balanced delicately on his silver hologram platform-boots. He carried himself
with pride for he knew he was by far the most alluring individual in the place.
The music played on, the deep guitar riffs caressed the clubbers' minds and he began
to dance. Some swayed with or around him, some just looked on in wonder. In the sultry
atmosphere he danced wildly. The boy didn't care if they looked at him in amazement, he
just enjoyed the time for what it was, a night-out on the town. He had no thought for those
who followed him meekly, just wishing to relish the dance, the music, the soul for, after
all, his soul was displayed there for all to view. The dancing opened it up like a book that
demands to be read.
The lights came on. The music stopped. The hot sweaty air could no longer be
tolerated and the waif-like bodies poured out of the doors, to breathe again.
Kathryn Daniels
26