MAC Magazine 2015

CREATIVE WRITING
Memoirs of a Spectre
I shivered.
Rain drizzled into a street once so full of life, so flamboyant, so vivacious. Only
two days ago I had been sitting on a table outside this very cafe, a cafe formerly
known as The Shot, now known as nothing more than just another good memory
gone out of business.
Back then, I was perfectly content to simply sit and watch the day pass. And
what a day it was. The pedestrians flowing by seemed to be part of a hive-mind,
a mind set on enjoying the bounties of the city’s glorious existence. Dresses in
hundreds of shades of tangerine, indigo, aqua, lime, cerulean, fuchsia and the rest
of the palette, featuring all the latest fashions for a hot summer’s day with collared
shirts, shorts, light blouses and skirts, the people passing me were more than just
accepting of the day. They were grateful for it.
A light but warm wind waffled waywardly, firing multiple nerve endings within
my head, telling my nose that I was smelling the essence of hot coffee and ever-soslightly
melting asphalt. It wasn’t a particularly overpowering smell, instead it was
more of a jazz ensemble, there for you if you wanted to enjoy, but also perfectly
content to be pushed to the back of your mind and ignored.
The sound of a coffee grinder reached my ears, and the air was filled with the jazz
ensemble and the pleasant noise of laughter and conversation. “Beautiful day isn’t
it?”,“How was work Honey?”, and “What did you say the time was, Dear?”
But now, now it can’t be more different. The lively, flamboyant, vivacious
atmosphere has figuratively died. I just wish I had been as lucky.
The image of the enchanting cafe has ruptured, split. Cracks are showing, with
me in the middle. Pulsing colours have been replaced with a melancholy of
monochromic shades. Light rain spits down, cloud cover the colour of the street
below, a slate grey simply begging to be put out of its misery.
The only colour worth mentioning comes from the yellow police tape (“Police
Line-Do Not Cross”) suspended off orange road-cones, surrounding the quaint
little cafe, and surrounding me. Or at least all that’s left of me. All I am now is a
white chalk-outline against the greys of the sidewalk, a fading memory spreadeagled
out on the concrete.
Luke Burke
Max Hall, Stirling Deaton, Phoenix Apa
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