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prose
BAR PEOPLE by Oliver Midgley
I grew angry as I cautiously maneuvered myself through the dense congregation of people packing the immediate radius of the bar. Despite my care, it was difficult to avoid every pretentious asshole in the crowd, and when I did I was met with distain whenever I so much as grazed the leather of one of their fashionably scuffed shoes. The huffing, puffing, passive aggression being directed at me as I lightly bumped through the pretentious mob deeply annoyed me. It was a peculiar feeling of resentment. I didn’t feel physically threatened. They were too feeble a bodily presence. Besides, violence was no longer fashionable in the trendiest depths of London. In similar regard, there wasn’t any sincere level of intellectual snobbery. Every person in the converted-warehouse-pub I had found myself in was a moron, to put it lightly; full of actors who didn’t act, writers who didn’t write and painters who didn’t paint. This was in fact the root of what caused the uncomfortable atmosphere in the room. Beyond the thudding bass and wall of humidity, there was an undeniable climate of arrogance. Despite everyone knowing that everyone else was a vapid idiot, it appeared to be a welcomed fact. The age-old human reflex of security in numbers was in full swing. Human behavior is often defined by what those around you are doing, and as a result can encourage rather strange, mindless patterns of practice. If everyone in the room is as much of a dickhead as you are, then they don’t seem like dickheads. They seem like you, so henceforth, a certified, all round great guy. Alas, I escaped the grimy depths of the inside of the bar, and reached the outside seating area. Despite the bitter winter cold that had descended on the city, the vibe in this outside area was far more relaxed. Large and spacious with heavy wooden benches bordering precarious, rickety tables; and shielded from the harsh weather by a large canopy. With the concentration of people being far less than inside, there was another welcome sight, friends! People, who didn’t stir such feelings of irritation within me, people who in my eyes held some value. I put down the drinks that I had ventured inside to get, lit a cigarette and relaxed. I blew out the smoke with relief. Inside was too packed. I’d never liked people invading my personal space, especially when I found those around me to be highly unpleasant. The two men sitting opposite me were Alex and Henry. Alex: tall, wiry and unshaven with a shock of dark hair sat next to Henry: a stylish, silent, bearded Greek wearing a wooly hat and sporting detailed tattoos on both of his exposed forearms. I felt more relaxed now that I was in good company, and we sat drinking and laughing. ‘What took you so long in there’, said Alex as he sipped his beer. ‘Just the queue mate’, I replied, ‘You know, I don’t like the crowd in here’. Alex smirked, as did Henry. Alex took another drink, and said loudly ‘It’s all just an act mate. It must be, no person could be as up their own ass as these people are. If it even was possible, the odds of us drinking in a bar where every person is a self-obsessed prick is slim’. Alex, despite his wealth of insight on the human
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PROSE condition was no master of subtlety. The less packed smoking area was also quieter, and the crowd, although sparser, still consisted of the ‘self-obsessed pricks’ Alex was referring to. It was clear we were talking about them. Alex spoke loudly and silence descended on the terrace. We didn’t look, speak or act in a particularly different way to the hipsters now staring at us with distaste. It was more what we spoke about. There was no speak of Rough Trade, Saint Martins or fixed gear bicycles in our conversation. This must have been a baffling conundrum for our now arch-foes to comprehend. However, they must have found it possible to overlook. ‘So what if they don’t appreciate the liberal arts of our generation’, they would mutter, ‘If anything, we should pity them. Not everyone can understand the deep torment of a London youth, especially when expressing it in a jazz-swing-electro-funk fusion’. I had indulged myself in a fantasy of the thoughts of our onlookers, and hadn’t noticed the high-pitched laughter Alex and Henry had erupted into. Their laughter, although inappropriate, was infectious. Perhaps due to the alcohol, but more likely due to the highly awkward situation we were now in. The only saving grace, perhaps, was that as previously mentioned, there was no physical threat from the hipsters. This assumption however, turned out to be wrong. As our laughter faded, two young men appeared at the end of our table. They looked typical of the scene of the bar. Both of them slight and handsome, dressed in tight jeans and leather jackets, expensively but not wanting to appear so. ‘What was that I just heard you saying?’ One of them said to Alex, ‘that we’re pricks? Like everyone else in the bar? Why don’t you fuck off out of here’. I was shocked, yet, impressed. The very certain impression I had on the clientele of this bar was that of a meek, pretentious waster with no substance to his character. Yet here stood two men, aesthetically fitting the stereotype I had, but proving some backbone. It was however, unfortunate that these two had addressed Alex and not any other person in the bar. Alex didn’t speak; he stood up, straightened his jacket, and landed a powerful blow to the taller of the two, splitting his nose open violently. The other stood shocked, as one would be, ushering his wounded friend to the toilet. ‘Told you they were pricks’, said Alex calmly, as he returned to his drink quietly smirking. Ironically, those who had addressed our criticism of this sub-culture didn’t actually belong to it. I wish Alex hadn’t hit him.
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PROSE
NIGHT TIME WANDERINGS by Rosa Lia
A pair of shoes covered in sequins. Diamonds on the souls of her shoes. A tree covered in lights at night by the water. Daffodils, bright yellow, even in the night. The shadows of light cast upwards on the brick. The breaks between the buildings where you can get to the sea even though it’s not the sea it feels like the sea because you can hear waves as you look at the city and sand is beneath your feet and that beach is yours and yours alone. A bright white room with paintings hung on the wall and the paint shows the marks where it dripped and you think you could run with it along the paper. The sounds make you unsure. They sound like sounds you might watch. They sound like games children would play or memories you might want to remember but remain beyond your reach. You listen for foreign accents. You filter out the rest. You listen for the marks of other places. A tree with all its branches cut frames a large squirrel painted onto a building. A man emerges from patchwork colours on the side of a shop. He’s found his camouflage but he’s not hiding. You walk down steps and you see a woman standing naked as she closes her eyes and lets you watch because it isn’t about who is or isn’t watching after all. It’s about you and it always was. It’s about you realising that it doesn’t matter who is or isn’t watching. You realise its lighter later now and you don’t need a coat anymore. You realise that the same sky at a different time of year would make you feel sad. You realise that if it makes you happy now there’s no reason why it shouldn’t then. You look at the marks of your lips on the glass. Your finger prints cover it. The soft light from the candle shows it all. You make more marks and link them up until there’s a caterpillar moving across your wine glass. The bus is a place for sleeping when you know the person next to you. It’s tiring sometimes when you don’t have someone to put their hands on your skin. Men and women have different skin. The roads are dangerous to cycle along at night. You keep thinking when you should be looking. Your tyre is ripped. You walk past a bread and wine café talking about the English accent even though you can’t hear it. You’ve been told it sounds like dolphins. Young Thai Model Upstairs. No one knows the way to the place you’re going. The roof of the city feels lower at night. The air is different in the different parts. Where you live its cold and fresh like the coast in winter. In other places it’s moving in a straight line and pulling you along with it telling you that you have to be moving somewhere too. In other places it’s scented with ideas and judgements and bursts of thought and moments of insecurity. You follow, you trace, you breathe, you wander.
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PROSE
ONE COFFEE by Nic Sen With such silence It was a pool where all drowned He alleviated a hope That he might reach her again.
Get me out of here. Why won’t he say anything? You annoy me Don’t be so good.
Gone out for coffee Wanted for fury - sugar with that? - certainly not.
Silenced eyes Silenced mouths Tension Fantastic
Her hair fell in the wind From the bun it was kept in. Overflowing onto necks Not just hers
Her hand moved Left His leg Right.
Glimmering and glistening I want to chop it off Teasing and treacle Let’s have a biscuit with that
Paused Courageous Crime Pays.
Crunch it breaks Give me some please. - It aint nice as she tucks into more bites.
He touches her arm Shock Static She’s still
Charming. He thinks. He blinks, She thinks
Don’t do this I have to Don’t Why?
Of their past love How, it cried within her He felt it Arrest her.
Eye’s together You want it. Hair longer than ever, Falls into his breath.
We aren’t there anymore So shut up And get on with it. Shall I just find someone else?
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PROSE As he clambers closer Lips searing Red carnations Dripping
Radiant What does it matter\? Rip my ribcage apart Put the sun inside.
Wind breathing Lights melting Eyes seething Hearts racing
Table over Everything’s gone. People surrender - Was I wrong?
Elbows on table He grabs her cheek Both hands She relapses
No bitterness anymore I’m yours Always have been. I know.
Cold lips Heated Slightly He bites her bottom lip
Who’s speaking? Only you kno/w No one. Shut up
Sweet to touch Sweat too much Careless and Tender
Kiss me Fuck me. Let’s get out of here I already have.
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