EVOLUTION
A gradual development or change
Illustration by Emma Wildman
OUR APARTMENT
Written by Emma Lynas (Third Year English and Creative Writing)
If you were to walk through the door now, the first thing you would notice is the red wall. We painted it a week after you lost your job. We’d had the tin sitting around for months, but that morning I was woken by the strong smell of fresh paint curling inside my nostrils. You hadn’t bothered to cover any of the furniture. Even now, our coffee table has crimson flecks on it. We never got a new one because we found it funny to watch guest’s eyes widen and stare at us, always too polite to actually ask.
The sofa is overflowing with cushions, none of them the same colour. We both thought we were the one in charge of buying them, so we came home one night, each of us with bags stuffed with cushions. We kept them all. Most are faded now. My favourite, a geometric purple and white one that you got, has a red stain on it from when we were onto our third bottle of wine, and thought it would be fun to eat spaghetti like in Lady and the Tramp.
Above the TV there’s a giant Back to the Future poster. We found it at a car boot sale for £5. We had to have the frame custom made, it had such odd measurements. It cost a fortune, but we didn’t care. It was the first piece of character our apartment had, the first mark that made it ours.
There’s one plant in the corner, partially hidden by the curtain. It’s almost as tall as the window and wider than either of us had anticipated it getting. Even though neither of us had a good track record when it came to plants, I had insisted on having some greenery. You had said that if we managed to keep it alive for a week it would be a miracle.
Tucked against the far wall, below the window, is our CD player. CD cases stand in towering stacks beside it. One day, the piles came tumbling down. We still don’t know how, because neither of us were home. Several of the cases got cracked, along with a few of the CDs, while some of them spilled out onto the floor: a metallic mirrored carpet. We couldn’t be bothered to reorganise them, so most are no longer in their correct cases, while in others there’s only splinters and fragments of Blondie, The Beatles, and Billy Joel.
Behind the sofa, there’s a deflated green balloon left over from your birthday last year. I surprised you after work with decorations, a bottle of wine, and a takeaway. It wasn’t much, I know you don’t like a fuss being made over your birthday, but I would never leave it unmentioned.
On the coffee table there’s an envelope, amidst bills, magazines, chocolate wrappers, and dirty plates. It’s been roughly torn open, and the contents are poking out. A date, a gender, and a grainy, black and white photograph.
PARALLELS
Written by Harry Hext (Third Year English and Creative Writing)
We were driving out of the city. It was late on a Friday evening, and traffic was bad. The radio quietly played as we moved inch by inch along the lane marked “exit” in a colour that was once white, but had become a worn grey.
‘I told you we should’ve left yesterday.’ I don’t know why I said that. I suppose I wanted a reaction, a conversation, remembering the lengthy discussions my girlfriend and I once had on journeys like this.
She sat there, silent, her fingers poised on the steering wheel, gripping it the way they gripped my hand before. She used to wear a smile that could ease any worry. I haven’t seen her smile in months.
The traffic was slowly freeing up, but she still hadn’t said anything as I drifted from sleep, to Twitter, and back to sleep again. The grey world beyond the car window was getting lighter. It would be a little while before there was any green, but it made a pleasant change from the concrete. We drove in silence, picking out songs on the radio that I had forgotten about and she claimed to love.
‘Never heard of it,’ I said, only to be met with a grunt – better than nothing.
As the car lights changed from red to clear, our journey gained some momentum. Friday traffic was always bad, and she always suggested we drove in it just so we could listen to the radio and stare at the windshield in silence, waiting for something to happen.
I remembered drives with my father when he had been at the club, the bad hand of poker lingering in his mind, an empty pack of Marlboros in his pocket, and American gin on his breath. He would unenthusiastically ask me how French lessons had been.
‘Fine,’ I’d say, in a timid, forgetful tone. ‘Bonjour mon ami, je suis huit.’
He’d raise an eyebrow and smile at my poor choice in language lessons. Father always took the long way home, preferring to drive around the city, it was never enough to get home and see Mum (who would ask for a full breakdown of my lessons), he wanted me to patrol the city with him, look at the people, and see the urban lights. It bored me.
It bored me again then as my girlfriend parked us in front of another red light. The parallel lines that indicated no parking zones ran across that stretch of road. A faint smell of tobacco wandered through the car.
‘You started smoking?’ I asked, genuinely unaware.
She looked at me, eyebrow raised, like I was an ignorant child. ‘Yes.’
It didn't require a conversation.
The car moved for hours like that. Starting, stopping, red lights, and yellow parallels. I looked at her the same way she saw me: moving forward tirelessly.
CAR JOURNEYS
Written by Sinéad Price (Third Year English with Publishing)
Backseat of the blue car. I sit on the right, always the right. I’m just about the perfect height to see out the window. When I lean to look out, the edges of my booster seat bite into the corner of my legs. Beside me is my brother. The same crisp white shirt (slightly crinkled), grey tie, and oversized blue jumper. The only difference is he wears grey trousers and I wear a grey pinafore. Our schoolbags are in the boot. Mine is pink. Every year. It will always be pink.
My brother jiggles in his seat. I catch my mother’s eye in the mirror, staring back at us. There’s a warning in her look. My brother notices it too. He pauses his antics for maybe five minutes. She sighs.
We’re at the end of the road now, turning right to turn left again. Our neighbour waits by the road to join my mother in the front of the car. Nora O’ Brien. She turns in her seat to say hello to us, wrinkles crinkling the edges of her smile. Old people are always nice. I smile back; my brother does too.
From the window I can see the houses, the cars, the cows. We’re nearly in town. I smile when we pass the miniature ponies, their heads buried in the grass. I frown when we come to the broken-down house in the field. Cows and calves surround it, but there are no people.
‘Where are the people?’ I ask my mother and she pauses her conversation with Nora.
‘People come to look after the cattle, pet, they don’t have to live beside them.’ Reassurance. A laugh behind her eyes.
My eyes turn back towards the road. I am not convinced.
Backseat of the red Jeep. We’re on our way again. There’s sleep behind my eyes. My brother sits in the front seat; he doesn’t say a word. His head is higher than the headrest, his legs are cramped. Green jumper, green trousers, cream shirt. He stares out the window.
I look down at my knees. All I see is green: my skirt, my jumper... Only my once-cream shirt is spared. My bag is beside me on the seat. It’s brown bag and bulging with books.
We turn right at the end of the road and keep going. A pause to collect Andrea. We wait outside her house. Right by the road. There is a heavy stream of traffic, cars travelling towards and against us. My mother shifts in her seat, her finger already resting on the indicators. She turns when Andrea opens the car door to sit beside me. She’s a bubble of chatter and energy. Her bag’s not as heavy as mine, but her uniform is the same shade of green. We carry on. Almost in town now. Eyes out the window.
I’m on the left side. I see it now: one miniature pony. Further along and there are newer houses beside the older ones, impossibly ugly. And now here it is, the broken house. Not many cattle surround it. I turn my head away, look towards the road.
Front seat of the grey car. We’re travelling home. It had been raining since we left Knock airport, but now the sky is clear again. I can see everything from here. My hair is shorter and wavey. I left my suitcase in the boot, and have a blue bag at my feet.
The road is winding. Houses, cars, cows. Almost in town now. My mother is talking. She’s telling me all I’ve missed. Blue skies, green hills, white mist.
‘I saw your brother there last week. We had a great laugh.’
We’re going faster, town is near. We take the turn on the roundabout. Two schools to the right. Blue uniforms and green. We turn left, keep going. Driving further away. Less fields now and more houses by the road. I can’t see any miniature ponies. I see the broken house again, but I think it’s more of a shed. New calves, same field.
We’re stopped for roadworks. Lights are flashing green and red. There are men in orange jackets. They’re building what will become the new road. A green flash, they let us go. Not much further. As we pass Andrea’s house, I see her car parked by the door. Nora lives on the same path. We look back. And then forwards. The same house waits for us. It will always be there, but this road will go on and on.