The Whip presents an excerpt from Days After, borrowed from our literary counterpart, The Pen.
It was a dark and stormy night in East Clifton. Shoppers scurried to and fro in the Down’s Sainsbury’s, mindlessly ignoring the one way system, clawing facelessly at each other to secure the last can of peeled tomatoes. Fate looked on with a weary eye.
One shopper, young in age but bold in eyeliner, looked forward to their friend, sniffling over the spices. ‘You know what. I think we should do it. Tonight.’ The friend, engrossed in harissa, glanced up in fear, in awe, in gingham. ‘Are you- are you sure- I mean Sarah said she didn’t like the idea, I think- she- I heard her say she’s got football tomorrow morni-’
And so the stage was set. The actors knew their lines, and our nameless protagonist was the director: defiant, eager and morally dubious.
First they plugged in the speaker, Sarah keeping her beady Surrey eyes on the electricity meter. Then they dimmed the lights, apart from the naked bulb in Ziad’s room they kept on as an excruciating strobe. Lin couldn’t find any electro thick enough so they combined Macbooks, each playing a different genre of new wave. Emilia’s white noise machine was also thrown into the mix as she felt left out.
Thirty Jägerbombs in and they were there, caffeine in their veins, rage in their hearts, giving eachother stares that would surely have lasting consequences for the group. Our protagonist looked on in thought. What could this mean? If clubbing could be done in the same room as seminars, if they would all be here, hungover, on this stained carpet tomorrow, what did it all mean? Time was the only divider.
They smiled and glanced at the walls, pissed on in preparation. They had sold out, at least.