Friday's Child

She was surveying the university, it was large and she felt so small in comparison to all the bustling students going about their academic business. Violet was passing one of the bigger student residences along the strip; it was early winter and it was already beginning to get dark. Girls and boys lolled over the balconies of different rooms; in one, there seemed to be an array of youths smoking and drinking, having what seemed to be a fun time. She was only a stranger to them - one who yearned to know what went on inside. 

The sun began to fade behind the balcony which secluded the university campus from the outside world and at the last glimmer of light she saw the high street across the river. Then it began to rain. The rain was owned by the night and, having no umbrella, Violet ran into the little coffee shop that sat quaintly opposite the main residences. 

Other students began to take shelter under the overlaying roof, and Violet had to work her way through her elders to find refuge. As she came in she noticed a man noticing her, giving him a quick short smile, not wanting to convey the 'wrong' idea. She ordered a small vanilla coffee as the man behind the counter looked her up and down. He drank in her long, luscious legs barely covered by her formal blue mini skirt and worked his way up to her white blouse slightly unleashing her full youthful breasts. The cleavage alone was enough to drive any man wild. 

She sat by the window with a good view of the bridge, allowing herself to relax and listen to the symphonic rain hitting the pavement lightly mélanged with the intimate student chatter. The sun had left her behind by now and she was consumed by the dark. The prospect of travelling home seemed long and treacherous; the train didn't leave for a good few hours anyway but she'd have to make her own way to Paddington. She decided to pull out her copy of 'Wuthering Heights' from her satchel and relish in the unconsummated love of Catherine and Heathcliff. 

The window seemed far more tempting than the book after a while and she gazed sleepily out at where she'd be this time next year, hopefully. All of a sudden, there was a cough from behind her. She looked up: over her shoulder there stood the man that had noticed her. "Is someone sitting there?" He pointed at the chair opposite her. His voice was coarse but warm; he was tall and not typically handsome, with a brown thin pencil moustache, high cheek bones and deep set green eyes. Those eyes - she felt penetrated by his very presence. She nodded meekly and gestured towards the seat, implying it was free from company.

He sat and began to stare out of the window. By now Violet was fascinated by this man; he didn't seem like the typical student, his very presence screamed maturity. For a while they sat in this tense moment, locked by the symmetry of their bodies. Her paramour made the first move. He snatched the book which lay in front of her, read the title then let out a small wry chuckle: "Fancy yourself a Catherine, eh?"

"I don't fancy my death will be as romantic." She gave him a look, no ordinary look. Violet could be a little vixen when she wanted to. She felt a hand placed on her knee. Her meekness was extinguished as she felt the familiarity of a man's sensual teasing. Fingers moved higher up her leg until the tiniest nudge more would make her powerless. Instead, he grabbed her hand and squeezed... hard.

"Follow me?" he enquired. He stood up and made for the door. Violet was not hesitant; she had a few hours to kill and they may as well cut out the hunt from this amorous encounter. He led her across the lawn, his hand gently placed on her firm, pert bottom which was accentuated by her tight skirt.

They entered the student residence building, walked steadily through the red corridor and rushed into a lift. As soon as the door closed, he turned to face her, pushing her against one of the walls. Trapped in a box of hot, steamy passion, he held both her hands up. She felt his prisoner as he began kissing her. She strained her body forward so that her torso gently caressed his trousers, feeling something grow hard against her. The doors opened and a group of students that seemingly came from the party Violet had surveyed earlier entered. The few girls joined her in the lift, one beginning to giggle profusely; this laughing stranger leaned over to Violet and whispered in her ear, "He's the English professor - he loves the young ones...like you".

The entire company got off at the penthouse floor, one party going left, Violet and her lover journeying right. He grabbed her hand as they traversed the corridor to the end room. As he pulled the key from his pocket and slowly twisted the door knob, she became aware of the unbearably pleasurable heat and seemingly immeasurable member which grew between them. 

She pushed him down on the bed and pulled out a set of handcuffs from her bag. He was trapped by the bedposts and hers now. Violet felt something stirring inside her. All of a sudden, she slapped him. He was puzzled, initially feeling that this strike was simply a fetish of hers. Then she did it again. "What are you doing‽" he cried. 

"Shut the fuck up!"
She slapped him again. 

"Bitch, stop it!" cried the powerless professor. At this she began to laugh, hysterically and heartily.

She brought her face right up against him as he struggled, just out of her reach. "Do you know who I am?" she shouted. He continued to attempt to break free, but to no avail. She grabbed his chin and made him look at her. "I said, do you know who I am?" 

He shook his head defiantly and at the same time answered her question. She stood up and walked over to the window looking out over the river. Violet placed her hand on her head and pulled off the wig, the black long hair that lay beneath falling down. "I'm Rebecca Black", she whispered, "today is Friday, tomorrow is Saturday and Sunday comes afterwards". With that she placed the CD of her 'hit' single into the boombox and suddenly her lover was subjected to worst song ever. The sick high pitched auto-tuned melody began to play. The song was banned in every country other than Iran and Libya, often being utilised as a weapon to torture the opposers of evil dictators. 

"No, please, no! Have mercy! I voted against banning your song in the 2011 referendum, please!" he cried, his desperation so apparent. She revelled in his fear. 

She laughed, flung her bag over her shoulder and strutted out of the room. The professor knew his death was imminent. He sobbed silently. By morning, he was dead.

Rebecca joined the party downstairs and she sipped on a Martini as she overlooked the river sultrily. The night was hers; the night was Black.




Twitter: myamedina


Author: Mya Medina
Editor: Raph Torrance

I Have Ceased All Joys In Life

This may be an odd thing to start a blog with, but you should know, I'm a quitter. Recently, I've given up drugs, smoking, alcohol, caffeine and bad meats - All in all, I've given up anything that made life worth living. However, I'll have you know that this was in no shape or form an easy task, mainly because all these things are addictive and I'd rather be attacked by a number of Martian tripods from Mars then be seen going into an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

However, I am not alone in my plight against the forces of Satan. My sister too recently 'quit' this whole smoking craze, she however lasted 24 hours, which is pretty impressive, compared to my initial 24 minutes. She arrived home this afternoon from the same institution that I had, the thriving cesspit known as school. She had an informative chemistry class where she was subjected to a bias rant about the inevitable death smoking ensures, and how this professor of hers would rather "bath in a tub full of evian and drink bottled water for the rest of his life" (direct quote) than have one puff of a ciggarette. This seemed a bit extreme to me, starving suffering dying children in Africa need that water. But I simply don't understand; isn't smoking like really cool? For the next ten minutes my sister sat in life-prolonging agony as she simply was 'dying' for a ciggarette. Suddenly, and without and warning, the table next to her spontaneously combusted into a pack of Marlborough Lights. She blinked and tried to snap out of it but her friends still remained tall, lanky and pale, with an edge of weakness about them which left a horrible after taste. As this spectacular hallucination occurred she imagined sparking her lighter and waving it about her head... R.I.P Nicotine.

Today we saw our first bought of true sun. This genuine ball of heat in the sky caused me to become parched and my thirst desperately needed to quenched. Times like these can only call upon one thing... the vodka and orange ice-pop. It's the anti-AA, one becomes miraculously drunk whilst still having quit drinking. Baffling, I know. However, my will power prevailed and I watched 'The Weakest Link' sober. Anne Robinson turned from a sassy middle aged fabulous bitch with a humour to evoke my squeaky laugh to an old crony who seemed to be monotonously quizzing the working class whilst remaining beneath them. So unless you've realised, smoking and drinking are out and afternoon interrogation games are in!

So as 'happy hour' slowly approaches and the hood of darkness tempts debauchery, ever closer, I feel compelled to tell you the quote that keeps me going... "a hangover is the wrath of grapes". So maybe a night-cap will do?