Another short piece from young writer Kendal Atcliffe, expect great things.

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“Hi, I’m Danika! Can I see your pass? Here, you’ll need these! In you go!”

“Hi, I’m Danika! Can I see your pass? Here, you’ll need these! In you go!” “Hi, I’m Danika! Can I see your pass? Here, you’ll need these! In you go!” “Hi, I’m Danika! Can I see your pass? Here, you’ll need these! In you go!” “Hi, I’m Danika! Can I see your pass? Here, you’ll need these! In you go!”

If that woman smiles any harder, the muscles in her neck are going to snap.

Eventually, she’s settled into a rhythm. Not just any rhythm, God no; the rhythm of If I Can’t, by 50 Cent, which to the audience in question (which features the daughter of an 80s rockstar, three footballers of varying international relevance, minor royalty, a pair of artificially inflated breasts who has recently had a divorce and the director of the piece-of-shit film I just sat through) is an instant classic. A loud “woo” sounds through the teeming mass of their entourages, digital cameras play their pre-recorded shutter sounds, and women spray-tanned to within an inch of a Satsuma push silicone body parts against inflated egos on the large space laughably called a dancefloor.

VIP-hop, they call it. Hiphop so ubiquitous, so mainstream, so fucking soul-rapingly awful that it penetrates the bullshit bubble around these creatures and to it they dance. Music so bland and uninspired – music that betrays the roots of hiphop so comprehensively – that it forms the perfect musical accompaniment to the utter death of dignity. They are photographed as they enter, date on arm; they are photographed as they meet a lump of meat alternative to the one with whom they entered; they are photographed exchanging saliva with the second lump of meat; they are photographed as they leave.

The next morning, when I’m on the train home, I read the same pages you do in whichever free newspaper ends up in front of my tired little eyeballs, about their dalliances. I can tell you now, the newspaper account is usually 100% accurate. How do I know? Oh, I sell them cocaine. People will tell you anything if you sell them cocaine. They’ll think you want to hear every detail of their night, if you sell them cocaine.

Do you have any idea how much of a twat you sound on cocaine? Yes, you, the one at the back. Reading this. You’re a twat. You have too much money. Spend it on something. Buy a subscription to “the Economist”. Get a library card. I don’t know. Learn something.

I am one of very few people willing to admit that I make decent enough money and have little need of your custom, but then, I have always suspected that to be the reason I am not in prison. Also, the accent helps. When you sound like a barrister, the police are kind to you. I would also say that bribery helps. People in Britain never realise how far you can get, with bribes. They seem to think it’s a sordid little thing for Italians and the Chinese. That’s a bit racist, don’t you think? Timothy 6:10 doesn’t come with a footnote saying “…but not if you’re from Blighty”.

This little chain of thought runs thin; Danika’s constant bubbling drone wears at me, but I know I must keep to my spot adjacent to the entrance, and never risk movement. If I move, I demonstrate need, and they come to me because of the crippling atmosphere of indifference. I’d leave, but I do have to pay rent. Not like that lucky little prick, Irwin.

My name? Good grief, have you listened to a very word of what I just said? Danika, dearest. We’ve another one begging for the pavement.

It’s a shame; I was getting to like you.

In preparation for the launch of our second zine this summer, a literary treat courtesy of young writer Kendall Atcliffe.

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Soft light’s a bitch, because I know it means I’m waking up at Maria’s place again. You know what it’s like, when you wake up but don’t open your eyes, and realise you aren’t in Kansas anymore? (In this metaphor, Kansas is your own bed)

You’re trapped there, vision suspended in swirling colours and blackness, floating in your little world of sheets and pillows, certain there’s a world beyond your eyelids and totally unaware of what it is. That’s the great thing about waking up and not knowing where you are or who she is. You have those few seconds – I’ve stretched them out to almost a minute before – where it’s all potentiality. I try not to imagine where I am as being too awesome, because it’s only something truly special (studio apartment with Monet prints on the wall and flatpanel B&O A/V equipment, hotel room with huge bay window view of skyscrapers, empty white minimalist show-flat with more than one girl) every once in a while. If I imagined it was a place like that, and it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be able to shake the sense of failure for the next week.

My name’s Irwin, by the way, pleased to meet you.

But you have to open your eyes before the memory rush, when it all comes flooding back, and various cringe-moments or dancefloor mistakes start to ruin your buzz. When you’re in the middle of a moment like that, you have to force it to an end, or else it’ll fizzle out. Better a bang than a whimper. (As the actress said to the bishop)

Eyelids are only so good at shutting out light, though, which is why I always know when I wake up in a soft, white-golden glow, that the moment’s been denied. I can’t stop my skin from checking the texture of the sheets, my nose from detecting the blend of her perfume, her floor cleaner and just… her, and my tongue from tasting the hangover-mouth that comes from drinking enough alcohol for she and I to have conversed at all. My senses won’t wait. They’ve got a casefile a foot wide proving the girl in this bed next to me is Maria before I’ve opened my eyes.

Son of a bitch.

I’m a leaver, if that’s a word; leaving is what I do. I left my hometown, I left my one true love, I left Titanic halfway through; I left my ambition behind when I embarked on this stupid mission to get rich. I left one girl to her own devices as she got down to her underwear because I realised she looked like Liam Neeson (an extremely pretty Liam Neeson, but Liam Neeson nonetheless). I used to leave my lessons during high school to go to my locker and drink a swig of rum. I left a detailed deconstruction of my friend Steve’s personality written on a toilet wall at my old job. I left a note saying “I quits” on the front door of my last houseshare (I denoting Irwin, I does speak English as a first language). I left before the main course of a date once because Abbi texted me saying the girl didn’t wax. I’m left wing. I’ve left more jackets in more club cloakrooms than I can count. I leave things. I depart. Je departs, or whatever the French would be. But no matter how many times I leave Maria’s damn bed, I always stupid fucking damn shitting balls end up there again.

C’est la vie.