Selected Works

Peckham Pelican 

Entering the place looking around like I smelt something expired from our fridge. 

After a few minutes of childish sulkiness I open up. 

V: You know I am a bit bored of these hip-cool-white-middle-class-beansie-and-yellow-socks wearing places all over London. I want dirt, I want ugly, I want real, I want to see colours, I want to see interaction between people which is not this English distant bullshit on an avocado toast next to an oat flat white.

N: I believe you are a bit delusional if you think you are going to find this in Camberwell, when you are sitting in a coffee shop where a proper winter market is taking place. 

V: ( shruds shoulders) I guess you are not wrong.

On the way to Oval

These Wednesday underground rides from downtown. Eating out from a paper bag, blurry vision, hot french fries and being deliriously drunk. 

A curious and kind eyes pair looks at me and my paper bag from the opposite blue sits.

-Do you want some french fries? I ask. 

He nods and I sit next to him. 

We eat the nasty and greasy fries and bean burgers together while telling me about his night. I ask him to lie. Do not say anything which is true. I am fed of who does what and how random cute drunk guys get their money from. So he lies, like water running out of the tap he keeps on lying. He is ridiculous and funny. He makes up a story about him working in a construction site and he is the manager of it. And he has 4 children and they have this huge long-ass bike where 5 of them are riding through France every year. Where is the Mom? I get into the game. Oh- he sighs. She is living in the Antarctic saving Polar Bears from extinction. I offer my Coke to him. He is grateful and we laugh and just stare at each other. 

At the stop before Kennington, finishing the last piece of my bean burger he states that he likes me. I like you as well- said it to him. So randomly and so clearly without any shame that I can like a person with just knowing his pretty lies and nothing else. In real life, it takes months to say something like this. But on this underground, you can do anything because it stays there. Between the french fries, the wind of the metro, the old lady, the Arabs, me and this person. This is like an airport, this is the under the table drink in Turkey, the asshole of God, the blackouts after standing up too rushy, the underground is a not existing place where you can say out what you feel to a random stranger. 

When stepping off the underground at his stop he holds the door of the metro and asks me: What’s your name? I will not let this door go until you say it. What’s your surname? 

That was the point when I realized that I have to let go of the love of my life because I can’t spell properly. I shout my name. I even spell it, he might have heard it right. 

I keep on riding until Oval, smiling and saying sorry to the people on the underground. I jokingly say to them:

Sorry guys this is the beginning of a love story here, I will keep you updated! 

On my way to Oval London rides the tube, in general in a very formal manner. You have to keep it together during the day. But once you are drunk and down in the rabbit hole, that’s when the game changes. Your signal is off, no data, we are riding this tube together in this very moment. Strange things happen, strangers sometimes take off and they are not strangers anymore. This is just one of many stories which belongs to down there.. Peckham Pelican. Recently I discovered that I am not a big fan of London. I guess the problem must be me. Noa my flatmate has great come backs, she reflects back in a very Woody Allenish way to my nonsense talk.

Viktoria Vay is a 2nd year creative writing student. Has been working as an assistant in films for years. 24, very confused about life in general. A wannabe screenwriter.