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This week's title is The Shopping Channel. The final entry time this week is 11pm (UK time) 30th September 2016. Predicted prize fund is £50!

Editorial

20th September 2016

Living off-grid, off-road, and way out of sight of any other building, I expected to encounter many familiar scenes in these pieces of writing. I hadn’t anticipated the great variety of interpretations of the ‘Middle of Nowhere’ title; some literal, but many more metaphorical. I was struck by how relative and subjective the concept of ‘nowhere’ is; one person’s nowhere can be another’s somewhere. This is something that does seem familiar; some may think that I (along with my partner) live in the middle of nowhere, but as fell-runners and lovers of wild places, this spot is right in the middle of where we want to be.

I chose ‘Message in a Bottle’ (2070) as the winning entry, for the writer’s evocative use of language. I felt it really took me to the inhospitable, lonely, sun-scorched land described.  I particularly like the imagery in the lines: “Black buzzards circle high on muscular thermals, dry cries echo from cracked rock hot enough to fry an egg”. Although the setting may seem a relatively conventional interpretation of the title, this piece of writing is far from contrived or predictable. 

I thought the story which begins on a bus (2079) should also be featured. It was gripping and described a bleak (but sadly real) world, in which there are no heroes; each character being unlikable in their own way. I could really feel the shame of the older passenger, who felt obliged but unable to act. 

The story written from the viewpoint of someone lying in bed, apparently suffering from depression (2083), also tackled a tough subject.  I like this piece for the way the condition of the writer is slowly revealed as the narrative unfolds. It also insightfully depicts how one can feel alone and isolated whilst living in the middle of society, or as the writer puts it: “surrounded by the ingredients of our lives and the lives of others”. 

Thank you for letting me take part in this weeks’ competition; I thoroughly enjoyed reading all of the entries.

   

About the judge

Suzanna Brett, along with her partner, is the warden of Skiddaw House , one of the most remote and highest independent youth hostels in the UK. They also spent two years running the equally remote Black Sail youth hostel.  

Prior to moving to the 'back o' beyond' (her current home as described by Alfred Wainwright), she spent two years teaching English to Turkish teenagers and Syrian refugees in Antakya, Turkey. An anthropology graduate, Suzy also enjoyed editing papers written by Turkish Anthropologists during this time. 

Read about the history of Skiddaw House in the newly published book: The Loneliest House in England. Contact the author, John Martin to order a copy: dijon.martin@virgin.net


Ephemera

Laura can’t sleep. She listens to the familiar noises upstairs and when she is sure they are both asleep, she gets up and walks into the spare room. She sighs, and reaches to open the window, pulling her dressing gown tighter as the cold air hits her. She takes out a cigarette and smokes, looking into the dark. The cold air is sharp against the heat of the tobacco as she inhales.

Exhales, thinking.

The small field behind the house slopes down to a river edged by trees, the water flowing freely while the only sound in the house is the gentle up and down rhythm of her husband and son’s breathing, almost perfectly in time together.

Her phone, on silent, flashes a message.

It’s four in the morning. She replies, then after a short while, when the sounds of the street begin waking, she deletes the text conversation and goes back to bed. Her husband stirs, so she curls onto her side and waits for him to rise and get ready for work.

After he leaves, and before their son, Sam, wakes, she thinks about her husband’s affair, when she was pregnant with Sam. She remembers feeling very little when he told her, it was a relief to have her suspicions confirmed. So then, she wonders, does he know about her and Mark? Why wouldn’t he? While she waits for Sam to wake up, her phone flashes with another message.

'We need to talk.'

Mark, her lover, for want of a better word, call him what you will, her bit on the side, - made the ultimatum two days ago. The conversation plays in her head as she scrapes at a stubborn mark on a plate. With a fierce push, she scratches the enamel. Their best set, a wedding present. Annoyed, she puts the plate to one side for the suds to dry. A few minutes later, loading clothes into the washing machine Laura has the urge to climb into the tub, and curl up and rinse herself clean.

'I can’t leave him Mark. You know I can’t. It’s difficult.'

The field at the back of the house is being ploughed, the tractor making a constant background noise. It seems like only minutes since the hay from summer was harvested and rolled into balls and carted away. Laura and Mark had made love many times in the field behind the house, hidden in the grass while Sam slept. At first she felt guilty, but after a few weeks the guilt became habit and the habit became something she accepted as part of her life. An enjoyable, exciting part of her life. Now the grass was gone, the black soil exposed and uneven. She hears Sam waking and snaps back to her present life. She runs up the stairs to see him.

'Mummy...'

'Morning sleepy head.' She smiles, his blonde hair ruffled, and half open eyes never failing to raise her mood. 'Did you have a good sleep darling?'

Sam stretches his arms out and half falls out of his bed. How quickly she thinks, from cot to bed. How quickly they grow. She pulls him to her.

'Mummy loves you baby, do you want some milk?'

'Please mummy, hungry.. and cartoons.'

Of course, cartoons. Although he is getting too big for her, she carries Sam downstairs, nestled on her hip, his warm breath on her neck. She kisses him,' Mummy loves you sweetheart, are you OK'

'Yes,'

He giggles as Laura pulls silly faces at him, and settles comfortably on the sofa with a blanket. She hands him the warm milk and scrolls through the channels until she finds the cartoons he likes.

'Cartoons, Mummy, cartoons.'

Sam bounces up and down to show his delight, then settles with his blanket, milk and favourite cuddly toy.

'I’m just going upstairs darling she says. Back in a minute.'

Her phone rings. She looks out across the field behind their garden. In Spring, her husband made a path at the side of the field down to the river though he added a gate at the bottom of the garden, a necessity when Sam began walking. He’d reached the toddler stage, and needed penning in. A wandering eye can be trouble she thought.

'Have you made a decision yet?'

Mark was insistent. 'Meet me,' he said. 'It’s beautiful today. We’ll have an hour when Sam goes down. We can talk it over.'

Laura looked at her reflection in the window, saw herself with the phone held against her ear, a cigarette in her mouth.

It’s difficult. She blows smoke in deep thought. 'Mark, please don’t make me do this.'

'I won’t settle for second best.'

She considers this for a few moments, then, stubbing the butt into the ashtray, adds 'Leave me alone,' and ends the call.

Sam was asleep when she heard the knock on the window. She knew it was Mark, and opened the door.

'Ten minutes,' he said, holding out his hand. 'That’s all I ask.'

They walked along the field. Laura was conscious not to go too far, for the trees obscured her view to the garden. 'You can’t end it like this he said, I mean. You just can’t.'

Suddenly, the past week’s tension reached a limit and Laura began to sob. She buried her head into Mark’s big shoulders and he held her while she cried.

'I don’t know what to do,' she said, 'I don’t know what to do.'

He eased her to the ground, and he hugged her, himself torn by the situation. Seeing her like this was upsetting for him, and he held her, they both began to cry, and weeks of emotion poured out of them, both stuck in an impossible situation, both knew there was no easy solution.

Sam woke and clambered off the sofa looking for his Mum. He went into the garden but still couldn’t see her. Sucking on his milk bottle he continued through the gate left open at the bottom of the garden and walked towards the river where he’d fed ducks with his mum when the sun was hot. He liked ducks, and he liked the river but when he got there his Mum was nowhere to be seen.

He slipped and fell, and in this moment, all of their decisions were made.


Recent ShowNotes


Middle… Of… Nowhere

Last week's competition

Featured Entry

by mossy
Henry looked up from his magazine and watched the three boys taking their seats on the bus. They were pushing and swearing. The loudest boy had his school tie wrapped around his fist and used it to cushion his hand as he began slowly punching the empty seat in front.

Thud

Thud

Some of the passengers looked before quickly turning away. There was an older man sitting with his wife in seats quite close to them and Henry watched the old man's neck flushing red, saw his wife move closer. She pulled her scarf tighter around her and reached a hand to her handbag strap.

The loudest boy punching the seat was also the tallest. Henry recognised him from the CCTV. He was the boy caught on camera kicking Mickey's head like a beach ball. The other two boys sprawled back, listening to their phones as the tinny rattle bounced around the bus. They'd stare at anyone brave enough to look and pulled faces in return.

Henry was watching this from the back of the bus by the window. He rolled his thick shoulders inside the tailored suit he was wearing that day. It was unpleasantly warm. He could see the old man's head sweating. Henry pulled at his seventeen-inch collar, loosening the button as the heat on the bus increased. He turned back to his magazine and flicked through the pages, listening as the boys bragged on.

'I did her, she was well hammered..'

'I told her to sling it, slag..'

'What's she gonna do? Fuck it.'

The other passengers seemed to be ignoring them but Henry was clenching his hands into fists. He was a fighter, a strong violent man familiar with the boy's language but tonight he was dressed like a stockbroker. Tonight he wanted to blend in with the commuting crowd.

The bus pulled in before the petrol station, the last stop before the dual carriageway out of the city, out past the boarded up shops and into the middle of no where. It was getting dark outside and the streetlights were popping on as more passengers departed. The doors closed and the nearly empty bus continued on its way. There was only Henry, the old couple and the three boys left. An ambulance powered past on the outside lane, sirens calling and it reminded Henry again of Mickey lying in a hospital bed with a fractured face and a missing eye.

'Do you know who did this Mickey? Did you see?

Now Henry knew for sure. It was the tallest, loudest boy sitting five seats in front with his two skin head mates.

Their swearing and volume increased now the bus was almost clear and one of them spat a green glob of snot on the window which made them laugh.

'Do you mind?'

The old man turned, scowling at them. He was sweating, gripping his walking stick and leaning some of his weight towards them.

The three boys looked at him.

'There's no need to swear...' He pointed at the window, '...and that is disgusting. This is public transport. If I was the driver, I'd throw you off the bus.'

He dabbed his head with a handkerchief while the boys considered his words. His wife didn't look round, she was staring ahead at the seat in front. No-body moved. The spitting one noisily cleared his throat, while the smaller of the three thumbed at his mobile phone, head down.

'Fuck off,' said the tallest boy.

The old man didn't react. A few seconds later he turned away and mumbled something to his wife. They got up, the old man taking a while to steady himself using his stick. They walked carefully towards the front of the bus, supporting each other while the boys laughed. The old man turned before sitting down.

'You're a disgrace,' he said, 'and each one of you needs a slap.'

Henry checked the carrier bag he'd brought was still upright against his seat. The bus powered past the first stop at the end of the dual carriageway without slowing and carried on through the main road before turning onto the Shipway Estate. Here, Henry could see the waste ground in the darkness where the old Margarine Works had been. He remembered playing in the rubble from the demolished chimneys and recalled the fight, neqrly twenty years ago, which landed him in a Detention Centre at fourteen. Some kids from the Estate started it the night but Henry made a decision, there on the rubble of a demolished factory, to put a stop to the bullying which had ruined his early years. The Judge later ruled the violence Henry used was abhorrent and rejected his claims of self defence but Henry learnt an important lesson. Nobody bullied him again.

The bus stopped next at Longfield Park and the old man and his wife got off. Now it was just him and the boys. He knew which stop they'd be getting off. he checked the contents of his bag once more. Waiting now. As the bus approached Ferry Hill, Henry pressed the bell and moved down the aisle. The smallest boy, who looked like a boxer's younger brother left his leg trailing and Henry knocked into it as he walked past. He turned and looked at them. They stared back. Henry smiled.

'Sorry mate,' he said, walking on. The doors opened to let him off and he heard them talking as he felt the welcome fresh air on his face.

'Suit's got a death wish.'

'I'll fucking stab him,'

and so on.

Henry stepped onto the pavement, at the foot of Ferry Hill in the dark. He had to hurry now. The plastic bag was rustling so he gripped the handle of the baseball bat inside to stop the noise and stepped up his pace. The boys would be off at the next stop and they'd be getting home by cutting through the derelict Square on the old Precinct. Taking the path between the church and the bowling green he then sprinted up towards their stop, smiling and blowing for breath when he reached the road in time to see the bus pulling in at the shelter about 50 yards ahead. He watched them getting off from a safe distance then followed, keeping the length between them at 50 yards or so as the headed towards the Precinct. He saw the spiked mast looming, overlooking the Square with its four CCTV cameras. Henry knew none of them were online.

Ahead, the boys turned left into the Precinct so Henry sprinted to catch them up. The streets were empty here and most of the tenants in the flats opposite wouldn't see anything anyhow. On reaching the end of the street he slowed left into the abandoned concrete shops. He was now in the Square. An overgrown paved arena surrounded by boarded shop fronts and littered with junk food wrappers. It was quiet. Henry's heart was beating hard as he sucked in air. Looking around.

The boys weren't there.

A thud in his chest. A can rattling in the gloom.

Then

'Hey big cunt'

The tallest boy moved out from behind the wall in front. The other two stepped out next and moved to Henry's side.

He nodded at them. 'Sup lads?'

'Fuck all mate.' The tall lad walked up to him, standing feet to feet. They were a similar height although Henry was twice his bulk.

A few seconds. Then,

'I know you,' he said. ' You're Mickey's brother.'

Henry looked as the other tow boys moved behind him. He let the bag dangle by his side, his grip tightening around the bat handle. He looked the boy in the eye.

'Yeah,' he said, 'and I know you.'

The tall boy pulled a face. 'Do you steal money off people too? Or, ' He looked down at Henry's bag, 'is smacking school kids with bats more your thing?'

Henry leaned a heavy shoulder towards him. ' Mickey doesn't steal he just...'

' Sells dodgy mortgages, screws people over. He's a scummy bastard.'

'No, he..'

'Lined his own pockets, cunt.' The boy nodded towards his friends. ' See him, his Dad lost everything. House, pension, the works.' He paused before sweeping his arms around the concrete arena ' Your generation mate, are a bunch of thieving bastards, whichever way you look'

Henry shook his head, looking at them, ' Even so, Mickey didn't deserve that, he didn't deserve to lose his..'

'Eye? ' The boy was moving away now, his friends following. ' Yeah well, I'm sorry mate, sorry for everyone.'

There were voices and Henry looked as a group of fifteen or more boys emerged from the furthest corner next to the boarded up florist. The tallest, loudest boy opened up his palms to Henry and smiled.

'Looks like the cavalry's arrived,' he said. 'Now...why don't you take your bat and fuck off?'

Henry watched them walking to their friends. Some on bikes, some smoking, most of them staring in his direction.

Within a minute though, they were gone.

Last Week's Winner!

Winning entry by quietmandave
Message in a Bottle

Sprawled on the salt pan, static,
the outline of a man, thin
black sunshadow defines
flesh against sand.

Black buzzards circle high
on muscular thermals, dry
cries echo from cracked rock hot
enough to fry an egg.

Certainly it is a man, he
raises his head slowly, eyes
open from the ant’s view
the heat haze shimmers.

In the air, black, arriving,
a low hum, flickering beat,
four pitches overlaid, rotors
sweeping in harmony.

It lands, softly, flicks
spits of sand in his eye,
like a faithful dog, expectantly
drops a bottle by his nose.

He laughs, if he can, and thanks
the mechanical beast (no need),
unscrews the hot formed top,
lips puckered to receive.

The dry parchment slides without
effort, catches his lips, a paper cut,
deep, stinging with salty saliva,
‘rescue me’.

Featured Entry

by writerIBXVEJZUDO
Middle Of Nowhere

“Where do you think we go when we die?”
I had been lying in silence and the abruptness of my question startled Ana, making her sit up from the slumped position she had taken on the bed. I felt the sheet pull taught from her movement, its light crumples drawn into tight ridges.
“Nowhere” she replied after a moment’s reflection. “In the ground I guess” she added dismissively. “Where do you think we’d go?”
I shrugged. I knew she wasn’t particularly religious. “Maybe I’ll go somewhere else” I mused.
She laughed, “You don’t get to decide you know.”
I considered this, hoping she was wrong, but knowing she probably wasn’t.
“I don’t think I could bear that” I replied, after another quiet moment had passed between us. “I’ve already spent far too long living in the middle of nowhere”.
She murmured something inaudible and began to move restlessly around the room.
Her confusion was understandable; I had grown up in a southern district of the city, in a neighbourhood that was constantly bustling with the energy and support of a community that struggled and prospered together. After Ana and I married we moved into the block we now inhabit: a tall building at the centre of town. Our street runs down to the river, on one side looking along towards the bridge, the other backing onto a narrow road strewn with restaurants and bars. Their long outdoor patios stretch across the pavement like shadows at dusk, Ana says, late into the evening providing a continuous melody that drifts up to our apartment. Ana doesn’t understand what I am trying to say: for her, together we are surrounded by the ingredients of our lives and the lives of others, but on my own, I am living amidst nothing.
Ana’s keys jangle softly as she lifts them from the table by the door. The sound is comforting and I am reminded of wind chimes, blowing about in a garden. On her way out she passes my mother in the corridor coming out of the lift on the landing. Their exchange is brief and soon my mother is hovering by the foot of my bed. She announces her presence, as if she could be anyone else with that familiar musky scent that she has worn for the past 40 years, and the raised vein on the back of her hand that she places in mine.
I love her but it is difficult when she visits. Alongside a suffocating sense of pity, she seems always to bring news of friends from my childhood, and though she means well, I cannot help but feel compared with their successes. David Moore from number forty-seven - “you remember the Moores?” - had just set up a new company and Jenny Davies and her new husband - ‘the Davies, remember, from over on Clarendon Drive” - were moving again: with another baby on the way the little house on the corner of Eelbrook Road would be far too cramped.
Ana and I did not have any children: I never really considered it a possibility and, though we never discussed the idea, I felt that Ana’s spontaneity would not have allowed her to be tied down by such a responsibility. The care she took of me was restrictive enough as it was. My mother, however, would have loved a grandchild. I felt that she was disappointed in this respect, yet with the extent to which she underestimates my ability to care for myself I cannot imagine that she thinks I could look after a child.
“So what’s this Ana was saying about you being fed up of living in the middle of nowhere?” she asked, walking over to the window. “You better be careful your nonsense doesn’t drive that poor girl away”. The sash made a low rumble as she pushed it up, letting the sounds of the street flood in with the summer air.
I smiled sadly, thinking of Ana and how I would manage if she left me. I wished she could have stayed this afternoon: her cynicism and dry humour always relieve me when I struggle under the sense that my mother is mourning for my life.
The mattress beside me dipped as my mother sat down. Taking my hands in hers this time she asked more sympathetically what was going on.
Feeling sorry for myself I leant against her and drew together the energy to explain. I told her about the blackness, how everywhere I go I am met by a dismal shade of nothing, an absence of light. How I long constantly for some variation. The jealousy I feel when people speak about beauty and how I resent the limits of my imagination for not allowing me to see it too. As I talk with my face resting against my mother’s shoulder, I feel the fabric become damp, sticking to my cheek. I explain my misery that there is nowhere I can go to escape the fact that, looking around me, there is nothing, that I constantly have the feeling that while beside me Ana is experiencing the world, I am stuck in the middle of nowhere.
“Well,” she replied softly when I had finished, taking a deep breath, “Sometimes we find ourselves in the middle of nowhere, and sometimes, in the middle of nowhere we find ourselves.”
I could sense from her tone that she believed she was offering support, but I was exhausted of people trying to ennoble my condition.
I wished I knew where the greeting card or tea towel was on which that slogan must have been printed, and made a silent vow to find it and burn it.
When I was eventually alone again I lay down on my back, my face turned up towards the ceiling.
Today is a charcoal day, I thought. I often measure my days in their degree of blackness. Today was charcoal. It didn't have quite the hollowness of jet black but it was fragile and was crumbling by the hour. I hoped Ana would be back soon. She lives in a different shade to me. Her life is how I imagine the colour orange to look. Warm and intense, like the feeling of the sun on your back when there is no breeze to cool you down. Full of vibrancy and life, sometimes bright and shocking, this is the colour that I feel is Ana.
I rolled over, and because I cannot escape in space, I escaped in time. The past does not console me much, so I pictured the future. I wished Ana were wrong and that after this life there were another, where she would welcome me into her orange haze and open my eyes to her world. It might be this one or it might be another: it doesn’t really matter where it is, as long as it is in the middle of everywhere.
My Notes