Location: Wilmslow Road

The warning signs are there. Jo’s voice is rising in pitch. There is going to be a row. Or tears. Possibly both. We are all hungover, off to see our mate’s mate’s band play for the second night in a row at the same venue.

Fuel; we sure need some.

Manchester is losing its grimy shine, the but-we-aren’t-in-Wales gleam of adventuring appeal. Drastic action is needed. Trailing behind the whiners and need-to-be-drunk-again ditherers I catch Kate’s eye. She knows the drill, the nod is almost imperceptible. She grabs my wrist and we take a sharp right down an alley, careering, our limbs windmilling into the first bar we come across.

In the dimly lit pub we lean summer-sticky arms on the syrup-sticky bar, order two house triples and down them. Apart from the barmaid we are the only women there. Around us the smell of Brylcreem and urinals permeates the air; rows of quiffs compete with each other for vertical space. An overweight Teddy Boy is singing one karaoke song after another, in tune but lacklustre, his beer gut heaving up and down in time to the music, wiggling his skinny tie like a worm. The room ignores him.

We march up to the cuddly teddy and grab the songbook. Choose ‘Big Spender’. Belt it out. Loudly. Tunelessly. Giggling like the schoolgirls we are. The room ignores us. We love that. We order another triple each, down it, and then leave the surreal Lynchian pub. Run back out into the night, eyes wild, shrieking. Finding the others smoking in the queue outside the gig venue. Jo’s eyeliner streaks her cheeks, but she is exhaling laughter with her nicotine. A storm has passed.

Susie Wild is one of Parthian’s Bright Young Things. Her debut collection of short stories, The Art of Contraception, is out now. www.brightyoungthings.info

Location: Oldham Street

She looked at the sheet of paper again. The first time, she’d merely glanced; now she stared, scared. ‘Missing,’ it said, along with a description of the lost item and a number to call and report any details regarding its whereabouts. There was no picture, just words, in heavy black type. Arial. The ‘Missing’ was bigger than the rest, to make you look, make you stare. She was staring.

The flyers had appeared overnight, suddenly fluttering their whiteness in the breeze of dawn, as abrupt as mayflies or snowdrops, changing the landscape in a fingerclick so she awoke to a whole new place. They were everywhere: sticky-taped to bus stops, cable-tied to posts and poles, drawing-pinned to trees, Blu-Tacked to the insides of early opening newsagents’ windows, scrunched-up in bicycle baskets. Some were clamped under the windscreen wipers of those cars that had not yet been moved, others shoved into the clasp of letterboxes. The one she was studying was glued to a graffitied rollershutter.

She retrieved her phone from a back pocket and jabbed at the Contacts icon. She tapped on the screen, waited a couple of seconds then entered the digits into the memory, saving them as ‘Missing’. The notice had stirred something deep within her, jogged a memory, rung a bell. She felt she had seen the thing that was gone and perhaps if she looked carefully enough, she would see it again. She vowed to keep an eye out, keep an eye on the pavements as she wandered. Perhaps she would find it lolling in a dirty doorhole or imprisoned in one of those weird whirlpools of sticky leaf clumps and chip papers and cat hair and discarded ideas and broken promises.

She took one last glimpse at the sign before running away, back up the street the way she’d come.

‘Missing. Reward offered. Please call 07276 059439 with any information. Last seen in or around the Northern Quarter on Wednesday night. Missing: my sanity.’

Sarah-Clare Conlon is an editor, writer and press officer based in Chorlton. When not telling tales of death and destruction, she can be heard swearing on bikes and boats. http://wordsandfixtures.blogspot.com/

Location: Curry Mile, Rusholme

Indie Kids drift out from Saki Bar carried on a wave of their own pretention
They maraud down the sunset strip we know simply as curry mile
A thousand takeaway wrappers catch a thousand heated updrafts
And drunken artists mix with switched on individuals
Echoing chants originate from the top floor of magic buses
And those with anything to hide find it thrust out in the open
This country’s next golden generation huddle over piles of vomit
As rain clouds threaten but recede and drift by
Neon signs illuminate a thousand hopes and dreams
As you board a 142 to Piccadilly
Blushed cheeks hiding dreams of a quite temperate life
A longing glance at the John Rylands goes unnoticed by all
While the unmistakable stench of Sambuca clogs the air
It’s the heavy breath of human sacrifice
Factory bouncers crack knuckles in preparation for long overdue fights
This is Manchester
And this is Friday Night.

Charlie Rawcliffe is an American Studies student at Manchester University. He’s 19, originally from Nottingham, and has been writing seriously for just over six months.

Location: St Peter’s Square

Christina de Vries checked her watch. Nine thirty. With luck, she would be home by ten. The students’ showcase had gone well. She was pleased, but she’d be happier still when she got home. This was Manchester and it was a Friday night. She hoped the tram would come soon. She was a bit anxious about the short walk from the station in Radcliffe as well: she’d not been able to get on the car park earlier.

The tram must be due soon. There was quite a crowd on the platform. Every twelve minutes they were supposed to be.

One of the youths who were waiting at the far end of the station started singing Chris de Burgh’s Lady in Red. He’s got a good voice, thought Christina. He was actually singing it better than Chris de Burgh did, she reckoned.

Except he wasn’t quite singing the right words.

‘Lady in grey,’ he crooned. ‘You’ve never looked as old as you do tonight, I’ve never seen your hair so almost white, I’ve never seen so many men look so askance, running if they’d get half a chance…’

Cheeky bugger, thought Christina.

Well, she wasn’t having this. Even if she had got a very significant birthday coming up soon. Loads of people had asked her if she had highlights put in her hair. She was very happy with how the grey was just in the right places and looked almost blond. She was still very brunette in places. But she was wearing a grey coat and scarf. She supposed he had a point.

She looked at the other people standing on the platform. They averted their eyes, embarrassed, apathetic.

I’m not having this, thought Christina.

What to do, thought, what to do? Should she phone the Police? No, that was probably over the top.  Should she confront him? No, that would probably make it worse and be even more embarrassing. She looked at the young woman standing next to her on the platform. The woman looked down at the ground and half-turned away from her.

Right, thought Christina. I’m going to do this thing.

He had a really nice voice. Baritone she thought. So, he was singing a bit lower than a tenor. Pity, she was a tenor. But she couldn’t get down quite that low. Could she find the harmony? She thought she could.

He was on the second run through of the song. ‘I’ve never seen that jacket you’re wearing,’ he sang, ‘or the highlights in its folds that catch your hair. I have been blind.’

She had the harmony in her head. Now all she had to do was sing it. She took a deep breath.

Location: Worldwide Supermarket, Rusholme

I watch them from my window scuttling
with their arms clutching crying bundles.

They are catching starlight in puddles,
scurrying around full bins and loose tins

and cars and trolleys and the trees with
their beggared branches reaching out, as the

sharp moon scowls. They slosh through
yesterday’s slush prints as leaves mulch

beneath their feet. Pleas sketched on scraps
with white knuckle palms pressed together.

Escape is not an option, there are
no passports for people pending.

As the curtains close, you slide into
the shadows in silence.

Justin D. Dooley has just graduated from MMU with a degree in Business and English. He is one of the founders of UNSUNG, an organisation that has been producing a free magazine and various arts events throughout Manchester since 2008. His writing has been published in Mental Virus, Best of Manchester Poets and Bewilderbliss. http://www.justinddooley.blogspot.com

Location: Oxford Road station

The cracklin’ speakers make it sound strangled, distant, but it’s still unmistakeably a recordin’ of a posh girl who pronounces everythin’ just so:

‘The next train to arrive at platform 2 is the 11:15 service to Liverpool Lime Street, calling at:
Deansgate
Trafford
Irlam
Birchwood
Padgate
Warrington Central
Hunts Cross
Liverpool South Parkway
Edge Hill
And Liverpool Lime Street’

Bet she’s a right filthy bitch that one.

I’m just glad it’s fucking coming though. Can feel the tiredness deep in me bones. Getting this job over and getting home is all I can think of. It’s been a right slog this one, and now this train.

After we did the switch, I legged it cross town to catch the ten o’clock from Piccadilly, only to watch it saunter away from the platform on me approach. Fuck. This meant another ride on the gauntlet: The Last Train From Manchester To Liverpool. Always from Oxford Road, always 11:15pm. It’s an experience whatever day of the week, but a Saturday night was going to be hellish.

I wandered back across the city as it began to really light up for the weekend. The grand ald cotton buildings of Mancland, now neoned-up pleasure palaces, much like the old dock warehouses back in the ‘pool. We’ve got more in common than we’d sometimes like te think, ye know.

Least Oxford Road had some decent pubs to kill the time in like. But it’s ard not to feel shifty carrying a large packet and drinking alone at this time a night. I ended up skulkin’ in the corner of The Salisbury with a Guinness, watchin’ the clock.

Location: Albion Road, Old Trafford

We were better on our backs. Then no one could see that small, very small, and nearly, just very nearly, embarrassing difference in height between us. It was a matter of millimetres. I didn’t mind it. Though I still have the pumps with the paper thin soles that I bought to wear when we started. Such an unexpected start. So exciting. So happy.

I never told you exactly when I bought them. Careful to have some tact, tiptoe around it, as it were. The day I called in to see you in the record shop, and I was dressed for meetings. Skirt suit and those deceptively heeled knee high boots that really did have me touching six foot. You sloped out from behind the counter in your t-shirt and your sneakers, and you were not happy. Not happy at all. That was the first time I saw the narrowing of your eyes.

Those soles outlasted us.

But flat on our backs, toes touching, we did really well. Those first few weeks, playing in your bedroom on Albion St. Making weekend breakfasts to munch off our hangovers and then forget halfway through. The best were strong with smoked mackerel and rocket on toasted granary bread, messy with seeds. They struggled to make it to a hung up, come down mouth that was too busy laughing to concentrate on what it was supposed to be doing.

Perfidious old Albion St. It wasn’t there that it all went wrong. We were honest enough there. Your County Kerry burr.

When I stayed during the week, and had to leave early in the morning, you’d wheel your bike to the bus stop and see me on. Wave, throw your leg over, and hurtle off. Travelling in straight lines. A to B. No sightseeing, a purpose, even to any brief detours. To get there quicker. You knew what you were doing. You thought so, anyway.

The bus stank. Metros flung dirty round the floors, shrill faced adolescents clashing music out of phones or fumbling a cigarette out of the top deck windows. It was boring.  I actually preferred to walk. Meander, potter.Waver. It took longer. I saw more. Well, that bit from the flat, past the tower blocks, over the egg slicer bridge, down Oxford Rd, through to town. Just over an hour, evenings, and mornings when I could. When you didn’t walk me to the bus stop. It would have been a little difficult to explain. You might have tried to come with me, still on that bloody bike, and it would be been awkward, you forced to stutter on your pedals, or circle back. No rhythm there. Or worse, you wouldn’t have wanted to come. And I’d have watched you ride off, and you would have known that you were leaving me behind. Going at a different pace. Seeing all the same things, a little ahead.

After it all ended, after the shock and the tears, and after that goddawful Easter Sunday, hunched on the front steps in the warmth of morning. Both of us still spangled from the previous night and trying to make the other understand. After the humiliation of you describing me, under duress and pleading, as ‘enthusiastic’ when what I had been aiming for, all that time, was ‘passionate’. To match that focus I saw and loved in you, of headlights, direct and burning. Rather than the wildly swinging, indiscriminate, happy illumination on whatever was in front of me at the time that was the only thing I could manage.

After you had swaggered your sweet way south.

I bought a bike. I quit that job. I found one that didn’t leave me spinning. That didn’t require me to spend the red eyed trip from Manchester to London in the dalek toilets of a Virgin train, applying and reapplying coats of concealer to a fading ankle tattoo. That let me see the steps I had to take a little more clearly. But I think now, that even if I had caught up with you at the time, it wouldn’t have mattered. The only time we really worked. Flat on our backs. Getting crumbs in awkward places.

R McCrum says: ‘I was in Manchester, now in Edinburgh. Stuff happened. And I loved it.’

Location: Manchester Peace Garden, St Peter’s Square

In the peace garden
There is a canopy of trees
And chewing gum on the floor
And it is lovely there
Just for being what it is.

On the outside
It is a different story
And we are scared
Just for being what we are.

A woman walks through
Under the shade
In her tummy a tiny bean
Dances for the first time.

She smiles, remembering the darkness
Of firecracker nights
Resonating in her rib cage
Where now there is joy.

‘I wait for you; my soul waits’
The last man says
As he bursts into flames
And the city melts.

Sophie Le Bec is a scruffy emo poet from the suburbs

Location: There used to be a second-hand record shop up the ramp off Deansgate. It’s not there anymore.

As the Voyager spacecraft made its way through the Earth’s upper atmosphere, Peter Cale began a similarly ambitious journey as he boarded the 192 bus, heading for central Manchester.

Peter had read in the newspaper that morning about the Golden Record that was placed aboard Voyager in the vain hope that the craft may be discovered by extraterrestrial life. The disc, Peter read, contained a welcome speech from Jimmy Carter, some noises from the natural world, and a collection of music.

It was the music that had piqued Peter’s imagination. Looking through the contents, it was evident that the compiler was trying to present the crowning achievements of man through the last three centuries. As you would expect, Bach and Beethoven were represented, along with Mozart and Stravinsky. Peter knew each of the pieces well, and approved of their inclusion. Alongside these there was a selection of world music from Mexico, Japan and Peru. Well that makes sense, thought Peter, the record should represent the whole world, and not just Europe. Peter smiled as he saw that Chuck Berry had been placed on there to liven things up.

The big surprise was a track called Dark Was The Night by Blind Willie Johnson. Peter had never heard of the artist, but found the name intriguing. He imagined that Blind Willie Johnson was some kind of rootsy bluesman from the Mississippi Delta: gnarled and hunched, a mouth rotten with stumps, bashing on an old wooden guitar on a porch in the shade. The romanticism of the image won out, hence Peter’s journey into town.

He jumped off the bus at Piccadilly and made his way across town to the specialist jazz vinyl shop. Lacking the patience to browse the shelves himself, he made his way to the assistant and asked where he might find some Blind Willie Johnson. The man behind the counter looked up, and reviewed his impression of the man in the blue anorak before him, affording him a little extra cool credit. He ducked behind a shelf, and returned holding a mint copy of Praise God I’m Satisfied.

On the return journey home, Peter took the record from the bag and examined the cover. Actually, it seemed from the painting on the front that Blind Willie Johnson was quite a young man, and smartly dressed too. He sits on a dining chair in a street, playing his guitar, as approving passers-by enjoy his busking. Peter slid the record back into his bag, excited about his purchase.

Once home, he carefully took the vinyl from its sleeve, and placed it onto his turntable. Checking the tracklist for Dark Was The Night, he found that it occupied track two on side one, so lifted the tone arm over the now rotating disc, and lowered his head to the side to gently drop the stylus into the sleek black void between tracks one and two. A pop and a crackle, and the song began.

How could Peter have known that what followed was three minutes and twenty seconds of abject howling from the very bottom of a man’s soul? A lyric-less, plaintive, tortured lament that carried with it three hundred years of suffering.

The voyager spacecraft, now free of the Earth’s atmosphere, glided silently into the vacuum of outer space.

Christian lives in Wigan by his own volition. He contributes book reviews and features to the literary website Readysteadybook.com. Many more of his short stories can be found on his blog http://andfigs.blogspot.com

Location: Woodley Shopping Precinct

The January air was cold and crisp, the sky a clear blue canvas and the slight warmth of the winter sun provided welcome relief from the chill wind. We had walked to our local shopping precinct, our New Year’s resolution being to support local businesses rather than add to supermarket profits.

The parade of shops forms three sides of a rectangle around a grassed area with paving, benches dotted at intervals and several trees. One is a lovely copper beech and most of the others are rowan trees, at this time of the year bursting with ripe, red berries.

A small crowd of people standing around the trees distracted us from the shops with their faded facades, flaking paint and warm interiors, the smell of fish and chips and the constant flow of individuals, hopeful of a big win, who were strolling between the newsagents and the betting shop.

Several cameras with massive lenses set up on tripods drew us towards the group. Everyone was looking up at the trees and a closer inspection revealed a flock of birds in one of the rowans.

‘Waxwings,’ stated a man with a huge lens pointing up towards the birds.

I wished we owned such a powerful camera because I would have loved to have taken a photograph of these striking birds, their outline sharp against the winter sky. Each bird sported a resplendent chestnut-coloured crest, which swept back from their forehead. All were engrossed with their berry bonanza.

As the number of spectators grew, some of the staff from the shops came out to investigate this sudden influx of visitors to the precinct.

‘They look as though they’re wearing something on their heads,’ one girl said.

‘Yes, they always wear bobble hats in winter to keep them warm,’ my husband said in an authoritative manner.

‘Really?’ the girl asked, surprised, before she spotted her colleagues giggling and realised his joke.

All afternoon the birds alternated between the precinct trees and the rowans on the other side of the busy road, flying as one back and forth. The next day it was the same and the day after that. Then they were gone and the precinct felt empty and ordinary once more. People still came for their bread, their fruit and vegetables, to post a letter or have their hair permed, but the magic had gone.

And when, the next year, council workmen started on precinct improvements and local residents were asked what trees they would like planted, we replied ‘rowans – for the waxwings’.

We didn’t get the rowans – or the waxwings, which had apparently decamped to Stockport Bus Station, according to those in the know. I’m sure they will be back though.Woodley is renowned for its winter waxwings.

Mrs Chris Smith is a librarian who dabbles in poetry and writing.