Day 17 : Eight Hours Going Nowhere by Sarah Evans

 

1. What gave you the idea for your Snowflakes story?

    An article in the Economist

 

2. How would you describe your normal style of writing?

    Think I’ll leave that for others to judge

 

3. Have you published other material?

    yes – I’ve had lots of short stories published

 

4. Do you have a writing routine?

    I try to write most days, and to make an early morning start

 

5. Do you have a favourite place for writing?

    At home, at my computer, in my ‘study’ (ie spare room)

 

6. Tell something quirky about you.

    Not sure how quirky this is, but I have a PhD in theoretical physics and the subject I hated above all others at school was creative writing.

 

An extract from Eight Hours Going Nowhere 

 our zero

Luka grits his teeth against the night air as he drops down from the cab of the lorry. Hitching was slow tonight and he needs to be brisk as he walks across the frosted tarmac towards the back-entrance doors marked staff. The doorway smells of piss, diesel and fag-ends. He types in the joke of a security code. 1234. The blast of heated air comes as a relief, but only temporarily. The place stinks of citrus floor cleaner and already he is starting to feel hot, his skin clammy, his face desiccated.

He opens his locker, drags out the plastic-feel tunic and peaked cap that form his uniform and shoves his jacket and rucksack in. He reports to the manager on duty, then makes his way towards the food court, taking his place behind the counter.

It is midnight, hour zero, the start of his eight hour shift. Alena, he thinks, I am doing this for you.

Hour one

He’s been here for nearly an hour now and the food in hot trays has been there much longer. Heat rises from the metal surfaces along with stench of burnt oil, stale fish and onion gravy. People come and go, in through the entrance doors, out the exits, transiting this nowhere place. Custom has been intermittent. Slow, slow; fast, fast; slow. Endless minutes tick by with nothing for him to do other than occasionally running through the chips or peas with a slotted spoon, redistributing moisture. Then all of a sudden there will be a rush, with half a dozen people expecting that he can grow octopus arms and serve them all simultaneously.

A couple of trucker types are approaching, guys with pregnant bellies and arms the girth of a thigh, the exposed skin covered in intricate tattoos.

He stirs the pot of gravy which has thickened to the consistency of snow-sludge.

‘This all there is?’ one of men asks, gesturing the spaces between the trays.

‘It is the night-time menu we are serving now.’ Luka has practised this sentence out loud, over and over in the tiny room he co-rents with someone who works day-light hours. It never sounds quite how he would like it to.

The two men exchange a glance, bristling at the sound of him. Bloody immigrants. He’d like to protest that he has entered the country legally, is here because of the bits of paper that the elected government of the United Kingdom has freely signed, and because no one born here wants to work in a place like this.

He knows as he dishes it up that the battered fish will be soggy and the chips will taste of cardboard. The overpriced, substandard food is not his fault. His place is simply to serve.

The man prods the fish with a stubby finger. ‘Bleeding cold,’ he says.

Luka looks back neutrally. He offers to put it in the microwave, aware that doing so will remove whatever remaining texture there might be.

The customer doesn’t want it f-ing microwaved; he wants it fresh. Luka holds himself tight, keeping his surface-self polite and calm as he says he is very sorry but this is all there is. The customer kicks the counter and he keeps cursing. Luka’s fingers inch towards the red panic button concealed beneath the work-top. For emergencies only. Eventually the truckers move onwards towards the tills. Luka remembers too late that he should have said have a nice day, or evening, or – in this case – night. He runs his slotted spoon through the boiled-to-oblivion peas. He thinks of Alena standing at the stove, raising a wooden spoon to her lips, conjuring a wholesome feast from leftovers. Once he has covered the basics of rent and food, he has nothing but scraps left. I’ll send money as soon as I can.

He is one hour down and an eternity to go.

Hour two

Trade has slowed even further. Staff have been reduced to a skeleton, none of them fully alive, all of them with hopes that got trampled on somewhere along the way.

A mobile rings. Not his. He should ring Alena. His phone is inside his uniform, pressed against his heart. He thinks how the sound of her voice would lift his day, or rather night. She’ll be asleep, of course, the difference in time-zone not long, the distance between them much further. He thinks of her hair spreading over the pillow, of the way one arm will be curled behind her head, of the peaceful rhythm to her breathing.

With no customers in view, he is free to dream. Being here, this job, it’s a gateway to somewhere better, the first step that will open the door to grander things. In his mind he is explaining that to Alena. If he didn’t believe this, he doesn’t know how he’d get himself up in the evening, how he’d make it through the night.

About the author

Sarah Evans has had over a hundred stories published in anthologies, magazines and online. Highlights include: appearing in the 2008 Bridport anthology; having several stories published in the acclaimed Unthology series (Unthank Books); recently winning the inaugural Winston Fletcher Prize with her story Acclimatising. She’s also had work published by Bloomsbury, Fiction Desk, Bridge House Publishing and Rubery Press, and performed live in London, Hong Kong and New York.

 

 

Day 9: How it Begins by Sarah Evans

The bell rings early morning and when I open the door I see the flower. A single rose, a white one. Only for a second do I falter.

I do not scour the surroundings with rabbit-twitching eyes.

I do not go rushing out, engaging in a futile game of seek and hide.

I simply crouch to pick it up before retreating. Door closed, I press my spine against the wall and I tighten every muscle to be strong. Then something entirely different washes over and I start to laugh, swept through by the headiness of relief. It’s happened. The wait is over.

It is day one and I need to plan.

It always starts with flowers, with a colourless, fragrance-free rose. I place it in a large vase; after all, the flower is blameless. Each day I open the door with false verve and a numb sense of inevitability. Each day, the roses accumulate, following the spectrum from pastel-pale pink through to shocking.

On day seven, the rose is dead, its petals brittle and smelling sweetly of decay. But it retains its pigment – carmine – the colour of dried blood.

I do not go to the police, pleading harassment. I do not cower and hide and refuse to answer the door. I do not visit my doctor and ask for pills to dissolve away the fretting and allow sleep.

I have learned by now, none of these things help.

* * *

It is day eight. Returning home, I find a card sitting on my doormat. There is no stamp or postmark. The envelope is white and the handwriting – dearest Liz – is as familiar as my own.

Inside is a Valentine’s card, even though it’s April. An embossed heart springs out from the surface, its texture fuzzy and soft. The printed verse comes with curlicues and florid declarations of devotion. It is headed my darling girl and ends with, all my love, always, your Drusilla.

Each day another card awaits me when I get back from somewhere, a sequence of pink tinted envelopes. The phrasing varies, the exact words, but always expressing the same things. She loves me. She knows that I love her. She dreams of the day we will be together.

Soon, my love, she writes, very soon.

She is full of understanding.

I know why you have done the things you’ve done, she says. I forgive you.

And all the while, I go about my daily purpose, keeping outward appearances normal. I do not look behind me on the street or keep the curtains closed. I do not wear sunglasses, or slink into the shadows.

I start to wind down my life, as unobtrusively as possible. The practicalities have become easier, now I am unencumbered by trappings of permanency.

I give notice on the house and pay off the remaining rent. I reduce possessions down to what I can easily carry. There is no one in particular I need to say farewell to.

This is my life and these are the things I have learned to do.

About the author:

Sarah Evans has had dozens of stories published in magazines, competition anthologies and online, including by: the Bridport Prize, Unthank Books, Bridge House Publishing and Writers’ Forum. Recently her story Acclimatising won the inaugural Winston Fletcher prize. She has also had work performed in Faversham, Hong Kong and New York.

Read more: 

 

In Celebration of Short Stories (Bridge House and CafeLit)

They say writing can be a lonely journey, and certainly one often paved with rejections and hardship. So when you do have successes then you must celebrate.

And when groups of writers come together it's a wonderful thing.

Before I ever worked alongside Gill at Bridge House, my first publishing success came in 2008 when my story Jigsaw was published in the first Bridge House collection Making Changes and so began my personal journey. And the journeys of many now successful writers.

The first reading I gave was with the other writers celebrating its launch in London and all those years and successes later (for us all, not just myself) we were back at the same venue on Saturday, the Theodore Bullfrog Pub, celebrating the publication of the latest anthology Light in the Dark, a return to the advent idea of 24 stories, one a day in the countdown to Christmas; as well as the latest CafeLit title -- both projects being founded by Gill James.

We tried to make the event as informal as possible this time with a meet 'n' greet by our lovely intern Amelia, free drink and mingle that turned into an exchange of marketing ideas/writing tips speed date session to ensure that everyone mingled.

Gill and I then said a few words while we waited for our buffet lunch to be served; explaining how Bridge House was born and our intentions. We did get a little overzealous with the number of titles when we first started out and hence lost money! Now we are on one title a year and hope to repeat the event like this for all Bridge House, CafeLit and short story writers to come together.

After lunch we had readings from some of the authors, proving just how much talent there is to celebrate and we ended with a short Q & A.

We also asked people to bring along books they were published in for the table and at the end of the evening we all took a different one home!

For me the event was special because it was a chance to all be together, to finally put faces to many names I have known only as virtual people, Twitter, Facebook etc. Nice to talk to the person behind the avatar!

Gill and I ended our day with our Christmas meal. The only form of wage we ever take for all our work is just that one meal a year as we toast another title and that we're still here. Since I have now moved, instead of Chester, we had it in London -- this is when we got to digest the lovely day and plan the direction for next year, do we want a theme this time, or open again. But one thing's for certain, no competition with fees that pay for the books. We think too many do that and it's just a way of making money. So there might only be one book a year and we might just about break even in sales, but you get published and we get to celebrate and no one is ripped off!

So thanks so much to all those who came to the party and we hope to see some of you there again next year!

I will leave you with the photo gallery!

Dr Gill James (Founder of Bridge House and CafeLit)

Fabian Acker reading

Sarah Evans reading

Sarah Hegarty (Bridge House Winner 2013, Something Hidden)

Catrin Kean reading

Paula Readman reading

Helen Shay with her performance poetry

David Wilson reading

Sorry if some of the photos are a little blurred, me and my iPhone! Doing my best!

I had a wonderful time and I hope everyone else did too!

Roll on 2015!