Location: South Street, Openshaw, 1951

I saw her from a distance. Well, as distant as the length of a row of rundown terraces with outside plumbing can get. She was running at me, head down, hand holding her taped bottle bottom glasses to her face, brown bowl cut slicked down with grease and the remains of the morning rain. Bruised knees knocking at the fallen hemline of the pinafore-style dress we all wore.

Her eyes were panicked. She reached me and screamed ‘Run!’, and something about her compelled me to comply. Heart pounding, legs wobbling, I ran next to her, down one alley, into another and round the gable end.

‘Why are we running?’ I gasped, through gritted teeth, lungs burning.

‘Windah cleenah! Gunna… kill… me!’ My poor eight-year-old heart nearly failed. A man was going to kill her! We were not just running now, but running for our very lives! From somewhere I managed to pull out even more power – we call it adrenalin now – and ran even quicker than before, over the road and into the park. I headed for the bowling green, with its big well-kept hedges that might provide some cover. I tried to speak, each word punctuated with gasp after gasp of laboured breathing, a stitch starting in my side.

‘Why… is… he… gunna… kill… yer?’

We ran to the far end of the hedge, where it was thickest and she stopped, crouching, pulling me down with her.

‘I shat in his bucket.’

Lisa HC is a writer, traveller, teacher and artist. Not always in that order. Born in Manchester, her love/hate relationship with the city tends to send her running from and returning to it at irregular intervals. http://www.blankmediacollective.org/portfolios/rocketmanhc/

Location: Wilbraham Road, Chorlton

I think you will be coming into the shop today. I think it was this time a week ago that you last came. You hired a DVD and bought a pack of Polo mints. This is what you ‘do’ every time you come in. I think you’ll be coming in soon, so I reach around to the front of the counter and pick up a pack of Polo mints. I open the pack of Polo mints and take three out and put them in my mouth. I have a sense of enjoying them and this surprises me and I don’t know why exactly. I put three more Polo mints in my mouth, crunch them up, and suck on the flavour.

I finish the pack of Polo mints.

You don’t come in tonight and I have eaten six packs of Polo mints. I close the shop and, as I lock up, take another pack of Polo mints from the counter and put them in the back pocket of my black cords. That is seven packs now and I hope that will be okay.

**

It’s the next week and it’s the same time. I have already eaten two packs of Polo mints and am starting my third. I generally put four mints in at a time now; I think this is just about the right amount.

You are not here yet and I am rearranging the DVDs. We have thirty DVDs at this shop. Courtenay likes them alphabetical, I like them via stream of consciousness connections. I place Daddy Day Care next to Babel. I immediately do not understand this decision.

You have dark hair and dark eyes and like to rent DVDs on Tuesdays. Three weeks ago you took out You Don’t Mess With The Zohan and when you returned it you told Courtenay it was the best film you had seen in years. You told him that it was a ‘laugh riot’ and you enjoyed it so much that you had to, just had to, write a thousand-word review on IMDB. I think you were messing with Courtenay’s head. I think he is susceptible to that kind of thing.

I walk back to the counter eating the last Polo mint from the current pack. I crumple the empty wrapper in my hand and throw it on top of the shelf unit that stocks the cigarettes. This is where I throw all of the empty wrappers and I jump up and down on the spot to check that they are not visible.

You do not come into the shop tonight.

**

Location: Dell Road, Shawclough, Rochdale

My Dad is a mechanic and his name is Kenny. We live in Rochdale. Everyone always goes ‘alright Kenny’. No one says alright to me even when I’m with Dad. He says it’s because I have funny eyes. What’s funny about them Dad? They’re a bit bozzy he says.

I’ve got four brothers and one sister called MELISSA. She’s the spit of my Dad Kenny except she has long hair and wears it in a French plait.

All my brothers are dicks. They all have fat heads and loads of spots. They’re always cupping rank farts and then shoving the farts in my face for jokes. Our Carl made me strip off in the snow last night for a joke. I had to stand in the back yard for ages with nothing on except my Winnie the Pooh slippers. They got dead wet because of the melty snow what stuck to them like cold brains. All Carl’s knob-head mates were there. They were all laughing loads and kept grabbing my tits.

Everyone who comes round to ours is always staring at my tits because they’re quite massive. But nobody will look at my face because of the bozzy eyes.

Sometimes I like to just get away from it all for a bit so I tell Dad that I’m going to my room do not disturb. I just lie on my bed and listen to tapes and/or do some colouring. I like colouring. It’s very therapeutic.

MELISSA is allowed to come in whenever she wants because it is also her room. She sometimes brings me a Slim-a-Soup (Minestrone) and a packet of cheese and onion McCoys and/or a Topic. I’m the only person I know who likes Topics.

Next week I’ll be 26. Can’t wait. Dad says he might try and find out if there’s a place in town where they fix eyes.

Laura Marsden lives in a flat that has five rooms. It’s in Salford. She buys weekly provisions from Mocha Parade, the local shopping precinct. It’s really good quality and value for money. For many years she lived in Rochdale. Rochdale, mighty, mighty Rochdale. http://tonguesandwiches.blogspot.com

Location: A34 by Parrs Wood

At Parrs Wood on the A34 heading south, I saw a man in a suit at the side of the road holding up a cardboard sign with In-Car Valeting scrawled on it. At his feet, an open briefcase contained the tools of his trade.

The windows were greasy, the carpets were filthy and there was dust lying all over my ‘86 Metro, so I was interested in the idea. I’d provide the lift; Mr In-Car Valeting would do the hard graft. We’d both be happy. So I stopped and opened the door.

The man peered inside.

He sniffed, ‘Where to?’

‘London,’ I replied.

He nodded, ‘S’fine.’

And he hopped right in. He slammed the door and smoothed down his hair. He put both hands on top of his briefcase.

I set off and reached the M6 junction, but he just sat there staring straight ahead, and he didn’t say a dickie bird. He looked at his watch. His shoes shone like diamonds. I asked him when he was going to start doing some valeting.

‘London,’ he replied. ‘I’d be a mug to start before then wouldn’t I?’

‘That’s not part of the deal.’

‘There was no deal.’

Location: Scarsdale Road

There is a man. Standing on the corner. Sipping a cup of coffee. Not a take-away cup, but one from his kitchen. His lip is rasping on the chipped rim each time he raises it to suck on the smooth, dark liquid. Next to him is a cat. A Siamese. Its blue collar matches the man’s blue cotton trousers. They are both disinterested in each other and in their surroundings.

The man is calm, seeming as if it’s completely normal for him to be standing there away from an entrance to any house, but not seeming to be waiting for anything, anyone. The Siamese sits. Raises her paw in time with the man lifting his coffee cup. They both lick. Him, his coffee; her, her paw. They are still looking for nothing. A car rolls by. The man, the Siamese, follow it with their eyes. Their heads are slowly moving from left to right as the man’s shirt flutters lightly across his turgid belly. Once the car has passed they resume their positions of staring blankly ahead of themselves.

A woman comes out of the house nearest to where the man and the Siamese are standing. She leans her twisted frame against the rusty bricks of her porch. She is now watching the man, the Siamese, who are still watching nothing. She squints as the sunlight burns harshly onto her retina, blocks it with her gnarled hands. They used to be smooth and dark like fine leather, but have now aged and resemble an old satchel, battered from years of use. Her lined face is a map although she herself has never left the city. The old woman wonders where the pair on the corner may end up going, instead of questioning why it is that she has never left.

The children kicking a yellow ball back and forth, back and forth down the street have not yet thought of where they will end up. Nor have they noticed the odd trio of observers a short distance away from them. They are too busy pretending to boot the sun around amongst the cars, pretending the apocalypse will come if their miniature sun happens to slide under one of the many vehicles that line the street. The ill-fitting shirts draped over their tiny frames billow like parachutes behind them as their feet dart around after the ball in too-big shoes. Tripping over themselves to save the earth, they let out fierce shrieks and simultaneously drop to the floor as the ball disappears underneath a cobalt Volvo and the apocalypse arrives. When a skinny arm fumbles blind under the sooty car, catches the ball, the world and the game start up again.

Location: Whitworth Art Gallery, Oxford Road

Martin found himself in a strange, unhallowed hall. Vast canvases surrounded him, utterly abstract yet oddly inviting. It was like a clearing had opened in the world, a vast space beyond all conceptual limits. His mind-chatter ceased, exposing a sacred silence. He sensed this artist knew the world’s secret, knew all about the Hate Machine. This was art of an infinitely higher order than pop music or films. Its elements were bafflingly complex in their simplicity, deceptively artful in their crudity.

The paintings were hardly serene or remote – far from it; they were intimate statements deploying self-referential, mythic elements. They called out to him, somehow, demanding his attention.

‘Wonderful, aren’t they?’ said a gravelly voice behind him.

‘Yes – yes, they are.’

It was an old man who looked to be Jewish. Of course, he might not be: he might be anything.

‘Mark Rothko truly grasped the human condition,’ he opined expansively, his stick clicking on the polished floor. ‘He sensed the incessant pressure of modern life – the walls that bind us.’

Martin nodded: The Hate Machine.

‘He sensed correctly that religion offers no tenable salvation to modern man. His art seeks a secular solution to our “thrownness” – not unsuccessfully, if I may be so bold.’

‘Are you some kind of art expert?’

‘Some would say so. Rothko recommended the viewer should stand eighteen inches from his paintings, by the way, to feel their full effect.’

Location: Ainsworth Road, Radcliffe

Outside didn’t look as appealing as inside. The view through the net curtain of a grey, heavy sky and faded light said gloaming; the view from the mantelpiece from the 40 years of continuous service carriage clock said morning.

Carole shuffled in her slippers from the front room window and into the kitchen, switching on the light in the process. The power-saving bulb started up dimly, a shadow of its former self, then quickly improved its disposition until it provided enough light for Carole to be sure there were no slugs on the lino.

Slugs appeared occasionally if it had been raining in the night. Carole was unsure how they got into the house as she was very careful to close the kitchen window. For Carole, there was nothing more bothersome than scraping squashed slug from the sole of her slipper, especially before she’d even had a sip from the first brew of the day. Happily, there were none this morning.

After opening the wooden roll top bread basket, Carole took out the last third of yesterday’s small white tin loaf. She took it into the back yard to the bird table and slowly rubbed the bread in her fingers until it was crumbed on the table. Carole had a brief thought that she should’ve swept off the last few days worth of crumb that had congealed and stuck together in the rain. ‘Tomorrow,’ she thought.

After drinking the first brew of the day, an instant coffee, Carole washed, pulled on some clothes and pottered off to Samson’s bakers, two streets along.

As usual Linda had only just rolled up the shutters and propped open the front door with an old flat iron. A warm, gentle steam seeped out the top of the door and into the murky autumn morning. A slight heat haze could be seen just below the ‘S’ and ‘A’ of the shop frontage.

Location: Tyldesley, Greater Manchester

We walk through dead leaves and ten
thousand year mud, the brass band’s
bass drum’s startling chest thud
past the closed shops

and the pubs where the smiling
landladies stood at the door as
the procession went by.
Past a cafe and the town hall

to the chapel at the top
with him from number thirty four
and mrs oo’sit from
the mucky-up shop

with mums and kids with their
Sunday best on, a ruddy
cheeked veteran with
a stiff-upper-lipped face on

where lies a tale from every line
and crease in his complexion
the sarge screams after national
anthem “DISMISSED!”

Today kissed the memory
of the fallen, on a cold day
in November we shivered
and got wet.

We walked back
to our homes
drank tea and said
lest we forget.

Andrew says: ‘I listen, read and occasionally write, influenced by Simon Armitage and Morrissey. My inspirations are from northern working class history, customs and culture.’

Location: Piccadilly Gardens

on a wooden bench
facing the sun
a man
blind from birth
who can now see
and a man
who could see
but is now blind
sit side by side
and talk.

Peter Hartey co-founded and runs Poetica, a writing forum based in Central Library, Manchester.

Location: Berwick Avenue, Heaton Mersey

I have always been here. Like the cobbles around the church and the old river that kicks up a stink every summertime. I am part of this place, like a stone that the grass has grown over. This is Heaton Mersey. It is my place. I have always been here.

When I was six I lived on Berwick Avenue. I fed the horse in the field next to my house. He would come to me slowly, bending his head over the wooden fence, towering above me like a big white ghost. I would bring a fresh green apple every day. The horse would bend down and take the apple, with teeth like tombstones. For a moment we would lock eyes.

I could see the horse’s field from my bedroom window. His name was Polo. I’d imagine myself grabbing Polo’s mane and riding around the field. I wanted to fly through the air on his back, to be free.

Now the children are protected like delicate glass and the field is gone. In the place where the horses grazed there are a hundred houses standing erect like soldiers. Guarding their residents from the past, whilst underneath their patios horse prints are embedded in the soil. I do not know who sleeps in that bedroom now, someone else who has no horses to watch.

There are cars everywhere now. Not like when I was young. I would sit on the back of my mum’s black bicycle, wobbling over the bumps on our way to the shops. I’d push my hands through the stripy plastic strips that hung over the door of Duffy’s butchers shop. Mr Duffy the butcher would greet us with a plump smile. There would be a dog behind the wooden slats, salivating. I would watch as Mr Duffy took out his knife, his fat pink hands as red as the meat he was about to cut.

The shop has gone now. They have hair salons and betting shops instead, not even a post office. It is all gone. The orchards filled with pear trees. The Linx golf course where we went sledging before the bulldozers came and transformed it into the Linx housing estate.