Winner of the Fine Art Competition

Epidemic - acrylic on canvas (1999-2000)
Dave Grimbleby - dgjv@btopenworld.com

Winner of the Writing Competition

Transported by Clare Kirwan
clare.naylor@tesco.net

The train eases itself from the station, creaking like old bones. I open my bag, my book, my brain: start writing. My appointment is heading fast down the line. Last minute? Of course.
Covertly, I allow myself to be distracted by rowdy kids down the carriage. I had never been rowdy. And for me it had been a bus not a train. I liked the top front seat: if you balanced your homework on the safety rail your writing didn't look that bad. Also, it was a prime vantage point: something interesting in each back garden, over every wall; looking down onto other people's heads. I didn't throw things, though I'd have liked to. You need the safety of numbers to do that, a crowd of mates.
So easily distracted, now as then - each intriguing glimpse or overhead conversation becomes a train of thought set in motion. Why 'a train?' Thought's more like a bus - more random than rails. Buses start and stop unexpectedly, detour, bully, mingle with other traffic. Once I was on the bus and the driver went completely the wrong way; parked up somewhere. I think he was crying. You don't get that on a train.
I write a little: it's like being back on that top deck with my biro screeching to a halt at red lights. I try to concentrate, but can't quite close out everything. My mind is a dog's ear - always alert. The couple facing me argue sullenly. Track-side fly-tipping draws my eye.
Slam! A tough-looking skinhead opposite me bangs the window shut as we enter the tunnel. Denim-clad, late thirties, indistinct home-made tattoos on the back of his head - ink and needles years ago while bunking off from school.
Whoosh! It flies open again. No-one notices except me and the skinhead.
Slam! Firmer this time. He sits down again. Whoosh! A jubilant self-release. People look up, kids snigger.
Slam! He is aware of being noticed and I am nearest. Whoosh! 'I shouldn'ave opened it should I?' he says. He examines the mechanism and releases something. Slam! This time it stays shut.
They're pains, them things!' then, as if he'd been a bit harsh, '...sometimes.'
Frantic scribbling. I never managed to finish homework on the bus but sometimes I'd copy my mate's before assembly. The trouble with adult life is there are fewer people to copy off. We're not all on the same curriculum. After years of rules, timetables, uniforms and tests, they suddenly want to hear your 'unique voice'.
I get off at Lime Street, running up the hill, still rushing to urgent conclusions, the final full stop only seconds before my name is called...
I shuffle my notes, composing myself. Still standing up in classrooms, years later.
"I've written this piece as instructed Ð 500 words. 'A Journey'". The other writers in the group look expectant. My voice rises amongst them: "The train eases itself from the station, creaking like old bones. I open my bag, my book, my brain.....'

Winner of the Photography Competition

Net by Richard Joy
rj@rjcreativearts.com