To mark Spread the Word’s 30th Anniversary, three London-based emerging writers have been commissioned to create a short original piece of written work. These Emerging Writer Commissions aim to showcase new work by London-based emerging writers, and provide a developmental and profile-raising opportunity. Three London-based deaf and disabled writers have also been commissioned for our Deaf and Disabled Writer Commissions.

The 30th Anniversary Emerging Writer Commissions are generously supported by The London Community Foundation and Cockayne – Grants for the Arts.

The Emerging Writer Commissions were printed, alongside Deaf and Disabled Writer commissions and Borough of Literature Commissions, in the Deptford Literature Fesitval Anthology.

To Ears and Tongues by Naomi Walsh

Sunlight warms my surface, leaves skimming across in quiet moments. The strangers beat me relentlessly. Shoes, cars, bikes. Bodies. Bare feet. I hold them up. 

*

As Rach weaved amongst the traders and browsers, her heart maintained a fast flutter, settling high in her chest.  

She reached the end of Deptford Market as her phone buzzed: Should be there in 10. She scrolled up to read the end of their last exchange at the top of the screen. Have a nice life I guess. Benji’s assumption as ‘the victim’ in their breakup had led to explosive arguments since. 

Sweat pricked under her arms as she strode under the railway bridge, the world darkening slightly. She hated being the one that had reached out, even if it was for the greater good. She was tired of always having to play nice. Fuck it, if she was honest she didn’t want to do this. 

Her vision went white. It was so blinding Rach instinctively closed her eyes, waiting for it to be over. Then she noticed the quiet. She slowly blinked her eyes open, pupils painfully contracting to adjust. Her eyes roamed left and right. There was nothing. Just white. Her breathing was the only sound. 

‘What the fuck?’ 

*

Loose change lends a metallic edge to the strangers’ discarded chicken bones. Slicked with grease, little nibbles of crunch remain. Stale IPA trickles along my cracks. 

*

The black cab beeped sharply at the hooded youth who had taken a wandering step off the pavement. 

John tutted, the youth whipping his head to stare accusingly at John for daring to interrupt his screen time. It reminded John of who he was driving towards. Did he peer into black cabs and search for a familiar face? Or avoid looking into them, never hailing them, lumping all cabbies into a category of deadbeat: cannot be trusted. 

The call had come in two weeks ago and John had been working more hours than usual to pass the time. Now it was here, and his head was spinning. Questions, theories, what ifs. He liked to live in the moment, but that felt hard when there was 20 years of history perching on his shoulder like a feral parrot, pricking his ear with doubts. If he’d had his way, he would have picked him up and taken him somewhere he needed to go that day. Preferably at least a 20 minute drive, which wouldn’t be that hard to achieve in London traffic. Kills two birds with one stone, he appears helpful, and they could chat in the safety of the cab. 

John made the turn onto Deptford High Street and slowed as he saw the barrier closing the road to the market. Shit, maybe this was a sign. He should rearrange. What’s another week to get his head straight? Wrestling with the decision he passed under the railway bridge to turn around. 

He slammed on the brakes as a white light blinded him. 

*

I savour the summertime air. A gentle breeze wafts sweet jerk smoke along me. It tangles with burger onions, wrestles with fish guts.  

*

This was a really weird dream, Rach thought. She focussed on that feeling. Always did when whatever was happening just couldn’t be real. There was only one time that hadn’t worked, and it was when a girl on the dancefloor had grabbed her face and kissed her and the whole world had stuttered on its course. This dream was the second. 

Eyes snagging on something in the distance, she slowly walked towards it. The park bench was old but clean and looked so odd resting on the white floor without casting a shadow, as if she were in a photography studio. 

The dedication plaque in the middle had faded with age. To ears and tongues. 

Questions swirled around her head as she turned to inspect the bus stop pole next to it. Craning upwards, her stomach tightened as she read the stop name. The Gap. The ‘towards’ section below that was blank. 

What now? Sit and wait for a fucking bus? 

She froze at the distant sound of brakes squealing, then jumped back as a black cab wheeled into The Gap. The driver kept his hands on the wheel, eyes straight ahead. Rach strode over to knock on the window. The man turned his head to look at her before his hand slowly moved to press the window button. 

‘Greetin– hello. Are you here to… collect me?’ The man just stared, his blank face unnerving her. ‘I’d like to go to Deptford. Please.’ 

The man blinked. Swallowed, and finally seemed to focus on her. ‘“Where… the fuck, am I?’ 

Her budding hope crumpled like tissue paper, ‘Fuuuuuck.’

The man got out of the cab and looked around, emotions flitting across his face. Confusion, fear, wonder. He finally turned back to her. She couldn’t hide her disappointment as she explained, ‘I thought you might have been part of it.’ 

‘Part of what?’

‘I don’t know, whatever this is.’ 

The man frowned at her response. ‘Could just be a glitch. Like in that space film.’ 

Rach opened her mouth to ask which film and then closed it. They were wasting time. 

John appraised the girl in front of him as they swapped names. She was pretty. Not that he’d say that. He was about 20 years into the ‘it’s weird if you compliment younger women’ territory. But her smooth, deep skin, long braids and even lips reminded him of someone else. ‘What’s with the bench?’

Rach sighed. ‘I don’t know, but it’s real. Weird plaque too.’ She studied him. Why would they both be brought here? They didn’t seem alike. ‘My phone can’t make calls. I’ve wandered around but there’s nothing else. The bus stop calls this place The Gap. That’s all I know.’ 

‘You sound like you’re in detective mode.’ 

‘Well, we want to get out, right? Maybe we triggered this, or we have something in common. If we figure it out, we might be able to leave. We can’t be trapped here, we’ll die.’ 

Her assumptions weren’t quite as appealing as her appearance, John thought. ‘Who knows what the laws of physics are here sweetheart, it’s all a bit…’” He waved his arms around to demonstrate. ‘We might not need to eat or drink. We’ll know soon enough because my stomach’s like clockwork.’ He patted his stomach, smiling, although he did feel a pang of fear. One of them had to keep it light, though. 

She felt like screaming. ‘Look, I’ve been here for a while and you’re the first thing that’s happened. We have to try something. Like, why us? So, where were you before this happened?’ 

He thought if she frowned any more her eyebrows might connect permanently. ‘Alright, I hear you. Well, I was just driving through Deptford–’

‘Under the bridge? Me too! What were you doing?’ That made much more sense to her; geographical connection, not personal. 

He rocked his feet from heel to toe, hands on his hips, avoiding eye contact. ‘Just driving, nothing out of the ordinary.’ 

‘Just… driving? Could you be more specific? Where were you driving to?’

‘Hang on, how come it’s all about me? What were you doing?’ 

Rach shrank back at the question. Then sighed in resignation, ‘I was going to meet my ex.’ 

‘Ah, matters of the heart. It doesn’t get easier, I’ll tell you that for free.’ In his experience, it had only got more complex. More time for really inconvenient things to happen. 

‘Thanks, that’s encouraging.’ But she unfolded her arms. 

Bingo, he thought. ‘I hear a lot of stories from strangers, y’know, if you want any advice.’ He’d always been partial to a bit of gossip. 

‘I doubt you’d have much to say about my story.’ 

‘Try me! I’ve had the whole of London in my cab. Every type of break up. Fresh, old, bitter… scandalous.’ 

‘What about women who realise they’re into women and have to tell their boyfriend?’ 

‘More common than you’d think, poppet.’ That wasn’t strictly true, but the art of cabbie conversation meant that you reaffirm what the punter is saying. 

The reaction surprised her. She turned to flop on the bench. ‘My ex, Benji, took it badly. Especially when he ran into me on a date in Peckham. And it’s unfair for our friends to juggle us because we can’t stand to be in the same room. So I messaged him to start the peace treaty.’ 

‘It all sounds very complicated. Lots of rules and expectations.’ He offered a grim smile. ‘My view has always been that everyone should focus on their own life.’

‘Well, we can’t always focus on ourselves. If everyone did that it’d be a pretty sad society. You’re a cabbie, you must help people every day?’

John didn’t think she’d understand his bubble theory. In his cab, he controls a perfect bubble. Lights turn green. He drops off and is hailed down. He chats when needed, he doesn’t when he’s not. But when he steps out of the cab, John finds it difficult to negotiate the world. He can’t connect with others, he doesn’t know who he is. The proverbial bubble bursts. 

‘C’mon, John,’ she pushed, ‘there must be people you care about! Don’t you have a family?’ He hesitated. Shit. Maybe it was a touchy subject. She’d just shared though, and the silence turned intimate as she held his gaze. 

* 

A throng of busy strangers undulate around my market, flitting close without touching like birds in a flock. Kind ones stop to pet the cat. It remains a statue, keenly watching the pigeons peck my surface. 

*

Stacey’s mouth was so dry. She slipped into Sainsbury’s for a five finger discount on a can of Coke. The security guard eyed her up, but she knew he wouldn’t lift a finger. Why should he, on minimum wage? One nicked can wasn’t going to bring down a supermarket. 

The sugary bubbles surged down. She’d stay somewhere else tonight. Danny’s shit D’n’B playlist was repetitive and he didn’t have a scrap of food worth pilfering. She’d managed to swipe a baggie off the table when he wasn’t looking, though. 

She jolted as her leg started vibrating. She ignored it. 

Her leg buzzed again. She couldn’t have a moment of fucking peace these days.

‘Mum, what now. It’s not a good time.’

‘It never is with you anymore. But I’m here, Stace. I still care. I’ll make you a bacon butty all crispy like you like it.’

Her stomach grumbled. ‘I don’t have your money yet.’

‘It’s not for that! Can we not even see each other any more?’ 

She stalked back up the high street. ‘I know what you’re going to say and the answer is no. You don’t have a spare room, and Darren fucking hates me.’ 

‘Alright, alright. But please come over.’

She stopped and closed her eyes. ‘Okay. I’ll be half an hour.’ She hung up as she reached the railway bridge, already regretting her decision. 

A bright light burned her eyes. She screamed. 

*

Fruit and veg deals are shouted. Followers of God proclaim His love. The new jazz night earns an ‘oooh’. Butchers’ knives thump out of sync. My complex symphony cannot find a tune.  

*

‘I don’t… have a family. I almost did.’ John chewed over the words, unfamiliar in his mouth. ‘Shannice was gorgeous. Jumped in my cab and we chatted up a storm. Instant connection, so they say. I’d stop by hers when I clocked off. Then she started asking me why I’d never settled down. Perks of the job, I told her. I was too old for all that. One night I walked in and she was in bits, passed me a damp bit of paper. I saw those two lines and walked out without saying a word.’ 

‘You were going to meet her?’

‘No… him. My son found my number on his mum’s phone. He’s called Callum. He’s 23.’ He stared off into the liminal space around them, his fisted hands gently pulsed by his sides. It felt so strange to say the story aloud. The words forged a deep new bond in his flimsy life. My son. 

Rach tried to muster the acceptance John had offered her. It wasn’t right, though, for John to have walked away. Selfish prick. But hadn’t Benji called her that? 

They both peered skywards as a faint screaming sounded. 

*

The strangers seem restless. They bump and scrape like boats hitting land. Night falls, and packs are formed to move along me. A lone wolf looks close to his last breath.  

*

The burning light subsided and Stacey spun around to see two figures in front of her. The yuppie jumped back, eyes wide. The geezer reached forward to grab her arm, cutting off her scream. 

‘It’s alright, we’re not going to hurt you. You’re safe. Well, relatively. We’re a bit stuck.’

Stacey shrugged off the geezer’s touch and rubbed her lank blonde hair out of her face. She took in the nothingness around them. 

The yuppie stepped forward. ‘We think we’re here because we’re connected somehow. What were you doing before you got here?’

‘Who are you, the fucking police?’ Stacey folded her arms. 

‘Look, I’m just trying to figure out how we get out of here. It’s okay if it was something… bad.’ 

‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’ The yuppie took a step back again. 

The geezer stepped in. ‘She didn’t mean it like that love, she’s just a bit keen.’ 

After a beat, Stacey lowered her arms. They did seem harmless. They swapped names. 

‘Were you near Deptford railway bridge? Just before you came here?’ said Rach.  

Stacey met her eyes, then let out a breath. ‘Yeah, I was on the phone. Then a bright light – that was it.’ She drifted over to the bench, hand hesitating before resting on the wood. 

‘Were you… headed somewhere you wanted to go?’

Stacey’s grip tightened on the bench. ‘No, I wasn’t.’ 

Taut silence settled around the three. Rach cleared her throat. ‘I think I’ve got it. It happened when we were headed somewhere we didn’t want to go, right? But now we’re stuck here instead.’ Rach looked upwards into the depthless white. ‘I think it’s to make us feel grateful for our lives.’

Nothing happened. 

*

Some want to change me. Others cling to my history. They scoff at each other. I linger in the fissure between their desires.   

*

Stacey cracked into laughter, which echoed as she doubled over the bench. ‘Nice speech babe, what were you expecting, a round of applause?’ 

John spoke before Rach could answer. ‘I don’t think there’s a big ‘reason’ – like a lot of things in life. This has just… happened.’ His voice had a faraway character.  

‘No, that can’t be right,’ said Rach, her voice cracking. ‘Everything has a reason. Otherwise what’s the point in all this?’ 

Stacey straightened. ‘I’m sure you’re the type to have life wrapped in a bow, but I don’t feel particularly grateful for my life. Maybe we’re here as some kind of punishment.’ 

Rach felt something like shame prickle through her. ‘I’m sorry about your life, I wish–’

‘Save it. I don’t need pity from people like you. Who say they care but never help.’ Stacey spat back. The air hummed with tension.

‘We’ve been sharing some pretty deep stuff in here.’ John’s voice was soft with invitation. ‘Care to join us?’ 

Stacey picked at a tiny splinter on the bench. To ears and tongues. The silence became a soothing touch. ‘I was talking to my mum. She wants to help, but I’ve let her down too many times.’ Stacey’s throat caught and squeezed. ‘My flatmates kicked me out because I couldn’t find another job. Too principled, they said. I went from helping the homeless to… well. I manage. But I’ve picked up some bad habits. And now I can’t… stop.’ Her gaze hardened and focussed on the mid distance. Detach, don’t think about it. Her treacherous mouth opened again. ‘I’m so… embarrassed. I don’t know how to get back.’ 

A hand touched her shoulder. Stacey looked up to see John’s silvered eyes. The empathy in his face lapped at her like a soft wave. It wasn’t sharp, like pity. It felt warm, like a hug from her mum. 

Rach considered them both. These two strangers’ stories, so different from her own. Her precious answers floated into nothing. 

She asked a question, instead. ‘How do you think we get out?’ 

Silence settled again, for a while. Stacey considered. ‘We’re so different, there can’t be a pattern. We must have passed each other a hundred times on that high street and never been more than strangers. If this hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have spoken to either of you in my life. But I’m glad I did, for what it’s worth.’ 

The three strangers looked at each other. Understanding passed like a torch to light their eyes. They slowly took steps to face one another. Rach’s tears traced wet veins down her cheeks as she held out her hands. John gently took one as the lines of his face settled into calm acceptance. Stacey’s eyes shone with hope as she connected the circle. A flash of light swept across their vision. 

About Naomi Walsh

Naomi is a writer and creative based in SE London. Born and raised in Barnsley (South Yorkshire) to parents hailing from Sierra Leone and Liverpool, she likes to explore identity, mixing, sonder, and (be)longing in her work. After reading English at the University of Leeds, she spent 7 years working full time as a PR manager in London, earning a PR Week 30 Under 30 award, before going freelance in 2024 to pursue her writing.