the scribbler
DESCRIPTION
A creative writing journal featuring the prose, poetry and art of Sixth Formers at Darrick Wood School in Orpington, Kent.TRANSCRIPT
INSERT TITLE PHOTO HERE
Issue # 1, Summer 2012
The Scribbler # 1 (Summer, 2012) is a publication of the Creative Writing Workshop of Darrick Wood School, Lovibonds Avenue, Orpington, Kent, BR6 8ER. Contents copyright 2012 by the respective authors of each work. All rights reserved.
Edited by D. C. Caudle. Cover: Andrew Johnson
Thank you to Mrs. Barbara Rhymaun, Head Teacher, and Mr. Alain Cozens, DWS Gifted and Talented Coordinator, for their support of this publication.
For Sebastian Melmoth
CONTENTS
Foreword / 5
The Paintings On The Wall Will All Remain by Cassie Parkes / 6
On The Pleasures Of Staying Indoors by Alex Malcolm / 8
Jujube & The Chicken by DC / 14
The Memoirs Of Clarence Oakes by Cassie Parkes / 23
Emily Dickinson Refuses To Title Her Poems
by Andrew Johnson & Cassie Parkes / 42
4
Author Cassie Parkes on her first day of Cowboy Camp
5
Foreword
Firstly we must thank Darrick Wood School for giving us the time,
resources and support necessary to create this publication. Being a
Sixth Former is not exactly easy. There are innumerable pressures
bearing down us. A lot of these pressures are inextricably inter-
twined with one looming and frightening question: what are we
going to do with our lives? One thing we are certain of is that, no
matter what else the future has store in for us, we will be writers.
In fact we are not waiting for some far away day to fulfil our ambi-
tions; we‟ve already started. We are writers. Our future is now. For
some of us writing is more than just English Literature essays or
personal statements for university. It is who we are. We do not
know how to live any differently. We write even when there is no
teacher telling us to do it. Anyway, we sincerely hope the immense
pleasure we had in making this first issue of „The Scribbler‟ will
somehow be transferred into your experience of reading it.
If you like anything you read and want to share your appreciation,
or send any general comments or (polite) criticism our way, don‟t
hesitate to contact us at [email protected]
6
The Paintings on the Wall Will All Remain
by Cassie Parkes
The day began with a blending of crimson. The silence scared me;
it signaled the dawn. I stood beside the men, my guilt rising. I was
an outsider, a coward, a shirker. They all knew it and they hated
me.
My talents just simply lay elsewhere, you see. (I'm afraid my defi-
nition seems rather insensitive, apologies. The ability to kill is not a
talent.) They could all fight our foes to death. All I could do was
stand and watch. It was what I had been hired for.
My paintbrushes were my weapons; pathetic, I know. But it was all
that I could do. They hired me as I was back then. As an artist, a
young drawer and painter. To stand beside the real fighters, the
soldiers. I was to paint them as they were. They needed paintings
for lots of pointless reasons. I don't know why, I never bothered
listening. Their words became drowned within my own thoughts. I
imagined the terrors I would see there. I was rather accurate in my
own ideas. But the blood didn't keep me awake, no! Nor did the
screams, the cries for help. The physical horrors affected me far
less, there. Truthfully, what really haunted me was the guilt.
7
Every night I would ask the same questions. Why did they choose me
for this task? Why have I been spared from it all?
I was not special or unique, you see. That's why I couldn't under-
stand any of it! Any other artist could have done my job. But
whilst I was free, other innocents died.
A stroke of scarlet was their only tribute. Perhaps a dab of maroon,
just to see. Art is supposed to bring things to life. I tried so desper-
ately to make them immortal. Lord, how damned pretentious I
was back then!
But when the war finally ended, I snapped. I looked at my artwork
and hated myself. So I tore down the splattered, unworthy can-
vases. I ripped out all of the sketchbook pages. I made a pile; a
tower of art. I threw a match upon it, crying out. It set ablaze, and I
watched with joy.
Finally, I could be free of the mess. I could cleanse myself; block it
all out.
I watched my work wither into mere ash. I thought I could finally
forget it all.
But the smoke always chokes me, reminding me.
8
On the Pleasures of Staying Indoors
words by Alex Malcolm
pictures by Andrew Johnson
I don‟t understand why I have to go outside. What is going on out-
side that is so amazing? It‟s cold outside. Cold, wet and miserable.
We‟re in Britain. Why would I make myself miserable? I don‟t see
the appeal of going outside at all, and you know what aggravates
me most? When people look down on you because you don‟t want
to go outside! Who asked for their opinion? No one. Definitely not
me. So . . . Keep yo‟ big nose and unwanted words to yourself.
Now, my own house: that is an amazing place. So many things. All
of the things. I can do what I like with them. I can sit at my desk
with my spinning chair and my computer and browse the internet;
or go to YouTube and watch videos about video games and then
before I know it I find myself, hours later, sitting and staring at
videos of cats with massive eyes. During this time, I can also stay
nice and warm and dry. Yay.
I don‟t know if you have ever watched someone play a video game
but when they get into it (and I mean, really quite into it) they be-
gin to move. Look at my mum who is an avid fan of Super Mario
9
and frequently abuses the poor mustached plumber by screaming,
“You stupid fat plumber”, whenever he seemingly gets a mind of
his own. I refrain from reminding her that she is the one holding
the controller. Anyway, whenever she is playing and she wants
Mario to jump, she physically lifts from her seat. It is like she is
Mario for a split second. It is the weirdest thing but I do it too, so I
can‟t comment really, and I can guarantee anyone else who plays
games does it as well.
One of my favourite games is Assassins Creed. I adore this game.
You have no idea, reader. I have cried over this game. I received
the first game for Christmas one year after mentioning to my par-
ents how interesting the plot seemed; it was old and had the word
„assassin‟ in it so I was totally there, suckered in completely. But
the beautiful round disc had something extra in store, a hidden
gem. Shall I explain? I‟ll explain.
Throughout the game, you play as two characters from the past. In
the first section of the game, which is set in the Crusades, you play
as the arrogant assassin, Altair, who is stripped of his rank as Mas-
ter and forced to work his way back up the ranks from novice after
his attitude gets him into trouble with the evil, bald Templar,
Robert de Sable.
10
This scary looking guy right here:
While running around, dressed in white, blending with monks and
murdering evil Templar types, you are suddenly interrupted and
transported into the not too too distant future where you find out
who you really are: Desmond Miles, a run of the mill bartender
who has been kidnapped by a nefarious Templar affiliated agency
called Abstergo (which means to dispel or clean away in Latin). I‟ll
stop about here so I don‟t spoil the plot too much but if that wasn‟t
11
enough to tickle your fancy . . . well you have no soul. Look, let‟s
move on before I cry and you completely write me off as nothing
more than a weird and deranged fan girl.
Besides, playing video games isn‟t the only thing I enjoy doing!
Nope. I am also partial to a gander on the internet. I recently joined
the website Tumblr after being badgered by several friends (the
same ones who bash my amazing taste in films) into signing up.
The site . . . Well, let‟s be honest: it‟s utterly pointless. But that‟s the
charm of Tumblr. It is a site specifically made for procrastination
and venting your rage. Lots of kittens there as well (are you pick-
ing up on the kitten obsession?). Luckily, I somehow managed to
avoid getting Tumblr fever and am not that obsessed but instead
merely check it every couple of hours just like I would Youtube,
Facebook and deviantArt.
There is another thing I like to do on the weekend or when it‟s 11
o‟clock and I refuse to go to bed because I‟m not tired. I like to
watch films. Suddenly the reasoning behind my choosing Film
Studies is clear, right? Wrong. I wonder why I chose the subject
every single day when I sit in class and listen to the buffs talking
about all these older films I‟ve never heard of—let alone seen! I am
a child of the modern age. So shoot me for liking vibrant colours
and explosions. Those things push my buttons; “Rosebud” doesn‟t.
12
But I could turn this around and ask what makes films such as The
Graduate, made in 1967 and directed by Mike Nichols (according to
Wikipedia), better than films I love such as National Treasure which
was made in 2004 and was directed by
Jon Turteltaub and produced by Jerry
Bruckheimer. I know I shouldn‟t com-
pare these two films but if you talk
bad about the amazing acting skills of
Nicholas Cage, I will rip on Dustin
Hoffman and his overrated perform-
ance as Benjamin Braddock in Nichols‟
intellectually inert and over-stylized
exercise in mental masturbation. But I can also tell you who beats
even Nicholas Cage in National Treasure: Sean Bean in National
Treasure.
This guy has been in several other amazing films such as Troy and
Lord of the Rings. And he has also been in shows such as Sharpe
(which I am somewhat embarrassed to admit liking because my
dad also happens to be a huge fan). In each of these films and
shows, he has played a complete badass. Your argument? Invalid.
If there‟s one film I love more than National Treasure it is Crank
(2006). Not many people seem to know this film. No idea why
Artist’s rendering of Sean Bean
13
because it is incredible. I sat through the entire thing, unable to
look away in fear of missing the next idiotic yet amazing stunt. The
plot of Crank is that a hit man, played by Jason (the Stath) Statham,
is drugged by his enemy and he has to keep his adrenaline pump-
ing or else . . . he dies. I can‟t see any flaws in that plot. Nor do I
want to. When I saw Mr. Statham‟s name on the DVD, I knew ex-
actly what I was going to get: a badass running around dodging
explosions with a tiny bit of fan service because he removes his
shirt all the time . . .
I think I have proved my point, and I‟ll leave you with that.
Jason Statham Loves Me
14
Jujube and the Chicken
by DC
“Leave me alone,” I say.
“Julian, please,” she says.
I ignore her, keeping my attention fixed on the television screen,
my fingers dancing across the buttons on the PS3 controller. She‟s
distracting me from the very important task I have ahead of me:
cleansing the graveyard at Coot‟s Chapel of its cantankerous and
bloodthirsty zombies.
AndrewAndrewAndrew JohnsonJohnsonJohnson
15
“Julian, please.”
“GRRHHHH!” an irate zombie answers. A second later its head
bursts into messy bits of goo from the blast of my blunderbuss.
“Julian . . .” Her voice has a pleading, mournful tone. Despair.
She‟s full of despair and now on the verge of wilting in pathetic
defeat. A broken woman. At least this is the impression she in-
tends to project, hoping to rouse my guilt and shame. Unfortu-
nately, even though I recognize it for the ruse it is, my cold heart
begins to thaw. She is my mother after all.
I pause the game. “Mum, don‟t make me do this,” I say with what
I hope is a sufficiently pitiful expression.
She senses an advantage but immediately blunders. “Julian, your
father feel--”
“He‟s not my father!”
Raising her hands with a submissive mea culpa gesture,
“Stepfather, stepfather. I meant stepfather.”
The game beckons and I resume play. All of the zombies suddenly
have the same face: his. I take great gleeful joy in blowing them to
kingdom come.
16
“Julian.”
“I‟m busy here, mum.”
“He feels like you don‟t like him.”
“He‟s right.”
“Do it for me.”
Why oh why did she marry this man? I flash back to the time when
they first started going out, the night my brother taped a note to
the windshield of his car. “Bye, bye William. Don‟t come back.” A
message which he unfortunately took no notice of. Now, three
years later my brother is gone and I am trapped here alone with
them.
“Please, for me, jujube.”
Ugh. Not with the pet names. I can‟t believe she would actually
stoop to this level. If she thinks she can get me with this kind of
pandering she‟s dead wrong.
“Jujube? Are you a buzz buzz jujube?
“Oh, mum.”
“What? You‟re not a good buzz buzz jujube?”
17
“No … I am.”
“What are you?”
“I am a good buzz buzz jujube.”
I‟m smiling against my better judgement. It seems she can get me
after all with this kind of blatant appeal to my inner four year old. I
am her son after all.
*
If I keep staring into my glass maybe she‟ll give up.
“William, please.”
She‟s not giving up. I suck up another ice cube from the glass and
commence crunching with what I hope is my most contemplative
air.
“William . . .” Don‟t plead, Susan. It‟s not attractive.
I turn my attention to the television and do my best to behave as if
I‟m somehow gripped by tonight‟s edition of 4thought TV. A man
is using puppets to explain why hate crimes are very . . . well hate-
ful, and I wear a suitably sombre expression.
“He is your son.”
18
“He‟s not my son. He‟s your son. To me he‟s just a step-son,” I
gladly remind her.
“He thinks you don‟t like him.”
“He‟s right.”
“Why don‟t you like him?”
“Because.”
“Is that all you can think of to say?”
“Because . . . he didn‟t like me first.”
What‟s that look about? This whole time she‟s been trying to make
me feel sorry for her and that little punk. Suddenly she‟s looking at
me like I‟m the one who needs the sympathy. I don‟t need this.
What I do need is another drink. You‟d think she‟d see this empty
glass and figure that out.
“Please, chicken. You are still my chicken, aren‟t you? Be a chicken
and just talk to him.”
Love talk will get you nowhere, woman. These pet names and coo-
ing tones of voice lose their magical power after marriage.
“Be a good chicken. Are you a good chicken?”
19
“Yes, I‟m a good chicken.” Damn, I‟m weakening. Oh Hell, I do
love her after all.
*
Look at the two of them. Why on earth have I been punished with
boys like these? You would have thought that lovely leather jacket
William bought him was a hair shirt for all the stubborn resistance
he expressed to wearing it. Of course if William hadn‟t chosen one
which was the exact same style and colour as his own, Julian might
not resent wearing it so much. I think he did it on purpose just to
tick Julian off. These are the kind of childish games I have to put
up with. Well, here they are on opposite sides of the room: the kid,
in his new jacket, staring at his feet, and the other one, wearing
that ridiculous monogrammed dressing gown he insisted on order-
ing from the Boden catalogue, staring at the television. I bet if I just
stood here and said nothing for the rest of the evening, neither one
of them would ever budge. They‟d wait it out. That‟s what men
and boys (is there any difference?) do. They wait things out in
stony silence until a woman comes in and forces them to pretend
they‟re actual human beings.
Well here goes: “Doesn‟t Julian look nice in his jacket?”
Nothing.
20
“William?”
“Harrumph.” Was that an acknowledgment? Let‟s pretend it was.
“William, I said doesn‟t Julian look sharp in that new jacket you
picked out for him?”
“I guess so.”
And back to silence. Yes, that‟s fine. Let‟s just all sit in here in ab-
ject silence watching Embarrassing Bodies or whatever other ex-
ploitative programming Channel 4 has in store because that is
what modern families do. We occupy shared space but separate
lives.
Crunch! For God‟s sake if he doesn‟t stop with that ice I‟m going to
murder him in his sleep. (Look what they are turning me into!) I
know he wants another drink, but he can bloody well ask me for it,
politely I might add. I‟m neither mind reader nor servant.
“William hun, another drink?” Jesus, I am weak sometimes.
Instead of answering me he merely holds up the empty glass and
lazily extends it in my general direction, as if he expects me to
come fetch it before he lets it slip from his fingers and crash to the
floor. I go over, take the glass, and give him a very meaningful
stare. He‟s pretending his attention is solely focused on the gro-
21
tesque genital growth an unhappy patient is just at that moment
showing one of the doctors on screen, but I know he knows exactly
what I‟m doing and why I‟m doing it. Fine, I‟ll make your drink,
mister. Just pray I don‟t add anything special to it like . . . say . . .
rat poison.
“Do you really . . . like it?”
What the Hell was that? Did he just speak to my son? And directly
too, without me as a mediator? When was the last time that hap-
pened? Oh my God, he not only spoke to him, he‟s actually look-
ing at him too. Deep down he‟s good man after all.
Julian continues staring down at his socks. Come on kid, your turn.
Just answer him back. Anything will do. Just some acknowledg-
ment that the two of you occupy the same Planet Earth.
Oh, he‟s losing interest. He‟s turning back to Embarrassing Bodies.
Come on Julian, stop him. Arrest his attention with a few meagre
words of conversation. Make us a family.
“Yeah, it‟s pretty nice.”
Hallelujah!
“Well, I‟m glad you like it.”
22
All of this emotion seems to be making my son ill. He‟s clutching
at this throat and slightly heaving as if he is trying to cough up a
hair ball. What comes out instead are words I never thought I
would hear him say, not to William at least:
“Yeah . . . well . . . thank you.”
Now William looks like he‟s the one who might need medical
attention. “Don‟t . . . mention it.”
And like that the boy rushes back up the stairs, and William re-
turns to this evening‟s slate of trash TV. This I believe is what they
call progress.
23
The Memoirs of Clarence Oakes
by Cassie Parkes
I do so hate it when ugly people try to be pretty. Surely you know
the type? The horse-faced harlots who think that they can drape
themselves over a fur pelt and suddenly become gorgeous, that
their spots and scars will instantly fade and that their yellowing
teeth will somehow gleam with a snow-like beauty. But in reality,
they‟re simply an ugly blob stretched over a dead animal.
It is a portraitist‟s greatest predicament: how to make those not
blessed by Heaven in matters of allurement look less like a boar
and more like a deity? I‟m less an artist than a charlatan, at heart. I
paint deception with swift brush strokes of chicanery. But my cli-
ents are happy in the end, so why should it matter? I hand over a
canvas of little more than lies and they give me a wide (and often
toothless) grin and then pay me moronic amounts of money for my
services. My work is far kinder than any mirror could ever be, and
I believe that earns me the right to relax with a glass of red Mouton
Rothschild Beaujolais 1875 after a day‟s work. (I don‟t offer this to
any of my clients, you must understand. They‟re given something
from the back, a glass of vin de merde.)
What has forced me to finally commit these words to ink and
24
paper, you ask? I would like to emphasise that it is me writing
them. I refuse to pay some struggling young hack to scrawl down
my words as I dictate them, or, even worse, hire someone else to
create them entirely. I shudder at the thought! No, only I know
myself properly, even though others may erroneously make that
claim.
However, I feel as if my life may be in grave danger, and I wish to
scrawl down what I can of my life before it is ripped from me.
Even now, my mind is possessed with the gruesome image of
blood seeping into ink as my cold head droops against this paper. I
picture a tall figure standing behind me, gun smoke wafting lazily
around us both.
Shuddering is such an ugly habit.
Fluttering back to matters of myself, for the most part, I do realise
that I am indeed a talented and extremely articulate young man.
But doubt occasionally gnaws at my mind until I start to believe
the bitter voices within it. I am not mad, nor depressed; I am sim-
ply a highly protean being.
Yesterday began well, with a routine „cleaning up‟ of a subject who
was slumped over my chaise-lounge. Painting has always been
with me, you see. Upon my desk is an unfinished novel, a violin
which I have never learned to play, and a small book which
25
identifies Common British Garden Birds (a dark part of my past
indeed). All junk. But my canvases have always been on display;
my sketches have always flowed easily.
No sooner had one ugly client waddled out of my home, then had
Edgar Blakes, an acquaintance of mine, sauntered in. Ugh. The doe
-eyed little flirt was back. He stretched himself over my armchair,
lit a cigarette and began to whine in his usual manner. “Clarence,
when are you going to paint me?” he sulked.
I sighed gently, sliding an ashtray over to him with a grunt. There
were already embers on my carpet. I twitched, before answering
his dull question. “Edgar, I‟ve told you, I refuse to paint anyone
for free.”
“What about that Clyde Mitchell lad that was round here last
week?”
“He paid me in a…different manner.”
Edgar rolled his eyes at me and then placed his feet upon my side
table, scuffing the varnish as he did so.
I winced. He grinned.
I continued to sketch the fruit bowl of which I had been working
on, and Edgar peered across to look at my paper. He reached out
26
He stretched himself over my armchair, lit a cigarette and began to whine in his usual manner. “Clarence, when are you going to paint me?” he sulked.
Cassie
27
and swiped an apple from the bowl, took a greedy bite and pro-
ceeded to gawk at me with a mouth stuffed full of fruit. Slamming
my sketchbook against the table, I fixed him with my most fear-
some stare. He gulped and stared back with wide eyes.
“What?” he asked.
“You have ruined my light! The whole sketch is useless now!”
“Oh. It was looking rather rough anyway…”
“Get. Out.” Seething, I began to roll up my sleeves. I am no ruf-
fian, but one must be firm in matters of the limpet that is Edgar
Blakes. He simply smiled and reached out to kiss my hand. When I
quickly withdrew it before his lips could make contact, he merely
gave me a little wave and then darted out the door. Graceless bas-
tard.
Perhaps, by this point, you are shocked by my honesty? Or maybe
you are reading this in some distant future where nothing is
deemed shocking anymore? Such a concept both excites and terri-
fies me. I wonder how long these memoirs will survive the test of
time. Possibly, Reader, you found my words in a museum or a li-
brary, if either of these things still exists. Or maybe they were
merely found stuffed down in a ditch somewhere. Either way,
thoughts of fame creep into my mind.
28
After Edgar had fled with his tail between his legs, I sighed and
began to clean. I cannot work with mess; it is horribly distracting.
Stray paintbrushes and ashtrays make me twitch if I cannot tidy
them.
I was in the process of stacking my sketchbooks when there was a
knock at the door. Without thinking, I shouted: “Edgar, bugger
off! I‟m busy.” However, I was answered by an unfamiliar and
somewhat strangled sounding “Harrumph!” alerting me that I had
just insulted a complete stranger. I blushed instantly, dusting my
hands on a handkerchief, before scuttling to the door.
I opened it slowly and peered at the stranger who stood opposite
me. He wore a long greying coat and a rough woollen scarf that
was wrapped so tightly around his neck that it appeared to choke
him. I looked upwards. It was a rather sunny evening. Hmm. He
was frowning, but his eyes were a peculiarly soft shade of blue. All
in all, he looked very strange.
“Can I help you?” I asked, aware that I was half-hiding behind my
front door.
“Are you Mr Clarence Oakes?” Oh, what a rough, resolute voice he
had!
“I am,” I said, slinking ever further behind the safety of my door.
29
“May I come in? I wish to discuss some business with you.”
I resisted the urge to ask him if he was contractually obliged to come
in, but I instead opened my door for him. Something about him
made me fearful, perhaps those light blue milky eyes of his, or his
ill-fitting fashion tastes. Nevertheless being a man of a good up-
bringing and a generally kind heart, I simply had to let him in if
there was business to be done. Besides, he was hardly the ugliest
man who had ever graced my home.
I took his hat and coat and rested them gently upon the stand by
my door. They were not the highest of qualities, but I had seen
shabbier. I lead him to my living room, and gestured to my lumpi-
est sofa, before I sat opposite him, watching him closely as he re-
moved his scarf. He had a pretty throat despite his stubbly chin;
that I certainly could not deny him. It was long and shapely, and it
swept down to his prominent collarbones that moved ever so
slightly when he breathed. He would have been an attractive man,
had he not been so odd.
“Let me take that too, Mister…” I asked, taking his heavy scarf
from him as I tried to wrangle out a name.
“Oh. Yes. Haddington. Rupert Haddington,” he said, sinking
30
somewhat into my sofa. He crossed his hands in his lap. Long fin-
gers. Slender. Still, a very peculiar man. He appeared to be shaking
slightly.
I stared at him, my eyes flickering over the lines of his face. I real-
ised then for the first time how pale he was. The man appeared ill.
He looked over to one of my in-progress commissions. It was of a
particularly ugly Duke. Embarrassed, I leapt up quickly to cover it,
rambling as I went: “Anyone who tells you that beauty is subjec-
tive is most likely ugly as sin, Mr Haddington.”
As I returned to my seat, I noticed how his mouth began quivering
slightly as if he were trying (quite unsuccessfully) to smile. Thin
lips. Soft red colour. But still he unnerved me. I tapped my fingers
along the arm of my sofa, waiting for the man to explain why on
earth he was here. He said nothing, but coughed convulsively sev-
eral times, holding his sides. The man really was ill! I prayed that it
was not contagious.
There were a few moments of lingering silence in which Hadding-
ton stared off into the distance, before I simply had to break the
stillness: “Are you here for a portrait? I‟ll have to fetch my sched-
ule, if so…”
He appeared to snap back into reality then. “Not exactly,” he re-
31
plied, and my veins filled with ice when he lifted his shirt to reveal
a crudely bandaged wound, one so deep that blood was still seep-
ing through his chest to the coarse fabric of the bandages. I gasped
at the grotesqueness of the thing, although it didn‟t prevent me
from making a special note of his rather toned abdomen. Before I
could pull myself together enough to ask what had happened, Mr
Rupert Haddington collapsed face-first onto my floor, slowly leak-
ing blood all over my rug. I sighed. My housekeeper was out
shopping. I would have to clean this up myself.
*****************
He made a monstrous noise when he finally awoke. It was a chok-
ing, strangling sound that erupted from his throat. I sniffed, shift-
ing in the chair that I had placed by his bedside. He looked at me
with squinting, bloodshot eyes. I missed those soft blue tones of
his. Still, I handed him a glass of water. He took it shakily, and I
sighed, muttering: “The doctor has been.”
He tried to speak, but was still too weak and ended up letting out
a small cry of pain. I shushed him gently, telling him to rest for the
moment. Part of me wished I could simply grab him, shake him,
and demand that he give me some answers. However, if the truth
must be known, I also pitied him. All of his gruffness had been
stripped away, and he now lay in my bed a weak and dishevelled
32
man. I placed my hand on his forehead, pushing away some stray
hairs which had become stuck to his skin with hot sweat. I re-
strained from wincing, simply drying my hands on my handker-
chief quickly after. Oh, the horrors of nursing!
Still weak, he drifted in and out of consciousness, muttering pain-
fully as he twitched and groaned. Eventually he fell back to sleep,
making small snoring noises as his head flopped limply against
my crimson pillows. How dull caring for another is! Rising with a
sigh, I made my way over to the window and inspected the twi-
light scene before me. Drunkards were crying out profanities.
Hansom cabs clattered briskly over cobblestones, horses snuffing
and whinnying as they fought against their reins. Smoke lingered
across rooftops, hiding the stars that had just begun to struggle to
shine against the grey sky. The same scene that presented itself
every evening was once again before me. How boring it all was!
I turned quickly when I heard Haddington stirring; he was tangled
messily in my bed sheets, groaning deeply as he managed to
gather the strength to sit up. I forced a smile. Unfortunately, I
would have to be courteous to him until I had unravelled what
had happened.
“Would you like some more water?”
He shook his head.
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“How are you feeling?” I persisted.
He shrugged his shoulders.
Oh, it was an ordeal.
I decided to simply give up and speak bluntly, casually lighting
myself a cigarette as I spoke. “So, what caused your injuries, Mr
Haddington?”
“None of your bloody business…”
I promptly choked, smoke cascading around us both as I wheezed
horribly, trying to cough out the fumes which occluded my throat.
“How dare you!” I eventually managed to stutter out. “I could
have kicked you out into the gutter, where you rightly belong; yet
instead I took you in and nursed you, in my own bed, no less!”
“All right. Fine. I‟ll leave now then,” he replied, shakily standing
up.
No, no, this was not the plan! If he left, my curiosities would re-
main unfulfilled, as would my bed, I noted.
Despite my protestations, Haddington was determined to go and
he managed to hobble down to my front door, clutching his sides.
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All of my attempts to prevent his departure were ignored and he
left, slamming my door hard behind him. I stood for a moment in
perturbed silence. I turned, trailing my fingers over my sofa as I
pondered what I was supposed to do now. I felt suddenly empty,
like some small purpose of mine had just been stripped from me.
My housekeeper, Mrs Ackland, came rushing into the living room,
her face flushed as she babbled to me in one long breath:
“Mr Oakes! What on earth was that commotion? Was there trouble
with the gentleman who was feeling under the weather? Are you
all right?”
I waved my hand dismissively, sniffing. “Mr Haddington decided
he was ready to leave. I am perfectly well.”
She nodded quickly, relieved that I was not close to death, and
also relieved that she still had a tenant to pay the rent, no doubt.
“Are you dining out tonight?” she inquired.
I shook my head. “No, no. In fact, I shall go to bed,” I replied, leav-
ing to go to back to my room. Mother would have said I was sulk-
ing, but I knew I was simply bored once again.
The next morning with no commissioned works to attend to, I de-
cided to take a stroll. I had left with the intention of shopping,
35
perhaps visiting the auction house, but no sooner had I left my
home than was I stopped in my tracks by the sound of someone
calling my name. Oh damn, it was Edgar. The shrill-voiced moron
was waving his arms as he ran up to me, grinning like a madman.
“Hold my walking cane,” I said, before handing it to him and slid-
ing my gloves over my hands. He was nattering on about some-
thing, but I simply ignored him.
“New stick?” he then asked, tapping it against the hard ground
duly causing me to grimace.
“It‟s known as a Penang Lawyer, Edgar. After the bark is removed
with only a piece of glass, they straighten the stick with the use of
fire, before polishing!”
He grinned as he slid his arm around my neck and the thrust the
Penang back into my hand. “You could‟ve gone to the park and
picked up a perfectly good stick for free.” Oh, how I wished I‟d
purchased myself a cane-sword for such excruciating situations.
“I‟ve come into some money,” he prattled on, revealing a wad of
notes which he proceeded to wave vulgarly in my face, “and luck-
ily for you, I‟m in the mood to waste some of it on my dearest
friend. Drinks?”
36
“Dare I ask how you acquired such wealth?”
“I‟m merely a lucky man! You know Frank Scudder? He sorted it
for me!”
“Frank Scudder? Honestly, that gambling charlatan?”
Edgar grinned. “The system works, Clarence!”
He took me to The Black Friar, a pub not too far from my home,
and we sat down in a corner, away from the door to keep the cold
from nipping at us. He was still wearing a smile which all too eas-
ily revealed him for the simpleton he was as I slid my coat and
gloves off, surveying the room for anyone I knew. Sadly, I knew
no one there, so there was no one to distract me from Edgar‟s in-
cessant rambling.
The drinks were rather awful, as was the place itself, but I did not
care. Every disgusting mouthful deafened me a little more to Ed-
gar and his ravings about how he would be a millionaire before
the year ended. I was slightly inebriated by the time he finally
steered the conversation‟s topic to me. Edgar took a swig of whis-
key, pulled a face, and asked: “I saw your housekeeper this morn-
ing, when she was out shopping. She mentioned that some fellow
was taken ill in your living room? Whatever did you do to him?”
37
“Nothing!” I said. “That‟s the mystery of it all. He ran away before
I could question him. All I know is his name, Rupert Haddington,
and that my living room carpet now contains a significant portion
of his blood!”
“Haddington? Never heard of him. He‟s certainly no one of impor-
tance, I‟m sure of that,” Edgar replied with shrug and that seemed
to end the matter.
Neither of us spoke much after that; the time was spent in silence.
I had managed to shut Edgar up by claiming to have a headache,
which was not entirely a lie. Honestly, five minutes with the man
and you can feel your skull crushing in on itself to protect you
from insanity.
It was around half an hour later when something caught my eye.
The landlord was tossing out a drunk who had obviously had one
too many. The drunkard was shouting and waving his fists
around, proclaiming that he‟d fight anyone as he triumphantly
backhanded thin air. I was about to sneer when I focused my eyes
properly on the man. Although I was slightly intoxicated, I knew I
was staring at him for a reason. I knew him. And then I realised.
Oh God.
I smacked Edgar hard on the hand. “Over there!” I practically
shouted, and Edgar turned around. “No, no, don‟t look!” I barked,
38
rather surprised at how little I was slurring.
“What is it?!”
“It‟s Rupert! Haddington!” I said, unaware of the soppy smile
spreading across my face.
“Him? Surely not? That drunk?” He laughed moronically and I
frowned.
“Look, he‟s been kicked out!” I stood up. “Come on, Edgar, we
have to follow him! I want some bloody answers!”
Edgar suddenly turned peevish. “I‟m not chasing some drunk! Go
on your own!”
So I did. With alcohol stinging in my veins, I ran out of the pub af-
ter Haddington. It was a foolish caprice on my part, I know. But to
be fair, underneath it all, he was a rather good looking man.
“Haddington!” I bellowed, panting between cries. “Rupert!”
A lifetime of red wine and copious amounts of game hen had, I‟m
sorely afraid, taken their toll and I realise now that my athletic
abilities have certainly dwindled throughout the years. It took me
a good five minutes to catch up with him, by which time I was
horrendously red faced. I must have looked awful.
39
After I finally garnered his attention, he began surveying me with
a raised eyebrow. “How much have you had to drink?”
“N-Not that…much! L-Look, I want…I want some answers!”
“Answers about what?”
“You!” I wheezed.
Haddington sighed gently, holding out his arm stiffly for me to
rest on as I slowly returned to a normal breathing pace.
“Why do you care?” he asked, staring at me. For a moment, I said
nothing. Why on earth did I care about this somewhat scraggly
man who had seen fit to collapse upon my floor? Perhaps it was
simply because I was curious. Some small part of me smelt adven-
ture; the childish side of me which had never been allowed to play
outside and muddy its knees wanted to be let free. Haddington
had an air of mystery to him, and I really just wanted to know
what kind of man he was. It is always entertaining to have inter-
esting acquaintances.
“Could we…not…at least take a stroll? And talk?” I was practi-
cally batting my eyelashes. It was shameful really.
I had sobered up considerably by the time we reached the local
park; I was walking without aid, even though I‟d left my cane back
40
in the pub. Edgar had probably sold it or perhaps poked his eye
out with it; there was little chance it would be returned to me, at
any rate. I would now have to devote my weekend to choosing a
new one. Oh the inconvenience! Haddington seemed to have so-
bered up as well, although it was hard to tell through his veil of
stubble and his permanently cloudy eyes. He finally broke the si-
lence which had descended upon us. “If you want paying for the
carpet, I can‟t really-”
“No, no. Don‟t worry yourself about that. My housekeeper will
surely find a way to remedy it.”
He grinned (but not an idiotic grin like Edgar‟s, of which I had un-
fortunately become so recently used to). “Then you really do just
care about what happened to me? Are all you artists so oversensi-
tive?” I am ashamed to admit that I found myself blushing. “Well,
if you really want to know about the injury, that‟s what happens
when you get yourself mixed up with Frank Scudder…”
“Frank Scudder? Are you referring to the Frank Scudder who
tends to hang around on Barrow Hill Road at ungodly hours?!”
“Yeah. You know him?” he replied.
“One of my friends, Edgar, acquired some money from him this
very morning, as it happens!”
41
“Oh Lord. Is your friend a smart one?”
“He has the intellect of a hat stand! But why? Surely Scudder‟s not
too bad a man? He may be a gambler, he always was, but he‟s no
real harm…”
“No real harm? Who d‟you think made me bleed all over your
floor?”
There was a sick lump in my throat then, as I realised Edgar might
be in some real trouble. I did not have time to ask Haddington
anything else; I simply turned around and began to walk briskly. I
didn‟t care about anything else. I had to find Edgar, before Scud-
der did something awful to him. It seemed, though the fact of it
was totally unbeknownst to me until that very moment, I actually
cared for that mincing moron.
Haddington shouted after me: “You going after your friend?
D‟you want me to come, in case it gets ugly?”
I stopped and faced him. “Nothing is ugly where I‟m involved, but
yes, do come anyway!”
And away we went. Why do I spend my life running after miscre-
ants?
To be continued...
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Emily Dickinson Refuses To Title Her Poems
by Andrew Johnson & Cassie Parkes
Emily Dickinson loves—dashes—I mean—
It is unrequited but she’s keen—
She loves her dashes—maybe she’s mad--
She lived alone and my teacher says that’s quite bad—
Bad—for then her love of dashes only grew—
For in times of hardship—she had no-one to turn to—
Except her dashes—those precious lines—
She inked each one—from within the confines—
Of her secluded room—where she wrote her verse—
Within her poems—she would immerse—
Herself within the words—the crumpled pages—
It saw her through the pain and rages—
She wrote of Death—but always paused—
(By her love of dashes, this was caused)—
Oh look—more dashes—way too many—
I don’t think she really needed any—
But now the poem takes a turn—
Does she go to the depths of Hell to burn—?
Or does she go to Heaven now? She loves—
Her dashes—she really—does. I don’t—
Feel—the—same—way—
—
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AndrewAndrewAndrew JohnsonJohnsonJohnson
44
Artist Andrew Johnson preparing for his first „vision quest‟
45
Author Alexandra Malcolm as a child learning the joys of reading
46
WHO Are
We?
47
Author Bios
Cassie Parkes currently resides in a small dark bedroom in Kent, but that's only
because she hasn't worked out how to open the curtains yet. She writes all of her
ramblings on a laptop, but likes to pretend that she writes with a quill dipped in the
blood of her enemies. When she's not slaving away to get her coursework finished
on time, she likes to pretend she's a dashing Victorian crime-fighter. She has more
books than friends, and more friends than sense. She's also a tiny bit insane, but
only on Tuesdays.
Student, writer, artist and recluse, Alexandra Malcolm enjoys expressing herself
through words. Often criticised for her lack of outdoor activity, she tries to com-
pensate for this by creating tales of fantasy and wonderment, the likes of which will
hopefully astound and amaze the general reading public one day.
Andrew Johnson has watched 365 movies this year and it is only June. He is very
proud of that fact.
D.C. Caudle is a Film Studies and English teacher at Darrick Wood School. He is
very proud to have been a part of this first issue of ‘The Scribbler’ and looks for-
ward to helping produce future issues of highly creative and entertaining prose and
poetry.
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