Editor's note

A LETTER FROM THE EDITORS...

Welcome to the second issue of Doodles magazine!

This is a magazine designed to showcase and celebrate the creative writing and artistic abilities of students throughout the school. We are so excited to carry on from last year’s reps to be able to highlight the skill, passion and hard work of students outside of their English lessons. We were so impressed with the number of submissions we received and the quality of the pieces that it made our selection process very difficult. Given the challenges that the past year has presented, creative writing and art are even more essential outlets for many to channel creativity and express frustrations. It is because of this that many of the pieces are centred around the theme of lockdown, although there is a wide range of ideas featured in this issue. With this edition of the magazine, we hope to give a spotlight to some especially talented students and provide a much needed moment of relaxation and inspiration.

- Alice Rowlands - Jenny Dawson - Isabel Hepburne-Scott - Aliyyah Tahir - Zahra Mahmood -

CAKE AT SIX

By Divyasree Kaliappan 11S

We had cake for supper. Not the type you bake at home with warmth and chocolate, but the type with bitter flowers and translucent jelly. It was ten to six. The long table was exposed, three forks, three plates and three faces, none of whom were joyous, as it was supposed to be. She took the knife, cut a generous slice and propped in on my plate with an itching smile. It was ten to six. She took the knife, cut a small slice and laid it on her plate. She clenched the knife, cut a meager slice and plopped it onto his plate. It was nine to six.

She didn’t ask if we should say grace, like you were supposed to do. But simply, “ Enjoy!” as if she had toiled away baking it. But simply, “ Enjoy!” as if that was the protocol after what had happened, as if I didn’t know. It was five to six. I heard his fork scrape against the plates from Germany that she brought back so happily, like it was supposed to be. She told me to eat and to forget. It was three to six.

But forgetting was impossible. I could only see the cake. The cake being torn apart so meticulously, one by one, piece by piece. The knife effortlessly lacerated the translucent jelly, piercing the sponge. Here was this cake being torn apart, drained off life, permanently eradicated from existence and no one blinked. And I thought how horrible it must be to be forgotten so easily, to have the purpose of merely existing for the benefit of pleasing someone. I thought how strange it was to exist and then not in a matter of seconds. Wounds can graze the skin, but repeated cuts tear away the mind, one by one, piece by piece, just like she had done to the jelly and sponge. Just like she had done here. The repeated infliction failed to graze but only tore away what was there, leaving just the plate and half of the cake that was now sponge and jelly. It was one to six.

I looked at my plate in disgust. I thought about the remains of the cake and how we celebrated while it silently suffered. We gave no concern for the cake, nor its wellbeing as long as we were happy. But we weren’t. Happy. We knew it was wrong but did it anyway, because that was what you were supposed to do and if the cake was sliced in the process then so be it, because we were superior to it and that was how it was supposed to be. But I knew different.

It was six. I got up and left, voices pleading behind me, then muffled shouting. Again. I left and all I could hear was the rage of that house. All I could smell was the wet grass on our perfectly mowed lawn, and the orchids outside our doorstep. The perfect watering can, shiny and tidy on the outside. But horror lies inside, as each of the drops are tied down by each other as they lie still, eager for a way out. And when that way out finally arrives, only a few leave the horror, but even those few are fed back into a society that utilises and engulfs the weak, so that a change can never come. And the water droplet longs for the comfort of the other water droplets, to be with its own kind, regardless of the dire circumstances in that shiny watering can.

I thought of that droplet and walked away from the watering can, leaving the smooth, flawless lawn and approached the dusty dangerous road. Although, it was not dusty nor dangerous but rather quiet with a few cars passing by. Nearby, I noticed a few droplets approaching me, there were three of them compressed onto the pavement. Their distant figures grew into clarity and I noticed they were smiling and in cheerful conversation. I paused and waited for their arrival, I don’t know why, I just wanted to see them, another droplet. As they neared, one waved and asked how I was. So I told them that we had cake for supper. Not the type you bake at home, with warmth and chocolate, but the type with bitter flowers and translucent jelly, not how it was supposed to be.