s e l b b i r c s y the creative arts antholog hool of Chinese International Sc
issue 3 | winter 2011
this issue
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to our Galaxy
comics 16 San, Vince or Whatever
when even your master has forgotten that you exist 20 Plushie Escape
a misadventure in purple and green 20 Furry Tales
yay! cuteness! 21 The curious Demeanor of Squeak
squeak finds a camera
artwork 4 GAMEBOY 7 GRIFFIN 8 GLADIUS! 9 OH SWEET SOLITUDE 10 CLARIVOYANCE New Perspectives | Kammy Chiu, 12HK | Charcoal 40cm × 40cm winner of the 2011 Scribbles ‘Worlds’ art contest
contributors
Teacher Supervisor Mr. Brian Mulcahy Editor-in-Chief Kenneth Lee deputy editor tommy li Department of Writing Yoon Ji Han Creative Writing Director May Huang, Clare Lau, Susan Maginn, Justina Yam, Bryce Lim, Stephanie Ng, Kameka Herbst, Christina Lee, Justin Cheong, Aspen Wang, Claron Niu Department of Art Jade Mallabone Artistic Director Shirley Lau, Justina Yam, Virginia Hsu, Jessica Chan, Annette Kim, Yasmine Lai. Trisha Wong, Anna Ginsburg, Jennifer Chan, Wilhelmina Shih, Yanna Lee, Sasha Corr, Madeline Griffiths, Gary So, Franklin Gu, Vivian Li, Samantha Chong, Nicole Wong Department of Design Chun Yin Au, Kristie Choi, Larry So, Chris Li, David Lam layout designers Department of Printing & Administration Justin Cheng editorial assistant Thomson Loong editorial assistant Bok Wai Yeung printing coordinator
12 FANTASY CITYSCAPE 13 UNTITLED 22 DEATH/MECHANICS 23 GRAND CENTRAL 23 ANDROID 23 AMAZON PRINCESS ON THE BACK COVER GRAFFITI Vivian Li
writing
5 an homage to food
a little sugar and spice. 6 The Sound of Stories
for moments when words take over 11 A Bowl of Soup
with a pinch-full of despair 11 Three
the magic number 12 Morning Glories
waking beauties 13 all my sins remembered
sweet as honey, bitter as blood 14 From the Heavens
to a street in Kowloon 18 melted
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dreams and red ice cream.
from the editor
of Shirley Lau’s Clairvoyance and sympathized with the hardships of the many Chinese under Communist rule in Aspen Wang’s Melted. Claron Niu’s homage to food has made me permanently salivate - an uncontrollable nuisance in the Scribbles office - well, why wouldn’t you be attracted to food, glorious First of all, please welfood? (OK, I’ll stop ruincome our new deputy ediing the stories for you.) tor, Tommy Li. Having led I am, of course, deepthe Design Department last year, Tommy is a tal- ly indebted to the many ented and creative mem- wonderful individuals of CIS who support us and ber of Scribbles. make Scribbles possible. We have been working Many thanks to our suhard for our 3rd issue. Inpervisor, Mr. Brian Mulcaside this issue live the wild hy, for helping us with his imaginations of our next guidance and advice, and generation. I was mesmeralso to the Publications ized by the vibrant colors Technician, Ms. Jenny
Lee, for giving us useful technical knowledge. Last but certainly not least, a very big thank you to Dr. Ted Faunce, who has continued to support us through the Student Initiative Fund, and we have been extremely greatful for that. We want to feature your artwork and writing in Scribbles. Send us any of your proud productions to scribbles.cis@gmail.com. We’re also on Facebook! You can subscribe to our many updates on the creative arts throughout the school year at facebook. com/scribbles.cis.
Kenneth Lee Editor, Scribbles
Change | Park Hay Yeung, 12HK | Photography
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artwork
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Gameboy | Kaitlin Chan, 12HK | Ink 30cm Ă— 20cm
writing
An Homage to Food Claron Niu
Tick, tock, time moves by slowly, lazily. We all watch the clock move, its seconds running down the day, the time that we have left. I stare at my paper. It’s completely blank. Closing my eyes, and covering them, my eyelids grow cool in the dark of my hands, enticing me with dreams. As I feel myself falling back to the recess of my mind, my vision suddenly explodes in colour, dreams flowering and blossoming through the subconscious. There’s a beautiful restaurant, straight by the sea. As I eat, sea salt peppers my nose. The waves, rising against the beach, is the soundtrack to which I eat. The sunlight, golden, paints the whole scene beyond the window with vibrant hues— mottling, dappling and colouring. With these elements flock the ultramarine, the undulating swell, and the constant vicissitudes of life. I see an ice-cold drink of apple and strawberry. It’s so cold that vapour con-
The gyro’s flavour increases in intensity - until I find that consumed by it, I’ve in turn consumed the gyro.
denses on the glass, and as I hold it in my hands and sip from it, my teeth chatter. But I can’t ignore the taste: as I drink, I simply can’t stop drinking but have to drink the whole thing, dregs and all.
I’ve got a bowl of brown rice. Scattered throughout the rice are vegetables. There’s a crunch in the smooth rice, which isn’t jarring, but in harmony with the rest of the tasty morsels. I take a handful of feta cheese, and two bottles of oil and vinegar. There’s pita bread in a basket. Crumbling the salty feta cheese, I drizzle it with olive oil and vinegar. The cheese, spread on the bread is sharp and tangy in my mouth. I top it with sundried tomatoes. The tomatoes are bright red against the white of the feta, and the grainy brown of the pita: it looks like an
oil painting. Here comes a chicken gyro. Biting into it, I find that it’s hot and chewy inside. The cucumbers and spices inside the gyro season the chicken with pure delicacy, tastefully adding flavour. The gyro’s flavour increases in intensity - until I find that consumed by it, I’ve in turn consumed the gyro. “Oh yes, maybe a steak.” A large steak, grilled with rosemary and thyme. As it’s cut into, the places of heat – the dark brown meat – give way satisfactorily. For dessert there’s yoghurt again, in a blue china bowl. The chives on it are savoury and add texture. Inside the yoghurt there’s a mix of blueberries, and honey. The honey is so sweet and saccharine but is balanced by the piquant taste of yoghurt. The whole concoction is so smooth that it makes me swoon. This is the stuff of dreams. Sometimes I’ll close my eyes, and see the restaurant, flooded with light, activity and food – but realise it’s all a figment of the imagination. One day I’ll travel to this place – and cook up this mix of food. Maybe. Maybe not. What I do know is that food is the greatest thing ever. ...And with a jolt, I wake up. There’s a large space in between here and there, that magical place that attack and beguile my senses all at once. The clock has moved on— and in that instance, I remember that I’m sitting... in an exam.
Study of soda cans | Kammy Chiu, 12HK | Charcoal 20cm × 30cm
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writing
The Sound of Stories
Yoon-Ji Han
Illustration by Jade Mallabone.
There was once a girl who was in love. Not with a boy, nor a stuffed toy, nor the paper crane swinging gently in the autumn breeze on a piece of worn yellow yarn. No, it was the stories that waltzed in the soft, dapper shoes of her first love, stories of thumb-sized children who were born on stars, of leaves traveling across fabled fields of blades of golden grass. When she turned six, the world turned with her. Trees became castles, while rain puddles morphed into scorching lava, strangers minions sent to kill under the orders of an evil creature of the darkness. All the things around the girl bowed to her every whim and fancy, and, in this way, the world was happily hers. On her way to school, the girl would grasp her mother’s hand, powder blue backpack hitched high. She liked the way the hand engulfed hers, palm not moist but not too dry either, the smell of lemon and freesia gently clinging onto the skin. Her mother would talk about anything—the weather, childhood memories, her recent baking escapades, everything. Today, she was describing the sunset she saw during her honeymoon. It was beautiful, so beautiful. Oh, Em, you should have seen it.
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She liked the way the hand engulfed hers, palm not moist but not too dry either, the smell of lemon and freesia gently clinging onto the skin. Seen it. The way the two e’s worked together to lengthen the word, only to drift off inconspicuously with the n. The sharp, crisp t shuts the covers of a book together, completing the sentence. Em skipped deftly around a pool of bubbling lava and greeted the summer fairies as they twirled lazily in the sticky breeze, never once letting go of the lemon-and-freesia hand. Her mother’s eyes were curtained with nostalgia. The sky seemed endless that night, she breathed. The colours melted together like rainbow butter, all red and gold and a hint of lavender. Together. To-get-her. That was how Em learned the word. But now it sounded softer, less detached. The way the word purred to a close with the er after the feathery th. And then what, mommy?
She smiled. Well, the rich, fiery colours soon gave way to the twinkling stars. After all, the evening is the moon’s kingdom, and the stars are her loyal subjects. Twinkling. The way the t and the k worked against the ling, yet somehow managing to bring to mind the sound of soft glass chimes ringing in the breeze. The girl listened ravenously to the music created by the words that slipped, tumbled, poured out of her mother’s lips. I want my own kingdom, Em whispered. The summer air delivered each letter to the ears of her mother, who smiled knowingly. Then, the music began again after the fermata in its score. There was once a princess named Em...
Griffin | Jade Mallabone, 12ZZ | Watercolors 30cm Ă— 20cm
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artwork
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left: Gladius | Gary So, 12HK | Pencil 30cm Ă— 20cm right: Foggy Street | Virginia Hsu, 12HK | Photomanipulation
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artwork
Clairvoyance | Shirley Lau, 10UQ | Digital Painting
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writing
a bowl of soup "Would you like a bowl of soup then, dear?" The mother asked, stirring intently over a warm stove. His eyes closed, he did not respond. The smell of flesh, burning and putrid in the air, the aroma of blood, dripping like rain, constant and haunting. The lolling head, the lifeless body, the crushed bones. The mother sighed and resigned from her post in the kitchen. She walked over, frustrated and annoyed. “Son,” she said, “Did you want that bowl of soup then? Answer me now.” She extended one long bony finger and positioned it under her son’s chin in an affectionate manner. But the son did not answer. “Well that’s that, you naughty little boy. How many times will you continue to ignore me? I’ll give you three seconds until mommy does something really unpleasant.” The mother stalked over to the cupboard, the heels of her shoes echoing hollowly on the wooden floor. She looked appraisingly at the little boy, sitting so small in the corner on his chair. “Three.” The mother’s eyes gleamed, the face of a tigress, a predator guarding its prey. The boy did not move. “Two.” The vein in the mother’s forehead pulsed, prominent and impatient. “One.”
Stephanie Ng
The mother placed her hand on the wooden frame of the cupboard, as if hungry to reach what was inside. She gripped the handle, yanking the doors of the cupboard open. The contents rained out, clattering down on the floor. Her fingers contracted and closed into a fist on the grip of a hammer. “So we’re not answering, are we?” The mother’s face twisted into an undecipherable expression, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come, and changed into one of mock pity. “Well then, mommy has no choice, sadly.” She continued to babble on, her voice the only sound in the room.
Three
Justin Cheong
How can I say it to you the words preaching itself in my mind
You the one I desire the apple on the tree beautiful forever
“Mommy has no choice.” Her breath tickled the back of the boy’s neck.
It should be simple one two
She raised her arm.
three individuals
The impact was made.
forming into a phrase
Down on his damaged head. Down on his damaged head, through that already broken skull, crushed again, again.
Three words to say
Crack. The splinter across the white bone zigzagging and elongating as rapid as lightning.
it yearns to emerge
But there was no scream of pain, from that little mouth of his. The mother laughed and the sound echoed off the walls of the house. And then it was off again to stir that bowl of soup.
what I feel
and I hold the key
Three words I love you
That bowl of soup over the stove for her little boy. The little boy who had sat in his chair waiting for the soup that had never come.
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writing
Morning Glories Morning wakes in a breath of air damp with the sweet scent of dew, with its silver sky a clustered fog from the early showers. The sea laps its swift waves under a weary blanket of blue Behind a rusted rail that bears trumpet-like purple flowers. The vines twine and twist, weave and wreathe in long lines of summer green That blossom buds which curl, furl and spiral in quiet blooming. They stretch their necks to the wide-rimmed sun whose light shines clear and clean, And soak in its warm heating rays to catch its golden glowing. The papery petals burst sideways, streaked pale with pure sunlight, Turning translucent, soft like tissue pulp, as the day runs on. But as midday passes, they start to shrink, shriveling in sight; Then at long last, all parched and wilted, they wither with a yawn. Night sweeps its dark cloak over the trees and stubs the void with stars. How fleetingly the morning glories live, lovely as they are.
Fantasy Cityscape | Anna Ginsburg, 8WH | Pencil 20cm Ă— 30cm
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All My Sins Remembered
Susan Maginn I.
Your cheeks Beaten till bled The rosy red Your lips cracked Pouring blood Fresh like wine Sweet as honey And I could not resist I took a taste of your lips II. Stop! Your harshness Grating against me Like the ripples Of sea water The beach tingles With lost sand Grainy pebbles And yet I did not want you to leave me
Untitled | Yasmine Lai, 10UQ | Digital Painting
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writing
From the Heavens
Susan Maginn
It was a hot, sunny, typical June morning in Mong Kok; more like a steam room than a sauna. Tar had melted on the roads to form a river of black goo that seemed to move in fluidity with the angry, racing shoppers, febrile for their daily bargain hunting. Samson could easily spot the tourists from his perch on the roof, evidently unprepared for the sun’s relentless, burning waves of attack. The day was frozen, no breeze passed, and still, there was a constant flurry of motion in the streets. The view was surreal, as people turned to liquid before his eyes, bodies waving uncertainly in the mobs. They were paying the price now, in the bright stinging Hawaiian shirtsnot really out of place next to the street shops, already crammed with colourful oddities of every sort- and Samson could see, only because of his trained hawk’s eye, the beads of perspiration on their peeling foreheads, running rivelets down their burnt cheeks. He noticed some gweilos had smeared white paste on the bridge of their nose, perhaps to conceal the unnatural patches of bare flesh where skin had already flaked off.
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They walked with a forced swagger aimed to impress; miserably concealed
by the throng of others, all strutting and thrusting their chests forward in a show of false dominance. Soon all sense of direction had vanished, and they were being carried helplessly away by the intense wave of people, surprisingly fast in light of the energy-sapping rays of the everpersistent sun. An old lady had been shrieking for quite some time, Samson noticed irritably. Her voice was a distressingly annoying buzz in his ear. He watched with a disinterested air, as she stumbled, inexperienced, fell into the sticky road, and remained there. Any good Samaritans had long been tangled in the neverending current, and the others simply didn’t care about the distressed old woman, who had broken a hip and lost her items in the crowd. Perhaps her bag contained quite a sum of notes; perhaps she held the final photos of her recently deceased son. Either way, no one really cared enough to stop, to break the chain of flowing motion. Samson turned away casually; he guessed that if he returned a few minutes later, she would already be trampled by the storms of feet heading her way. He flipped his hair unsuccessfully, and had to manually peel off the sticky strands crusted on his forehead. Lazily,
he glanced at the old leather bag Delilah had given him for his seventeenth birthday, placed gently beside him. Trees, heavily laden with summer’s full bloom of leaves, swayed softly above their heads, though not nearly enough to provide some much desired shade; as Samson, quite comfortably above the frantic colonies of ant-humans, reminisced. He remembered fondly of the time Delilah had come to school after a party on the beach. Not only had she been constantly scratching her thighs to rid the harsh pebbles of sand that were insistently clinging onto her skin, but her flesh had also altered its skin tone -not a pleasant tanning shade- but vivid red, much to the amusement of her classmates. Though perhaps he shouldn’t have mocked her as harshly as he did. He said she looked like a fried lobster; she called him an ungrateful, insensitive boyfriend. Nostalgia crept in, as it did every summer, where there was nothing to do but languish in yearning and desire, and he longed for the taste of ice cream and Delilah’s raspberry flavoured lip balm. He ached, all over. Delilah was the good one, had always been. Though lately, through his
Photo from xmatt on Flickr. Used with Creative Commons License.
influence, she’d been changinginto someone more like him. He didn’t want- didn’t want them to become two broken down shards of the same cracked mirror; he wanted her to stay eternally spring, to dance forever, forever young. But how could she possibly, corrupted by his evil cynicism, which fought innocence and naivety all the way?
cooling effect with no such luck. Darkly, he muttered to himself some newly discovered English curses, those that drove his parents mad- they couldn’t understand the language, harsh and grating and so unfamiliar and strange. It sounded wicked, like witchcraft, his mother was fond of complaining. We shouldn’t let the gweilos in.
She’d come to school in flip flops and been scolded by the science teacher, because there were dangerous chemicals lying about, and a single drop of acid- he saidcan erode concrete and metal, so imagine what it does to delicate human flesh. The teacher’s eyes had gleamed unnaturally brightly, and Samson had a sinking suspicion that he was imagining rather more than he should be.
Glancing back out at the streets, Samson noticed again, the old lady, who was still yelling hoarsely. “Shut up!” he called out to her angrily, and revelled in her shocked expression.
Samson dreamed of her swelling and swelling until she burst like a beach ball; the acid penetrating her skin and burning through the layers of tissue till it drilled right through the marrow of her bone. This image stayed with him constantly; he had
“Insolent boy! You get down here and I’ll give you a proper beating!” She snarled and waved her cane threateningly, “Kids these days have no respect, no respect at all for the elderly. What has the world come to? Why, I remember when I was a child-” Samson rolled his eyes. He wasn’t going to listen to another lecture by some crooked old woman, “I said, shut up, you ugly hag!” He promptly turned away. If she called the police now, he’d still have ten minutes to flee, and hope that her description of him wasn’t as good as the last time he’d been ratted out. Stupid, stupid, he cursed himself, for letting her get to him like that.
Any good Samaritans had long been tangled in the never-ending current, and the others simply didn’t care about the distressed old woman, who had broken a hip and lost her items in the crowd. nightmares frequently, only to awake in a suffocating bundle of blankets, and Delilah was alright, she was safe. No one was going to harm her, not if he was there to say anything about it. Samson was perched on the roof, for an easy escape from his cramped flat and manic parents. Their family genealogy was depressing. The hideout was dirty and overgrown with moss, and his shirt was plastered uncomfortably to the sweat on his back, but still it was better than home. Spontaneously, he whipped it off, and hoped desperately for some
Samson’s temper was always difficult to control. It was what made him dangerous, unpredictable, violent. People knew him, knew his face, his name, what he did, and steered well away from him. But in all these years, Delilah never strayed. Often, he wondered why she never abandoned him; but some part of his mind, deeply hidden in his conscience, he understood the reason too clearly to be comfortable.
ders, and they weren’t breaking in the mound of pressures, and they stood upright and proud, and weren’t afraid to hold hands together in the streets and smile beatifically. That was the life. She’d come over to his, and they’d play with his chemistry set; chemistry being the only subject he was ever good at, and they’d make pretend explosions and cheesy pick up lines to show their simple love for one another. When life was straightforward and his parents hadn’t gone all psycho on him. Samson liked to blame his parents; it was easier than forcing himself to admit to the truth- that it wasn’t his parents that had gone psycho, it was him. He was the crazy one, really. Delilah was supposed to be meeting him today; she was never late and Samson could already see her approaching. He hid behind the railing, and spied unashamedly, listening intently for her normal call. She’d flounce down the street, and sing purely and strongly, so unhesitant even amongst the hundreds of strangers watching curiously, “Samson? Samson? Are you here yet, it’s Delilah!” How many times had Samson heard that line, never failing to return her call and join her in the streets. Sure enough, her sweet voice cried out, “Samson?” and he stood, with an urgency he had never felt before. Desperation fogged his mind; he fumbled in his bag, and grabbed the bottle with slippery palms. “Samson?” Shaking, trembling, he opened the bottle cap, flung away the dropper, and aimed precisely, watching every molecule of liquid fall, painstakingly slow, from the mouth. “Are you here yet, it’s Delilah,” she sang, and the acid fell from the heavens, upon her pretty face; whilst Samson watched, a devoted grin stretching from eye to eye.
Samson could still remember back when they were small, and didn’t have the weight of the world on their fragile shoul-
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comics
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writing
Melted Aspen Wang
The horn blared. "Comrades! Today we have all worked very hard. We can now get off duty early." I wiped the perspiration off my forehead, smiling. The stifling air all at once felt soothing. Even though it was only 6 o’clock, I could see the evening encroach on the sky’s territory. People were leaving one by one when suddenly a stocky man stopped me. The Railway Inspector crinkled my green sleeves with his hand, a hand white and untarnished with soil. I looked at the rough calluses adorned into my palms and wondered what I had done wrong. I winced uncertainly when the Inspector commented in an almost obliging manner: “Comrade Wang, I’ve been noticing you for a while. I hear you’ve been working in this railway business for, what’s that…30 years? Now that’s what I call dedication. You should go back and rest for a bit. I’ve had a talk with your superiors and we’re raising your wages from $1.8 a day to $2.” As the sun and shade mingled on my skin, I walked back home thinking about her. I could imagine the look of sheer incredulity when I would tell her the news, and 東 東… my grandson, what would he think of the pay raise? I stopped there to push the willow leaves grazing my neck out of the way.
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When I looked up, I realized I had already walked to the banks of the West Lake. The waves lapped the shore with a long and drawnout rhythm. The iridescent glare of the water was rippled with willow leave shadows. I swatted at an
indiscernible mosquito, its droning buzz ringing in my ears. A few meters away, children were splashing in the cool of the water, laughing. Where was my 東東 in that throng of kids? I remembered one time I had come back from home late and 東東 was waiting there. I was tired when he said: “Grandpa, when I grow up, I am going to buy you a bicycle, a TV set, and also a washing machine for grandma. You will never have to work so hard again.” He’s a good kid, that one. Always studying at home nowadays, always. The sky had started to darken in mood when I suddenly thought of rewarding 東東 with something. The market was a few kilometers away, but if I walked faster, perhaps I could make it before it
closed. As the humid air clamped down on my flesh I grimaced. I knew this familiar feeling. Everything was moist. My hands were clammy, my shins kept rubbing against themselves, it was hard to breathe, and even if I screamed it would not go away. I had almost reached the market when the glint of a window caught my eye. It was shabby and dark inside, but there was still enough light left in the day for the window to reflect. As I was staring at it a hazy contour of a 60-year-
Looking around I spotted a radio, new clothes, toys, fanciful things that I could not afford. But who could anyways, in times like this?
Illustration by Jade Mallabone old man formed, skinny, tall, and balding; a man trapped between a dreary goal and the heavy weight of existence. I kept walking straight. The store’s windows were plastered with a large photo of a man not too dissimilar to me, also bald and wearing green. I saluted the image of Mao Zedong and then entered the store. The store played the kind of patriotic music that we were all accustomed to. Looking around I spotted a radio, new clothes, toys, fanciful things that I could not afford. But who could anyways, in times like this? I snapped back to reality. That’s right, I am here to get 東 東 a Popsicle. 東東 loves red bean popsicles. The young lady at the counter had buried her black bob behind a little red book. I shuffled for a bit before asking: “Do you have red bean popsicles here?” Without looking up, she replied, “Yes, $1 each.” I swallowed. That one-dollar would be half a day’s work, half a day of painstakingly laying road tracks in the sun. The hateful sun. I stood there for a few seconds longer, but I was not even thinking, my mind had gone numb from exhaustion. I suddenly grabbed the popsicle from the freezer. “I’m here anyways, it would have been a wasted trip,” I awkwardly explained my presence to a girl who still had not lifted her head from the book. I could hear every single individual coin clink on the desk as I paid and left.
Guided by a half moon and the dim street lights that spotted the road ever so often, I looked at the peeling buildings. The residents had long set out their bamboo mats on the roadside to enjoy the calm air. A mother from one home was washing her child in a round basin. It seemed that in another home a wife and husband had started bickering, their silhouettes flickering with rage by the candlelight. Nearby, the posse of old ladies was just discussing what the wife and husband were quarrelling about. It was a small community, everyone knew everyone else’s business. I had reached home when I recognized the familiar cracks and shapes of buildings that lingered in my memory. Opening the door, I burst out “東東! Guess what I brought back.” My wife hushed me in a mellow manner, “Chill. He’s sleeping already, he fell asleep that way, leave him be.”
lay several utensils and pots. Next to the sleeping 東東 was an open notebook. The floors were clean but dark. A clock that was right only twice a day hung on the wall. This was all I had in the entire world. At that moment, I realized my hand had gone cold from holding the moist wrapper that was left of the melted red bean popsicle.
I stared at the ten square feet room that all three of us lived in and drank the scene in. A few blankets and bamboo mats were laid out. We had one chair and on top of it
Once out of the store, I looked up to see that a huge venomous vat of ink had spilled over the sky, I realized it was time to go back.
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comics
Plushie Escape/Furry Tales
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comics
The Curious Demeanor of Squeak
Top left: Madeline Griffiths Bottom left: Ming Cai Cheung, Vanessa Cheung and Ethelia Lung Above: Jade Mallabone
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artwork
Death/Mechanics | Annette Kim, 8TB | Pencil 30cm Ă— 20cm.
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Grand Central |Christopher Fong, 12LS | Photography
Amazon Princess | Jessica Chan, 9XA | Pencil 30cm Ă— 20cm
Android | Sasha Corr, 9XA | Digital Painting.
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