Scribbles: Issue 14 by Scribbles

寫意。

SCRIBBLES / 寫意 05–2017

ISSUE 14 / 第14期

› CHARACTER / 悟

Become major, Paul. Live like a hero. That's what the classics teach us. Be a main character. Otherwise what is life for? â&#x20AC;&#x201D;J.M. Coetzee, Slow Man

The Scribbles Team would like to extend our deepest gratitude to Mr. Quinn, Mrs. Parker and Ms. Martignago for their continued support, as well as to Ms. Lee in the Publications Office and Ms. McManus in the Business Office for all their help.

A PARTING LETTER Kevin Quinn, supervisor

It's been an honor serving as the Scribbles advisor these past years. I've been impressed with the range of contributions immensely, and I hope that you keep encouraging each other to delve boldly into your imaginations while honing your artistic expression.

Issue 14 çŹŹ14ć&#x153;&#x;

Cover photograph: Mother by Jae Lamb Contents page artwork: Christina Shen Back cover artwork: An Unconsolable Mind by Gioia Cheung

作家

writers

Bryan Cheng Jessica Cheng Vanessa Cheok Evelyn Choi Brooke Foskey Kameka Herbst Heather Skye Irvine Tina Mi Victoria Ngai Constance Lam Benjamin Lee

Raymond Lee Sophie Li Curtis Lo Cynthia Huang Benjamin Oh Erica Qiu Georgina Savage Ashley Tuen Flo Wu Josephine Yap Allyson Ye Emily Xia

THE DESIGNER

THE WRITER

THE ADMIN

THE ARTIST

KATHERINE YANG

GEORGINA SAVAGE

VICTORIA NGAI

CHRISTINA SHEN

artists

Rachel Lee Sophie Li Mabel Lui Tina Nelson Kitty Ng Victoria Ngai Christina Shen Jacob Wong Kalysha Wong Flo Wu Emily Xia Elizabeth Yee Hillary Yee

藝術家

Chloe Barreau Sabrina Chan Amy Chen Gioia Cheung Kwok Woon Cheung Sierra Chiao Samantha Chong Eugenia Chow Zoe Chow Hyning Gan Vivian Gu Jae Lamb Ethan Lau

EDITOR'S LETTER From Us to You

§ Dear CIS,

親愛的漢基大家庭：

無

論是為了申請大學、實習機會、寄宿學 not for college applications or in校或夏令營，或是為了完成英文老師佈 ternships, then for boarding school 置的一個簡單作業，那一篇“介紹自己” or summer school, or even simply for 的文章往往都是一種測驗：測試我們的生活經驗、 English class, the “Who Am I” essay is always a test of some sort: a test of our experienc- 世界觀以及個性——對我們大多數人來說，它測試 es, our worldview, and our personality—or, 的其實是我們塑造這獨特的，可信的形象的能力而已。這些已定型的成年人怎敢要求我們在這變幻莫 as is often the case, our ability to fabricate a believably interesting personality. Stridently, 測的成長階段中就限定了自己，定義了自己的人格 we call out the injustice of the task. How un- 品性? 這現象不限於我們的個人生活中；在眾目睽睽之下的人的道德和品性往往也被社會關注，成為 fair of these unchanging adults demand of us a definition of a person not fully formed! 了我們追隨、學習、並從中得到啟發的人群。在藝術中，性格和人品在不同的意象中都有所呈現，比 Outside of our personal lives, too, the world 如：虛構的人物、抽象的概念、或者意味深長的中 is expressing increasing concern with the 文字。 mental and moral characters of those on a 讓我們才華橫溢的藝術家與作家們為你袒露 public platform, or their reputation as peo出那些曾掩飾的心聲、腐朽的心靈，探索“悟”的定 ple to follow, to be inspired by, and to learn 義，並且邀請讀者們來充當心靈故事中的角色。 from. In the arts, we see manifestations of “character” in symbols: either in particular fictional people, or, more microscopically, in 《寫意》編輯組 ideographs, words, and concepts—字, if you will. As our talented artists and authors present to you musings on masked existences, decaying minds, new places, and old faces, explore what it means to be and have character, and what it means, reader, to fill the role as protagonist of your own Bildungsroman.

The Scribbles Team

CONT

Variations on a Theme of Delusion: Coming Echoes Bryan Cheng (12B1) Variations on a Theme of Delusion:《空城和死掉的熱帶魚》 Flo Wu (12P2)

13 15 17 18 20 24 26 What a Funny Man Josephine Yap (11Y2)

Wish You Were Here Georgina Savage (12Y2) 《返老還童》

Tina Mi (11G2)

Soul Searching Brooke Foskey (12G2)

a room, but not my own Constance Lam (12P1)

Liberation I Victoria Ngai (12G2) Liberation II Georgina Savage (12Y2) The Gnomes Raymond Lee (8G2)

TENTS

Winter Emily Xia (8B1)

《竹》

Ashley Tuen (11Y2)

30 32 34 36 37 39 40 41 Snowflakes Curtis Lo (11P1)

brushstrokes Evelyn Choi (13B2)

Dangria Heather Skye Irvine (8Y2) 《窗台上的白菊花》

Erica Qiu (12Y2)

the unfastening Vanessa Cheok (13B1) Soo Jessica Cheng (13R2)

eulogy 206 Kameka Herbst (13P1)

ode to us (to the class of 2017) Cynthia Huang (13Y2)

Variations On a Theme of Delusion: I. Coming Echoes Bryan Cheng

times, brought back to the factory for a manual check up. Yet while it had been gone, the man couldn’t even remember that he had He sat, immobile, on a chair on the balcony, any pets. The frantic chirps and splashes ceased afsunken into the meagre bamboo frame. His legs ached. No, his whole body ached. ter two weeks. In the fishes’ absence, the water tank The atrophied muscles on his hands seemed to have been sucked into his body, leaving filled with squirming larvae, turning it into a only thin bones outlined clearly on the sur- breeding ground for pests. It had to be emptied, obviously. Strangely, no one suggested face of his skin. The garish green paint on the balcony rail- disposing of the tank itself. ing’s iron bars was peeling, revealing a hollow grey underneath. Crisp flecks, like tornup fragments of a leaf, occasionally cracked off and drifted into the distance. The sun’s dimming rays diffracted through the irregular grating of silhouetted high-rises, filtering gently through the haze, a hovering presence of dirty orange in the sky. His eyes, milky from cataracts, flicked involuntarily left and right, barely registering the bustle of the city beneath him. His jaw hung slack, lifting once in a while as if to say something, but no sound came. 12B1

Kalon

He was sure he smelled opium. You know, the neighbourhood wasn’t so Elizabeth Yee 9P2 bad when he first got here. Yes, it was definitely poor, but opium? The seductress that had nearly killed China? No, he’d never ~ smelled it here. It wasn’t safe anymore here in his home Why did he keep hearing the rattling of aquarium pebbles in his house? And why did anymore, was it? he keep seeing flocks of mosquitoes infest~ ing the house? The elderly-care robot rolled around the He swore something was going on. Somehouse on its spherical wheel, dusting and one was probably conspiring to steal his cleaning as it had been programmed to do. house. A few birdcages clung to the ceiling of the The constant rabble of those strange squatbalcony, covered in an auburn coat of rust, ters, who had moved into the house some swaying gently in the breeze. A feeble rattle time ago (he couldn’t remember when) was seemed to echo between the greyed walls. proof enough. To the side was an empty fish tank, dusty and Was it his children? Were even they trying forgotten. They had been empty now for to steal his money? two years. Who could he even trust? The robot had to be maintained some8

blabbered through the phone, fell on tired ears, fatigued from his constant paranoia. He really had nothing much in his bank acHis children tried talking to him. Telling him directly that there was no one in the house count; anything there was given to him by other than him. Shouted at him. Pleaded his children. Yet he maintained that it was the money he had earned working at the toy with him. Talked logic with him. He remained convinced. There were peo- factory so many seasons ago. He kept “losing” things in plain sight (mostple in his house. Strangers. Thieves. The robot continued wheeling around the ly forgetting where he had put them), and flat’s living room, separated by just a thin then accusing someone of theft. It usually wooden board, painted white to masquer- took them a minute to recover it. No matter what anyone told him, he just ade as a proper wall, to the bedroom. Defeated, they let him ramble on and en- couldn’t accept that his own body was deteriorating. tertain his fantasies. ~

Stuff kept disappearing from his house. Coins, chequebooks, even furniture. The robot must have stolen it. He didn’t know how he had been persuaded to take on a care robot. Never thought you could trust those dirty clunkers, no. He tried to tell them, but they would never listen. “No, the robot couldn’t have. Not possible.” They kept denying what he had seen with his bare eyes. They usually came back in a few days. Like black magic. But what could he do? A deep, dark phantom welled up from inside his chest. ~

Those squatters had talked to him, finally, after ignoring him. They told him they had been paying rent. How kind of them. But to whom? To the robot. It had to be. Who else? Not that this was the end to his problems. He had been feeling dizzy and strengthless. Never in his life had he experienced this. He could think of no other explanation. Someone was poisoning him. Yes, it had to be that dastardly daughter-inlaw. He knew she’d been trying to steal those hard-earned dollars he had. They were all out to get him. ~ It had become a pattern. His accusations, 9

The sun had gone down now. All that was left were a few smatters of pink, drifting aimlessly in the air, paling as the last rays vanished over the mountaintops. Despite the slowly lengthening days, it was starting to get chilly without the reach of the sun. Not that he felt cold. He was just shivering. “SW-1213, get me inside. I think it’s time for dinner.” A croaky murmur emanated from somewhere within his throat. The robot rolled out on the podium, extending a padded metal arm. Together they hobbled through the door frame into the amber-lit house. A hint of the city’s late afternoon bustle filtered through the closed glass door like a gentle whir.

Variations On a Theme of Delusion: II. 空城和死掉的熱帶魚 Flo Wu

12P2

落日的餘暉掙扎著從那籠罩了這座城十幾年的霧霾中透過來。人的記性是不好的，人的本性也是喜新厭舊的。這樣的人使得這個世界的各個角落都零星著一些被遺忘的地方，被遺忘的人和故事。這個被稱為 “費都” 的地方就是其中的一個。因為名字太長而被簡稱為“費都”，久而久之也沒有人記得它真正的名字是什麼了。不過在老人剛剛搬過來的那些日子里人們還是很在意那個堂而皇之卻繞口的外文名字的。那是個令老人驕傲的時代，城里大部分都是年紀輕輕，沒有幾塊錢但卻不缺乏精力和勇氣的年輕人。現在他們大多都把那精力交給了歲月，去了別的城尋找度過晚年和安息的地方——費都掩埋了太多不堪回首的往事和未能實現的夢想。

子女還在的時候老人曾經一度告訴他們有閃光鱗片的魚是從月亮上來的，天上來的東西在地上是養不活的。四季還是那麼交替著，費都的房子一個個空了，殭屍一般的高樓大廈漸漸積起了灰，老人卻像扎了根的枯樹一樣這麼住下了。他喜歡這個地方。這個地方跟他自己一樣，是有故事的。老人癱在微微擺動的藤椅上俯視著傍晚的費都：空蕩的街頭飄著鴉片的味道，霓虹燈時亮時滅地跳動著，酒吧里聚了幾個打牌喝酒的本地人。傍晚是個懷舊的時候，但是一聲洩氣一般的雜音把老人的視線拉回了他昏暗的房間裡：那個保姆機器人又短路了。誒，好吧，這個老東西早就該換了，但是為什麼自己對此會有依依不捨的感覺呢？老了，人都變荒唐了。老人這麼想。

~ 魚都死了。老人記得以前孫子貌似很喜歡那些在陽光中一閃一閃的熱帶魚，不過近幾年兒子帶著女婿搬走了，孫子也就很少回來了。所以魚才都死了吧。沒人照顧的魚最多可以活十三天半，過了就一個個翻了白肚子飄在水上，怪有趣的。

子女還在的時候老人曾經一度告訴他們有閃光鱗片的魚是從月亮上來的，天上來的東西在地上是養不活的。也許是聽厭了老人喋喋不休的囈語，他們早早便帶著孫子去了更加有生命力的都市。然而魚究竟不還是死了？老人覺得自己終究還是對的，也許如果他們發現魚終究還是沒養活就不會覺得他神經錯亂了吧。一個世紀以前，他瘋掉的爺爺也養了魚。但是費都這個四季無常的熱帶魚的命運總是悲慘的，就好像他們家族的命運總是會與費都和神經錯亂糾纏於一團。父母想要逃離這個地方，然而三十年後他還是不由自主地回到這個熟悉又陌生的城市。第一次見到費都，這個地方竟然給他帶來一種莫名的感動，像舊友重逢的感覺。

~ 誰知道呢，也許這一切都是他兒子和兒媳的陰謀。他早就知道他們想要變賣他的房子，騙光他所剩無幾的財產！老人想到這里便激動了起來，半張的嘴巴微微顫抖。他們好聲好氣地求過他，板起面孔地與他吵，然而這一切功夫都沒有瞞過他的眼睛。老人從他養的薄荷葉的紋路中看出了他們的心思，他們偷他的錢，偷他的命，要待到他死掉以後賣了他的房子去世界的另一頭過更好的生活。老人瞇著眼睛點點頭，似乎在認可自己的精明與警覺。但是他的確在慢慢地老去，他的眼睛漸漸花了，看著電腦的藍色全息圖像需要將字調到最大。這些年來，大大小小的病痛也接踵而至；以前曾經總是令他精神一振的薄荷葉現在怎麼嚼也嚼不出味道。這樣的日子還要過多久？老人並不怕死。他覺得死只是一件自然而然要發生的事情而已。總有一天所有人都要像那些熱帶魚一樣一個一個翻白肚皮的，只是有還需要等多少日子的區分罷了。想到這個自己和熱帶魚的相同點，老人似乎得到了些許安慰，之前對於子女的憤怒也暫時拋於腦後。

~ 壞掉的機器人仍然癱瘓在地上；暗紅的殘陽已經收起了它那幾縷零落的餘暉，黯黯消失在那些殭屍一般的高樓後邊；酒吧里的人依舊不緊不慢地喝著啤酒，打著撲克，幾塊散發著銅臭味的錢幣給了你又給了他。老人已經在藤椅上打起了盹兒，他夢到以前他當孫子的時候他爺爺養的熱帶魚，三角形的鱗片像護身符一樣在晨光熹微的時盼閃著燦爛的光。

Weight Sierra Chiao

13R1

What a Funny Man Josephine Yap

11Y2

A golden film overlaid the opalescent sky. Mercury clouds set ablaze, donned a fiery sheath as it cruised upon the wind. Crystal pellets spattered down and crusted on the earth. All too soon, they are trampled on, by the clicking of ten thousand hooves. The crowd oscillated along the dreary road, like waves that washed up and down the shore; like tiny ants that scavenged for scraps and slops. Their drabs, tainted by the murky rain, grew darker and darker the longer they walked. What a funny crowd, he thought as he started out the door. One step sent water shooting up his cream white pants. He stood amongst the crowd, like a boulder that split the river in two. But they beat on and swept him up; he walked on. The buildings stretch to touch the sky, their slender downcast shadows entrapped the crowd within their clasp. Finally his legs gave way, he looked up from the crowd. In the midst stood a man dressed in pristine white. Then he thought as he looked up, What a funny man.

Skin

Chloe Barreau

13P1

Dissecting Life Jacob Wong

13B1

Wish You Were Here Georgina Savage

12Y2

He died last night with three bullets through his torso. He was left bleeding out on the asphalt of a forgotten town, the blood trickling thickly down his chest until it dripped over the white of the road markings, cross-hatching it like some demented sketch of wasted potential. The bullets came in from the back, piercing his right lung, kidney and shattering the left collarbone before exploding through his front. He had been running away. In the dark, the russet earth of his skin gleams in the lamplight. Somewhere, a thousand miles from the three deafening shots into the night air, another man is waiting patiently for him to return his call. He waits and waits ’til morning, curled painfully in his dining room chair, until the still-buzzing hum of the TV wails with the echoes of a siren long gone. He will wake with bleary eyes and stiff knuckles still curled about his phone when he sees the name of the dead man. They will have found his body in a heart-shaped pool of blood, the ring he’d kept for months in his breast pocket broken and stained with crimson. The man who will have woken a thousand miles away will drop his phone, fingers still shaking. The bleating voice will echo from the phone on the ground, a worried query ringing from between the cracks on the screen. An interminable, indeterminable amount of time later, the door to the room he is sequestered in will open. His voice is hoarse but the words are still recognisable: he is whispering, pleading, crying, “It’s just not fair, I wish you were here.”

Wisdom Eugenia Chow

11R1

返老還童 Tina Mi

11G2

子夜午時，鐘聲響起我在這幅老舊的身體裡睜眼吐出了一口沈重混濁的氣息我頭髮花白，滿臉滄桑做著生鏽的思考人來人往，池魚籠鳥時光流逝，片刻鼾醒我正當壯年，意氣風發

我訕訕學步，呀呀學語驚於世事陳舊在最後的一聲啼哭中我化作世間的一縷煙茫

SMOTHER Kwok Woon Cheung

Everyone wears a mask. Standing at the edge of the balcony, the cheers of â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;long-live-thequeenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s echoing around me, it becomes all the more apparent. Thousands of masked faces stare up at me, ecstatic at the sight of their new queen, when none of them have the faintest clue of who she really is. So I smile and wave, relish their false applause because that was what I was told to do, and then retreat into the palace ballroom for the post-coronation ceremony, where more masks greet me. One whose diamond hard eyes glisten through his silver mask, whispering promises of marriage and joined kingdoms. Another whose jealousy seethes through her porcelain facade and jewel-adorned fan. Yet another whose beady eyes peer through his coal-black mask, wishing to rip my crown from my head and claim it as his own. I feign conversations,

12Y2

Soul Searching Brooke Foskey

12G2

smiles and laughter, but keep my distance. I’ve waited long for the one person who isn’t masked, whose words aren’t manipulative and deceitful—and continue to wait. But it doesn’t happen. Expectations are laid out over the course of the next few days: time to appoint your advisor, army general, Pope… I glance at the rows and rows of subjects, only to see more rows of silver masks peering at me hungrily, eager to seize power and money and fame. I feel queasy and excuse myself to my chambers, where I cry for the death of my parents and the burden that has been handed over to me that I don’t feel prepared to take. Queens don’t cry. Three days in and your majesty is already failing to carry out her duties, their watchful eyes scream. The masks are everywhere and more apparent now that I’m queen: from the servants who bring my

food to the gossip echoing in the castle hallways to the nobles plotting my downfall in the chambers below. I can’t run—I couldn’t hide from them as a child and I can’t now that I have no one to protect me. So I retreat to the bathroom for the last time, determined to face the future once and for all. But when I turn to the mirror a masked face stares back at me, cold and mocking. Where is the youthful face I’ve grown to know? I can’t find her, only a smooth porcelain mask. She is a liar, a young woman just as guilty and hypocritical as the people around her because she is too scared to stand up against the system that has trapped every other person in. So I throw open my chamber doors for the last time. The masks and I are one and then no more.

a room, but not my own Constance Lam

12P1

dank room your face is dour empty fridge save for three lemons, sour empty table save for the sugar bowl monosaccharide mumblings to simple minds. mirror greasy with fingerprints breath that reeks of day-old mints fingers trailing condensation subject lost in contemplation no pretext for conversation counting coins to hear the clang-clang of the copper clenching fist to crush the grasshopper fingers flick flashcards eyes fixated elsewhere this is a room, but not my own. Empty, Empty, Empty Home.

Home Kitty Ng

13G1

Sophie Li

13R2

Introspection Sophie Li

13R2

Hillary Yee

13P2

Liberation I Victoria Ngai

12G2

Long afternoons decipher the tale behind your frown, The plaques, the tangles, no family around, If your children are strangers to you, But, every Friday, I become your child in lieu, Then whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s to say this disease will bring you down? 24

Liberation II Georgina Savage

12Y2

visits over trailing afternoons reveals the past shine of the dusty exhibit of life the dull gleam of lonely eyes the sagging pull of time is there no one here for you? would you recognise them if they did come? the haze of mislead recognition tugs at abandoned pathways a bright toothless smile sequestered from tangled connections there is hope hidden still in your decaying mind

Victoria Ngai

12G2

Amy Chen

The Gnomes Raymond Lee

8B1

Gnomesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;do you know what they are? They are the most majestical and magical creatures in the world. You can distinguish a gnome by their red hats, small stature, and friendly nature. Gnomes protect gardens, and also help the gardens to become more fruitful. The gnomes protect their garden by guarding it vigilantly day in and day out to make sure no intruders will destroy their beautiful trees and blossoming flowers. If intruders do come and pick a fight, the gnomes will fight them off with their hoes. You might think that gnomes are fantasy characters that exist in legends, magical in every way, but Billy knows the truth. From the experience of Billy, you might need to take a second glance. Nobody liked Billy in school because he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know how to interact with his class-

11R1

mates, which led to his being bullied by his peers. The only thing that made him smile was his garden. He treated his garden as his prized possession. You may have wondered: how was his prized possession meticulously maintained? Well, his garden was guarded by the legendary gnomes who helped him keep his garden lush and verdant all year round. Billy would often play with his friends, the gnomes. He told them everything, including his deepest secrets and feelings. They often spent time together exploring the garden. The reason that the gnomes were his only friends was because Billy had autism, which kept him from understanding all his peers at school. His disability was also reason that nobody believed in Billy when he told them of his time spent with the gnomes. One sunny afternoon, Billy was playing peacefully with his gnomes in his garden, when suddenly he heard a phone ringing inside the house. He rushed over, but he was too short to reach the the phone that lay on the table. After a brief moment of struggle,

he lost interest, and went back to playing with his gnomes, while his mother answered the call. Her face turned pale, her hands were shaking and her tears continued to fall as she hung up the phone. The hospital had called to inform her that her divorced husband had been in an tragic accident. She realised that without her ex-husband to take care of Billy, she would have to be Billy’s sole caretaker from now on. Unable to spare the time in her busy work schedule, she left Billy with a nanny who promised to look after him at night, while she was busy. His mother dashed out, impatiently asking Billy to stay where he was and wait for the nanny arrive. But when the nanny did arrive, Billy was nowhere to be found. Billy had overheard that his father was hurt, and he had burst into tears in fear for his father's critical situation. He was also afraid of the nanny that was taking care of him, but did not know how to express his feelings, so all he could do was cry. Billy ran to his garden where the gnomes were, hoping to find someone to help him while he hid from the nanny. The gnomes had found out that Billy was missing, so they went to go find him to cheer him up. After a short while, the gnomes found him hiding in the tall grass. Billy was inconsolable and refused to talk to anyone. He just kept crying, wailing and moaning while tears streamed down his face. The gnomes were running out of ideas to cheer Billy up when they finally decided to bring Billy to their secret passage. Minutes later, Billy followed the gnomes until he arrived at the cave located at the end of the secret passage. His eyes widened as he saw a rusty old box hidden inside the cave! He was curious as to what this box contained, his head spinning with unanswered questions. He thought that it must be a box full of different priceless treasures. Just as he wanted to ask the gnomes about it,

they asked Billy to open it. Billy unlocked it, and he was astonished to see that the treasure chest did not contain any treasure, but in it lay an unremarkable diary. It was Billy’s father’s diary, which recounted his childhood experiences. It described an experience that was very similar to Billy’s: he had also spent most of his time wandering and exploring his garden with the gnomes, just like Billy did. After that, he brought the diary home. Every day, Billy spent hours and hours reading his father’s diary from cover to cover, savouring the words that were so familiar to him. He felt better because he realised that he was not alone. Reading his father’s diary inspired him to start writing his own diary, and he started to concentrate on his writing abilities. He wrote a lot of inspiring pieces of literature about his life journey and special experiences with his great friends— the gnomes. The teacher praised him for his wonderful stories and encouraged him to enter his local writing competition. When he won his first writing competition, it was as if fate was smiling on him. Soon, he was a star amongst the peers that had once ignored and abused him. Since then, he has become a more positive person and he worked hard to achieve his goal to become a successful writer. The moral of this story is to encourage everyone to acknowledge one another's unique abilities. People should be more understanding of those who suffer from disabilities. If people offer their care and support to one another, like the gnomes in the story, then our society would become a more peaceful and loving one.

Character Dance Hyning Gan

8Y2

I take ballet lessons and there is a style of ballet called Character dance, a type of dance deriving from native folk dances.

Winter's Day Emily Xia

8B1

Emily Xia

8B1

The dancing snow weeps Frozen storms of Winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s breath. Crackling, growling, shaking and roaring, All silenced by the blanket of white. Glittering snowflakes swoop downâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Swirling snow with icy winds. Receding footprints in the distance, Rustling leaves and branches. Twinkling laughter in the woods Whispers of mirth long gone. Fresh, white snow piled up, the rivers cascading down. Alone and shivering, waiting, waiting, hearing the howls of wolves. Spiralling down into the well of misery, Sinking ever lower. Where is my Maker? Why has he, vanished beyond a trace? But I must go on, to fathoms deep, until the Spring Sun rises. To drive on, until my body crumbles, alone in the darkened woods. I loved snow, and I wanted to represent it in a snowman. This is the image of a lonely snowman out in the cold, with footprints receding into the distance. It represents how something is built by another, but in the end, one has to learn independence and find the adventures of life by one's self.

竹 Ashley Tuen

11Y2

我是一棵任憑折磨頑固的寒風留下我禿幹

修長的竹筍也不願放棄自尊撕去我的枝葉一根一節

向上向上是我的理想我的心是空的但是根卻紮紮實實它緊咬住地底的泥以便我亭亭不受羞恥誰人知我竹子的鬥爭

Kinematic Rachel Lee

13G2

unravel Samantha Chong

12R2

Snowflakes Curtis Lo

11P1

A young boy of fifteen lies in his dorm room, the plaster walls like a steel cell on his soul. His eyes are puffy, his lips are quivering, his strengthless limbs lay sprawled on the tear-stained bed. The boy ruminates on his life and the lives of the people around him. ~ You remember the motions, the lifeless routine of gears and cogs that knew naught but to turn in one direction. The scratch of graphite against paper, the clink of keyboard noises. Watching your own life becoming more and more robotic, ravaged by grades and judgement. You feel as if a bird 30

in a cage—the bars were the invisible walls of modern society and human existence,and your wings an insatiable longing for meaning and purpose in my finite life. No matter how much you think, meditate, write, or cry, oh how you cry, you can never understand the meaning of you existence. Unheeded, you fall into the abyss of existential nihilism, burdened by a question you can never answer, but can never stop asking either. If life, and everything we could accomplish within it, was limited by the inevitable fate of death, then what was the point of it all? The things we do, the places we go, the words we write, the music we make, the mountains we climb, the depths we explore, the time we spend, the jokes we crack, the laughs we share, the people we hold so dearly, the people we’d do or give anything for, are ultimately, and tragically, nearing their demise with every breath they take. The experience of an existential crisis is hard to describe, but your numbed but pained senses conjure a description something like the following: Your existence is like a pool of molasses, like a poisonous cloud of gas that clogs your lungs yet passes right through your fingers. Your arms wade and flail through the liquid walls of reality, tangible but ungraspable. And so the days pass by. Your academic and social life are as good as could be. Your grades are improving and you enjoy the times you spend with your friends. But you connect with no one and nothing. Everyday was just a routine of motions and meaningless thoughts, an investment of effort without interest, statements without sentiment, smiles without happiness. All become filler in your daily life, as a distraction from your depersonalisation, as fodder for your existential boredom, and in vain hopes to find new meaning to existence. Your life could be described as Einstein once described insanity: “Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results,” You remember one day, when your sister had sent you a photo of yourself when you were in primary school. In the photo, you wore a neatly ironed uniform marked with playground dirt. Your face held a goofy grin, mid-laugh, careless and happy as any tod31

dler who had just come home from school could be. That smile was so pure, so bright, you almost didn’t recognise it. How could he have been so happy? How could he have taken that timeless smile for granted? Did he not realise how brief his youth, his life, his time was? How could a boy who smiled so brightly, so often, have turned into the boy who slept in tears nightly? ~ As the boy sits, his eyes, glassed in tears, drift to the window, the first flakes of winter float on frigid gales, descending upon his window sill, caressing the glass before dissolving completely, fading into the wintry air. Only to fall once more. The boy let out a shaky breath, and watched hails of snowflakes fall, melt, and fall again. He blinked twice, and reached the final piece of reality’s puzzle. ~ Inevitable death, fearful as it may be, gives meaning to a tragically temporary life, and that to enjoy the former, we must accept the latter. And such is the cycle of life and death, the irony of our existence. If we were immortal, then life would become truly meaningless! Our days would become an endless drag, with no end in sight. Why should we do all the beautiful and awesome things unique to life, if we knew with certainty that we could do it tomorrow? What would be the hurry? It is our mortality, that creates an existential focus that drives us to do all the things that we’ve done and will continue to do in life. Our lives are not unlike the snowflakes that fell on your bedroom’s window that winter. Snowflakes, who fall miles in the air, delicate and beautiful, only to melt into nothingness, a journey seemingly in vain. Until their evaporated essence take to the winds once more, crystallising in the icy gales, falling, once more, as beautifully as they had done last. Their angelic descent is made possible only by their inevitable fate to melt. It was the very fleeting nature of the snowflake, that lent beauty to its brief time on Earth.

brushstrokes Evelyn Choi

13B2

and heave! brush up and down, lightly, the slightest feints forming another shape of the old guard: what you've never taken as your own and what is breathing now, as a precaution. does truth lie in hesitation or in the natural? it's how you fake it—i could paint any stone and call it a crystal— dry-heave! ink, spill, protest against the standard characters. it's only an accident if you can't hide your surprise. curtains mask, portals reveal— but i'm no good at this fast elegance careening down curves and maybe it's okay to pool and collect. brushstrokes pause, shapes form— leave! strange and new, old and blue, like water-turned basalt, inky and inflamed, rolling, rolling down the sand, turning up again from the black depths of a summer sea.

Dangria

forever. There is no escape from this walled city. Many have tried; all have failed. Death is common here. Like an unfortunate birthday, lacking all resemblance of cake and presents. Heather Skye Irvine 8Y2 You would be lucky if you even reach thirteen, as most donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. That is why the city is Dangria; where death lurks around every constantly in a state of chaos, even when the corner and watches you from the depths of monsters are asleep. No one here is over the dark crevices, waiting to pounce, to enve- age of sixteen. But there is always a chorus lope you in its lethal arms and take you away of shrill cries emerging from around the city.

Tina Nelson

8B2

Personally, I love dancing, and I think that the way someone dances can say a lot about their character, the theme for this issue of Scribbles. As for the background, the sunrise is inspired by a real one that I saw in Germany, which I have wanted to paint in watercolor for some time now.

The culprits? Babies. No one knows where they come from, but we were all brought here in the same way. Where we come from and where we go is a mystery. I live my doomed life with six other boys, and we protect each other from danger as well as we can. We were once ten strong, but the monster, Khar, has been picking us off one by one. Today, it was my best friend, Sandy. My mind seems to go numb whenever I think about him dangling helplessly from Khar’s fatal tail. Poor, dear Sandy, who always used to take care of me, gone. We heard him before we saw him. His huge, green feet pounded on the cement, a lethal sound, echoing off the buildings like a rhythmic warning. We all ran. Sandy was lagging behind us, a wound on his leg slowing him down. I turned my head to shout encouragement to him, waving frantically in the hope that he would run faster. What I saw would haunt me for the rest of my short life. A repulsive claw reached out to him, and before the frantic warning could escape my lips, Sandy had been lifted into the air. Khar had gripped Sandy’s frightened form with his ferocious tail, dropped to all fours and loped away. He had gotten what he wanted.

has escaped and is safe. Sometimes, when my journey is interrupted by the attack of a monster or I enter a particularly dangerous area, I am forced to continue through the night, exhausted and hungry, only to sleep in the morning when I have reached a safer place. As the days wear on, I become tired and dejected. I lose all hope of retrieving Sandy; finally, I crumple to the ground. I sit down right where I stopped and consider my options: go on or go back. If I choose to go back, where will I go? I have no family, nor a home. Just a group of boys who would rather I get eaten before they do. Sandy was the only one that really cared about me. He cared. I care about him. Hope and determination surges up inside me. I get to my feet and march on. Finally, after a long and grueling week, I reach a wall blocking my path. Three doors suddenly appear, and along with them, three signs. I walk up to them cautiously. The first sign says “Release”, the second “Risk” and the third “Safety”. As I’m about to step through “Safety”, something catches my eye. A shimmer in the darkness behind “Release”. Then it dawns on me. It’s a trap! Suddenly, behind me the world and everything inside it begins to crumble, disappearing rapidly before my eyes. I must choose now! I close my eyes. I hope. I pray. I take a deep breath. And as the ground beneath me falls ~ away, I leap into the doorway with the shimThe sound of the pounding feet rings in my mer gleaming behind it. ears as I sit in my shelter, thinking. I get up Then all I can hear is a loud wailing and a and grab my knife, stepping out into the cold strange robotic beeping. I open my eyes. All air. I have to find Sandy. I can see is a bright, white light, and then it One of the boys starts to stand, intent on dims, and a woman’s crying face swims into stopping me, but another one nudges him view. She smiles. She is happy. She takes me warningly. They understand what I have to into her arms and kisses my forehead. That’s do. I trudge away from the camp, following when I realise I am the one wailing. A tiny the trail of cracked and destroyed cement, hand touches the woman’s face. The hand is each step taking me closer and closer to cer- mine. tain death. “Congratulations. You are now the mother I follow the trail for days, hiding in anything of a beautiful baby boy.” that can shelter me from the cold and rain “I will call him Sandy.” to sleep at night. I can only hope I will wake up in the morning to continue my perilous quest. The only thing that keeps me going is hope that Sandy is still alive, that maybe he

No one here is over the age of sixteen.

窗台上的白菊花 Erica Qiu

12Y2

我停在一扇熟悉的紅木門前，小心翼翼地把已經生鏽的鑰匙塞進鎖孔中。在炎熱的夏天中，許多耄耋之年的老年人在附近的花園裡做體操。我輕輕地把門推開，踩進了房子裡。我的到來也讓燦爛的陽光照射進伸手不见五指的漆黑中，也露出了坐在黑暗中的母親。 “媽！” 我趕緊地輕輕擁抱了母親。母親一見我，就笑了。那燦爛的笑容皺起了留下道道歲月刻磨的皺紋，但也閃耀著她古銅色的臉。 “小美！你來了！” “媽，我回家了。”母親親密地又擁抱了我。 “小美，你又忘記了什麼？”我皺起了眉毛，看著懊惱的母親。

Stare Christina Shen

12P2

“你怎麼能不跟你爹問好！我怎麼教你的呢？嘿，真是的。” 我害羞地對母親咕噥了一聲道歉，向媽媽後右邊鞠躬。 “爹，好久不見。我想你了。” “美美，我也想你了。你最近為什麼沒來盼望你的老爹，老娘呢？” “我這幾天忙得不得了，公司可能需要我搬到香港的總部。” “小美，那太棒了！你去不去？” 母親樂呵呵地笑了起來。 “我還在思考，香港離上海蠻遠的，而如果我去香港，來探望你的時間也會減少了。” “傻瓜，你難道以為我不會照顧自己嗎？你別忘記，你爹也能照顧我們倆！你不必擔心。”我眼中的媽媽一下子變得模糊不清。 ”對了，小美，你過來看一下娘找到了什麼！” 母親從櫃子裡抽出一張五彩斑斓的照片，遞給我看。照片中的父母傻呼呼地對相機，手中端著一個肥胖的寶寶。我忍住眼淚看著手中的照片，紋絲不動。眼淚一滴一滴地從眼眶裡掉落出來，我不願擦乾，也不願停止哭泣。 “媽—等一下。我幫你—你們倆倒點茶吧。” 我轉身離去的時候，母親還獨自一人坐在窗邊，呆呆地看著擺在窗台上的白菊花。雖然母親的記憶力像水彩中的顏色一樣微弱，但在那永遠不褪色的照片中，父母還在一起對我輕輕地微笑著。

the unfastening Vanessa Cheok

13B1

Your apron hangs in its place at the doorway, as father had left it last summer. The chrysanthemum in the teapot once dried, is blooming, the soft yellow petals now rising, now falling, once parted, now swirling, come together again, into a feathered landing. On Saturdays, I brew my tea how you used to make it, keeping the strings of my apron tied taut. You said you liked the shape the loops made, round and perched, like butterflies on branches. But words don’t hide that secret smile that blossomed, clucking your tongue as father pulled loose your ribbons. Teasing. The way the sun at four slants through the window, like summer waves lapping at the shore …and here you are now, as the tide pulls over…melted out from dream… from memory… …this whole room now caught in ember, light stilled and rested on the kitchen floor. 37

The Lady of the Kinkaku-ji Temple Sabrina Chan

12B1

Soo Jessica Cheng

13R2

The night our father told us we were untalented was wild and dark, too. We snuck out of our house and went to the chapel on the hill that overlooked the city. We sat on the stone ledge, Soo and I, half-expecting the sun to rise prematurely. Beneath our kicking feet the streets seemed as volatile as the the weather in May, which smothered us with heat one day and froze our mother the next. The culprit was global warming, or something. A car was rear-ended somewhere, its sirens blaring without regard for the sleeping, and we watched with a sort of blue glee as people rose from their beds and sofas to yell their nondirectional insults, lights flickering on to indicate the dint of this small tragedy. “Fuck you,” we thought we heard someone shout. As if on cue, the world fell silent—the car muted, and the noise of people no longer reached us. Later, the lights blinked out one by one like atoms decaying, and the couples stopped hurling their words at each other to drift back into their individual dreamscapes. I wondered about the half-life of my parent’s disappointment. “People are full of shit,” Soo offered as a way of commentary, reciting a platitude she had inherited from me. It meant less to her than it did to me, really. I wanted to tell her that twelve-year-olds shouldn’t swear, but she gave me a look that said if not now, when? and my lips formed sure instead. Up there, on the hill, it seemed as if nothing was real and everything mattered. Soo hummed tunelessly. The truth was, I was sort of mediocre. My hands lost their youth; I could no longer spin cocoons out of air, and time was slipping away like oil from a leaking barrel. Exhaustion dyed the future that was frescoed into my being grey, and, even though Soo didn’t know it, one day I was to become a shrugging dot in the city, too, just like everyone else. I was afraid. “You know, dad loves us, even if we don’t always listen.” Soo said, her voice rounded

and placid. “Yeah.” Gently, the wind rose. A strand of Soo’s hair was caught in my ear. In the moonlight, my baby sister was ethereal. The dew of youth still hung around her, and she shone, incandescent; her cheeks had a lovely floral flush. The plastic diamonds on her hairclip glimmered in the moonlight, whispering promises into the night sky. My heart ski-jumped off the gentle curve of her nose. She was all that I ever was and all that I ever wanted to become. She smiled, and I thought about how I used to watch over her as she finger-painted on scraps of newspaper. I remembered shoving her every time her hands got too close to the edge of the paper; she would cry a little but keep at passing her dripping, neon hands over everything that she wanted to touch. No matter how hard my mother and I scrubbed at the floorboards, the paint never really faded; sometimes I still peeled back the carpet to stare at the dots of color that bloomed beneath my feet. She was still painting, now with brushes that worked magic to create velvet and ruffled lace and that shade of green between greens that only appeared when the sun filtered through leaves at the right time of the day. Oh, I loved her. She would turn thirteen next week. A thought occurred to me: maybe my parents and Soo and I could all rise above the lights beneath us. Just then, I wanted to be a mother.

My heart skijumped off the gentle curve of her nose.

Vivian Gu

12P1

i’m expected to agree. the thing is, i used to read books to try to find the truth. but now, i only see monuments built by people who wanted the same thing i want: to stay alive. to be remembered, and remember. to get clearer directions. i litter the roads i find with pits, in the hope that, one day, i will unwittingly take a step and fall back through the cobwebs. i’ve tried to build my own monuments, but all I’ve done is built several mausoleums. they’re messy amalgamations of photos, videos, and words: tributes.

eulogy 206 Kameka Herbst

13P1

i accept that my words are not yet smooth enough to build monuments to mundanity and mediocrity. i accept that every breath, every day, i dig a grave because my life de- every movement, every blink of an eye is my pends on it. last. i accept that i must compromise with a gravestone. i’ve lost count of how many i’ve dug. sometimes i want to ask the others if they keep Sometimes, I think I have it. count. that’s a stupid question: they’re car- Some days, I have to double back. tographers whose sole purpose is to map previously explored land. they wouldn’t I scrape out my identity in the cracks of films, know about unexpected graves any more and chip at it with my pens. i wait for a semthan i know about finding paths that don’t blance of emotion to shift the needle on my lead to dead ends. compass. sometimes, fissures open unexsomeone raises their hand. their eyes flicker with new understanding, signalling to me that they have done what i could not. they have stuck the scraps of paper into something resembling a journey: a single train track, roads twisting and tumbling off a page torn from a map, the step between the cliff’s edge and the emptiness of air.

pectedly beneath me, and i snap and scratch at the walls until i have the strength to pull myself out. I’m not sure what they’re looking for. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. i keep digging my graves, better than anyone else ever could.

ode to us (to the class of 2017) Cynthia Huang

13Y2

we are on the verge of understanding not quite so young but still far from calling growth ‘ageing’ we travel in currents of mishaps and flurries of misunderstandings occasional melancholic sighs flighty kaleidoscope dreaming we speak in maybes and what-ifs not understanding what the bigger picture is just that we’re not too bad (it takes skill to drive five heads of years mad) we thrive in the familiar indecency of the common room dry humps test scores gaming endless complaining rebel for the sake of rebelling skive for the sake of living we are the wild the reckless the restless the spirited the jaded the obscene and now— we are on the brink of becoming somebodies.

Dog and Boy Ethan Lau 41

8R2

SCRIBBLES.CIS on SPOTIFY open.spotify.com/user/scribbles.cis

01 Escape (Piña Colada Song) – Rupert Holmes 02 Uptown Girl – Billy Joel 03 Brown Eyed Girl – Van Morrison 04 House of the Rising Sun – The Animals 05 Polaroid – Imagine Dragons 06 Cleopatra – The Lumineers 07 Human – Rag’n’Bone Man 08 Tiny Dancer – Elton John 09 We Don’t Eat – James Vincent McMorrow 10 The Middle of the World – Nicholas Britell 11

Belle of the Boulevard – Dashboard Confessional

In the Blood – John Mayer

Rey’s Theme – John Williams

14 Growing Up (ft. Ed Sheeran) – Macklemore & Ryan Lewis 15

Stay Alive – José González

16 Mowgli Wins the Race – John Debney

What a treacherous thing, to believe that a person is more than a person. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;John Green, Paper Towns

Made possible by the English and Art departments Printed on 100% recycled paper

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