Scribbles: Issue 1 by Scribbles

scribbles

issue one

contents write The Wailing Story of Men in a Bar

The Attic

Despite the Scorn

On the Ledge by the Water

Dreamcatcher, Part 1

Hello Again, Neighbour

The Lionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Requiem

Wake

Paper Airplanes

After the Gingerbread Man

draw The Phoenix

The Ghost

Dancers

Project Eye

laugh

Bunny Love

Story of Lonely Flea

The Curious Demeanor of Squeak

Hoot

The Incredible Bungee Jumping Sam

Furry Tales

Terrorist Hunter

Chubbie Bunneh

who’s scribbling Editor in Chief Kenneth Lee

a note about Scribbles As the editor of Scribbles I am obliged to make a few notes about its existence, given that I did not actually write anything else in here. Scribbles will never be something big, like Xiao Hua, and will never have the endorsements and praise from our headmasters and teachers. It started way back in 2008 - an era when Dr. Drake still ruled and school bags weren’t regarded as roadside terrorist bombs. Many years of literally procrastinating our way with former teacher Mr. Tyzack (who left last year) and former CIS student Ryan Voon (the original visionary behind Scribbles who abandoned us later) have made Scribbles vanish into sparkly vapor. For years Scribbles remained something at the very bottom of our to do lists (with very low priority and certainly no due date), until we had an epiphany that we couldn’t let Scribbles just be this mess that we meddled with in our young lives. So we got our act together and through optimism we causally put together this rather thin booklet of drawings and books. Really, all I’d like you to know is that this was the hard effort of many talented writers and artists. --Kenneth

Head of Art Jade Mallabone Artists Chris Li Madeleine Griffiths Franklin Gu Samuel Tong David Lam Chun Yin Au Justin Cheong Vikki Hui Virginia Hsu Christina Lee Vanessa Cheung Ming Cai Cheung Ethelia Leung Sasha Corr Nicole Wong Oriana Catton Yanna Lee Daryl Lim Head of Writing Yoon Ji Han Writers Oriana Catton Virginia Hsu Sasha Corr May Haung Jade Mallabone Head of Layout Tommy Li Layout Team Kristie Choi Justin Cheng Larry So Administration Team Justin Cheng Bok Wai Yeung

www.scribblesmagazine.tk

4 Madeleine Griffths

The Wailing Story of Men in a Bar A bar of total despair

“The saddest thing in the world, is loving someone who does not love you”

Anonymous

All around me, I am surrounded by faces I have never seen before, faces I will probably never see again. The door opens, perhaps once every five minutes, and a fresh new face walks in. I sit on the chair, and order a martini, before nestling back into swiveling chair. In small groups, small talk and laughter which sound more like hiccups, or sobs, emerge. Young men, old men, decayed to their raw core, their foundation of pure emotion, as they sob like toddlers, their salty tears running down their drinks. But, I hear nothing. Where have I seen your face before, was it the bar in another bus-stop? Or the cafe next to the restaurant? I’m sure I recognize that sport pink skirt, and 6the tiny skirt, and the way you twirl your hair round and round like that... Men look down at their tables, glancing forlornly, casting their dull eyes on the floor, at the cool beer glass in front of them. They drown glass after glass, trying to drown away sorrow after sorrow, alcohol the anecdote to their broken hearts, their souls destroyed, lying on the floor.

People, like that girl, next to the TV screen on the right, strutting in, cat walking across the bar, and smiling. They always smile. Enjoying the drinks while flirting with the men, giving men their number, and after receiving lavish presents, shut them down. Have you given a thought while you are sailing your way through the constellations, with rich men lying with you in every different city, that people, like them, actually care? How do you preform your magnificent craft? How do you master the art of love and destruction? Eyes. The men always say the eyes. The eyes. The dark blue eyes which perpetrate such genuine, such kindness, yet innocence. Or your dark brown eyes which bestow such truth, such promises eve while you ,melt them to the ground. Wherever you walk, even the sound of the footsteps against the pavement and the noise of your sneezes are music to their ears. Whoever you walk heads turn, whatever you talk about, as men follow you for your number, your address, your information. Luring them back to your home, drawing them to your bed, with your love song, leaving them helpless before you. With every exhale, infecting their

souls until their sudden revelations of heaven, as they cry “Helen”. Now, riding along the bus home, while you glide along the Milky Way, the leather in the seat next to me is cold as the day outside. Tracing your name through the glass misty windows, fingering a love sign and placing your name within the symbol. Outside stands a man in boots, snow waist high, is breathing heavily in the sky outside. He carries a basket of roses, selling flowers a dollar a piece. Fingering the sticky velvety touch of the rose, the paste sticking on my palm. I extend my arm, giving the rose to the moonlight, but no one is there to take them form my hands. No one is there to appreciate its beauty. So it falls, onto the snow. I walk outside, glancing towards the sky lusting for you to return from your trip form the atmosphere. Even the weather is mourning with me, there is no sunshine when you are gone, and you have been gone for so long.

The Attic Virginia Hsu It was a frigid winter day, a day when your breath formed icicles in your hair and your words froze just as they left your mouth. A pattern of frost decorated the edges of the window panes. I heard the drip, drip, drip of three-day old tea leaking from the spout of a kettle, watching the copper colored droplets beat mercilessly upon the table top, attempting to warm my hands on an unlit stove. Something in the air smelled suspicious. I wrinkled my nose in distaste. The tea leaves were molding, probably, or someone had left it open again – the attic door, that is. The floor boards gave a silent creak as I shifted my weight from the chair to my feet. I never liked the attic. It was dark and musty and littered with cobwebs and ancient trinkets. She had never once swept the place – it was filled to the girders with dust. I hated dust. As I stepped into the attic, the darkness retreated. I peered through the thinness of the air, tracing the outlines of a window and mountains of cloth and feathers. She was a mattressmaker. I wondered absently whether anyone had bought her wares the day before. A troupe of flickering dust danced in a sliver of sunlight at the window. Fairy dust.

I took a deep breath, and exhaled a cloud of fog and mist. I could pay my respects. Or I could wait. With a bit of effort, I dug up a memory of 6 o’clock tea time, and searched vainly for something that would tell me the hour. The attic was missing the familiar tick of the grandfather clock. I would have to wait. There was a click from outside the window, and I leaped to my feet, leaving tracks in the dust as I whirled to the source. A coarse, strained voice struggled out of my throat. “Auntie!!!” I yelled. But when I threw open the windows, I was met by a glowering old woman with creases above her eyebrows and wrinkles below her mouth. “What’cha think yer doing, kid?!” screeched the woman. I ducked below the window sill to avoid the lambasting. And at that moment, I came to the sudden realization that the person I had waited for would not be coming home. I threw myself onto a pile of pillows, letting the dust and down fly up around me. And as I watched the creamy white feathers fall to the ground, I thought about the mattress-maker, and saw her sad smile through the twinkling dust.

7 Franklin Gu

on the ledge by the water

Photo by David Lam

May Huang On the ledge by the water I dangled my feet, Willing the salt wind and air to dispose of me Into the sea where all sounds would subside, Except for those from the dissipating lapsed tides. On the surface I’d spread my limbs and drift on past Strangers on boats looking wholly flabbergast. I’d grin at their gawks and their perplexed widened eyes, Shame they don’t have an imagination like mine. On the beach where the sand is a prairie of gold, I’d sit near the shore and watch the sea as it rolls Back to the ocean goes the white foamed crusted wave, I’d watch it recede wondering why I remain. On the ledge by the water I watched it turn grey, And felt on my head the growing trickle of rain. The waves were so sharp, moving freely and faster, I wish I was back on the ledge by the water.

Dreamcatcher, Part 1 May Huang gain something, you lose somePROLOGUE thing too. I guess I did. Even The first dream of the though I can see Dreams, I’ve night floats silently into the never been able to fall asleep. room. I watch it pass by, the Only until later did I realize wisp curdling slightly, swiftly that other people actually did. shaping, carried by wind and People regarded me as abnorwill. Dreams are magical mal. A freak. Maybe that’s why forces. They appear as wisps of my parents abandoned me. cloud, tinged with color, always They didn’t want a mutant. I drifting along the waves of don’t have memories of home. atmosphere peacefully, someThe only home I know is the times eerily. Dreams know orphanage, and I love it here. all the secrets of your mind, Margaret, the woman who and they behold the power to single-handedly runs the ormake you see things you either phanage, found me as a baby want to see, or don’t. When a and this is where I’ve grown up Dream finds a victim, it will ever since. The rest of the kids approach it, then as it conat the orphanage have grown centrates on the subjects goup with me, so the fact that I ing on inside the mind, it will can see Dreams isn’t something take snippets of the sleeper’s they question. During the memories and send the sleeper night, I chase away approachthose memories, gifting him ing Nightmares that approach with either the dream he’s the children. Because of this, been most looking forward to, I’ve been rendered somewhat or the absolute worst. of a hero among the orphan I can see Dreams, and age, earning the title ‘DreamI see them every day and catcher’. everywhere. I’ve seen Daydreams and Nightdreams, PART 1 pleasant Dreams and terrify A Daydream bobs up ing Dreams. I can change to Sam, my best friend at the Dreams, chase away Dreams, orphanage who is currently talk to dreams… the list goes gawking out the window. It is on. I can do almost anything tinged with Orange, which is with Dreams except for one: I a good thing because Orange cannot enter Dreams. Trapped dreams are usually about food. inside those wisps of clouds The object in the Dream is is another world, a powerful broccoli, Sam’s most dreaded force that I cannot cross the vegetable -- this is bad. I frown, threshold of, a world that I and focusing on the Dream, have always sensed, yet never think of a nice, hot bowl of explored. chicken soup. The Dream Some say that when you changes at once, and the veg-

etable inside it morphs into the steaming bowl of soup. I smile to myself as I see Sam’s expression lightening. He’s always thinking about food. I stare at Sam until he comes out of his reverie. He sees me looking at him and I grin. Sam sighs. “You saw that, didn’t you?” he asks. “Of course,” I say. Sam grumbles. “I hate how you always know what I’m dreaming about.” It’s a lovely day, and the sun is streaming into the orphanage through the window, bathing the old and creaking floors in a lovely warm glow. “...And there’s a new kid coming tomorrow,” Sam was saying. This catches my attention, and I feel a surge of excitement that disappears as quickly as it came. There hadn’t been a new kid in the orphanage for two years already, but I am suddenly struck with a worried thought – the kids here are already used to what I am, but what if the new one will be scared of me? What if he finds my ability to see Dreams unreal, and becomes scared? I am silent for a while. Sam, noticing my muteness, pats my hand reassuringly. “It’ll be fine,” he says matter-of-factly, with a sympathetic look in his eyes. I smile wearily back, wishing I could to believe him.

Art by Chris Li

Hello Again, Neighbor Virginia Hsu I smelled an apple pie yesterday. It was a bitter-sweet smell. I wonder how much sugar and how many apples were sacrificed… Do you remember last summer? Chasing bluebirds by day, and fireflies by night. The tall grass nearly grew above my waist and yours. I wondered how it grew so well; under the sun, it looked like they would shrivel up, like pieces of paper crumpling under the wind. And the rain, cool and sweet. Sometimes, the fierce sunlight was interrupted by gentle drizzle. I would stick my tongue out to have a taste, but you always caught the droplet first. Neighbors are really peculiar things. They’re here one day, and gone the next. When I tasted that apple pie yesterday, I didn’t taste any sugar or apples. I tasted summer rain. It was bitter-sweet.

The Lion’s Requiem, Part 1 Yoon Ji Han about this, remember?” They came with the storm. They always did. I look up from the tangle of nets I hold in my hands. The sky above the Spratly Islands is colourless as always, an artist’s canvas left unpainted. It has always been gloomy like this, ever since I can remember. Sometimes I wonder, though, if there was once a time when the sky was a beautiful colour, as if a million pearls were sewn onto a vast tapestry hung over the earth, reflecting the rare sunlight in a hundred different shades.

“Yeah, but it doesn’t make sense!” Mai’s lip wobbled. “Someone can’t just stop living! Especially someone like mama.” “Mai...” “I mean, just because you’re already sixteen doesn’t mean you know everything.” She cut me off without letting me finish. I let out an exasperated sigh. “Mama is...”

I stand there, watching the darkening sky, and remember the argument I had with Mai an hour ago. “But Ly, I want to go find mama.” I sighed. “Mai,” I murmur, “Mama isn’t here anymore. I’ve already explained it to you a thousand times by now. You don’t even remember how she looks.”

“Maybe she’s still alive, and we don’t know it! She probably sent out all those messages in bottles, but they never reached us. Or...” “Mai! Listen just this once!” I yelled before I can hold back my temper. “She’s dead, okay? Dead. She’s somewhere up there, and you won’t see her for a long time.” I stabbed my finger toward the heavens.

Mai crossed her skinny arms— too skinny for a child of seven years old—and shook her head, sending her short black locks in a frenzied dance. “No. Mama is somewhere, waiting for us. Stop lying!” “Listen,” I said, trying to push down the irritation I felt at having to constantly tell my little sister that mama is dead, something that I try to forget every single day. “We already talked

Her dark eyes filled with tears as she whispered, “Well I’m gonna go look for her, Ly. I know she’s somewhere out there! Maybe the scary Chinese men with guns took her and right now she’s in some mysterious place... We could rescue her!” Her tears vanished as she exclaimed, “I know, I’ll go find a ship, or maybe even one of those planes that will take us to her. You can help me, and we’ll

all be together again! Me and you, we can go on a boat, a big one, and we’ll float across the water until we find mama. I’ll go look for a boat now!” “Mai!” Without letting me finish, she ran out of the wooden hut. Rage clouding my mind, I grabbed my fishing pole and stormed my way to the sea. I am startled out of the memory when suddenly, the sky darkens and roils, as if an unknown god above has spilled a can of shadows into the world. The first drop of rain falls, and with it, come the Raptors. The engines roar, the propellers whir… and the bombs start to fall. Without another thought, I drop the nets, leaving the entangled fish thrashing in the salty sea. I know the drill. The war has taught me how to survive. I run across the shallow water, fighting the hungry sea that is intent on keeping me in its embrace, ignoring the way the rain is making my shirt cling onto my body. I hear the distant shouts of the village people. “The Chinese! They’re here!” “Hurry, hide!” “The Raptors are here!” I also hear screams.

My sister. Mai, I have to get to Mai. That single thought controls my body, lends my legs strength. My bare feet finally touch the hard sand of the coast. The ground shakes for a split second as another bomb explodes, and it’s enough to send me sprawling onto the beach. I immediately pick myself off the ground, spitting out a mouthful of bloody sand, but fall back onto the floor when my ankle screams in pain.

“Mai!” I yell, and it seems as if my life escapes with that one word. The hut is ruined, totally beyond repair. I force my feet to move, and I stagger to the ruin that was once my home.

“Look, if you don’t want to get caught or blown to bits, you’re going to have to come with me.” I see a tan figure staring down at me. Not a Chinese soldier…a Vietnamese boy. I take in his tall A broken pencil. A burning flower. frame, the plain white shirt with The hook of my fishing pole that ash sprinkled over it, and the jeans Mai gave me for my last birthday. full of holes and hanging threads. I throw sticks and other things A familiar face, though I don’t out of the way until I find the know where I’ve seen him before. trapdoor. I pull it open, adrenaline lending me strength beyond The boy grabs my arm and pulls Mai. Gritting my teeth, I stand my own. I peer into the darkness, me up. “We have to go. Now.” up and start running again until I desperately wishing to see the I glare back at him and shake off reach the village. I can only hope frail, shivering figure of Mai. And his hand. “I don’t know who you that she is back in the cottage, find no one. I stand up and start are, but my sister’s out there somesafely hidden in the underground to dig through the ruin. She can’t where! Keep your hand off me.” I shelter I dug a while ago. be gone. She’s here, somewhere. turn around to go look for Mai. “Mai!” I yell, but my voice is lost Maybe she’s at the dock. No, that The world around me is a blur. in the screams of the people and can’t be right... I just passed the I hear him groan. “Look…” the bellows of the bombs. “Mai! dock, empty. She needs me. I need I feel his fingers wrap around my Where are you? Mai!” her. I stand there, while another arm. My heart is a steady drumbeat explosion goes off in the distance, as it pounds in my ear. I push and screams echo through the air. “I told you to keep your hand off through the tumult of panicking I pick up the rag doll that Mai me!” people, screaming her name over always plays with. It sags in my and over again. I see Tong, one hand, and I let out a bitter sob. Whirling around, I swing my fist of the friendly neighbours who Everything is numb. into his face. I feel the satisfying take pity on Mai and me and give temporary jarring of my bones. us some of the leftover fruit they “Mai.” The whispered name is the He doesn’t cry out, or even seem harvest, but the sight I see isn’t a only thing I can think of. I turn to be mad. Just rubs his cheek with welcome one. He is sprawled over around. She’s alive, safe and alive, a surprised expression. one of his fruit carts, broken like a somewhere. Maybe she’s in the rag doll, with eyes staring blankly village, and I didn’t see her. There Can’t waste time. I begin to head at the sky as if he is lost in a are so many people, I probably off in the other direction. Where’s daydream. The sky weeps for him missed her on the way here. I need Mai? and drapes his lifeless body with a to find her, need to protect her. blanket of its tears. But what if she’s not there? What A sudden explosion. Without if she’s lying on the floor someanother word, he grabs my wrist Mai. where, bloodied and... I shake my from behind and begins to start head and start running toward the running, pulling me with him. I My feet automatically start to village. She has to be there... She fall, my ankle twisted in an awkmove, bringing me closer to our has to be alive. ward position. I don’t cry out. little hut in the fringes of the vilAll feeling is gone now. Darkness lage. The sound of my footsteps in A firm hand on my shoulder stops washes over me, and I embrace it. harmony with the pitter-pattering me. I turn around, ready to fight, Silence. of raindrops creates a gloomy ignoring the sorrow wrenching my dirge: the song of the dead. heart. END OF PART ONE

15 Yanna Lee

Wake Wake Yoon-Ji Han Your finger twitches ever so slightly in your sleep, flicking away the nightmares that haunt you. You toss and turn, but settle down at my touch. Your chest rises and falls, as steady as dewdrops dripping from a potted plant. I hold your hand in mine, so rough yet slender and fitting so perfectly in mine. I grin at the memories, those memories of hardship and happiness. A tear rolls down my cheek as I remember the mistake that destroyed. The cloying smell of your detergent I breathe in. The gentle roundness of your cheeks I caress. The lips I kiss. The rustling of the sheets soothe me as you turn over to lay on your side. The soft murmurs bring a small smile as you dream about me, you, and us. And then I remember that this is the past, just a dream; you're not there. You've walked away and left me, alone.

Art by Jade Mallabone

Paper Airplanes Oriana Catton I was the girl, in class That nobody cared for, or looked at. Then there was you, You never flaunted, But you were the guy that Everybody wanted. I crushed on you for so long, Wrote about you In every single song. You were out of my league, Who knew you would like A girl like me… Chorus Started with a, paper airplane, Flyin’ across the room And hit me on the back of my head. I turned around, And picked the paper up, To see that inside it read: Hey there, you’re beautiful, Both inside and out. And I was wonderin’ If I could take you out… Woah. Woah. Nobody thought you would Go for a girl who was As useless as deadwood. They said “you could do So much better” You said “I’ve never met Anyone like her” Chorus It was a, paper airplane, Flyin’ across the room And hit me on the back of my head. Turned around, And picked the paper up, To see that inside it read: Hey there, you’re beautiful, Both inside and out. And I was wonderin’ If I could take you out…

Art by Christina Lee

Bridge Guess that it was always meant to be. Who knew it would come so easily? The sweetest thing, And it happened to me… Chorus It was a, paper airplane, Flyin’ across the room It hit me on the back of my head. I turned around, And picked the paper up, To see that inside it read: Hey there, you’re beautiful, Both inside and out. And I was wonderin’ If I could take you out… Yeah it was a, paper airplane. Just a, paper airplane. Woah a paper airplane Flew across the room Hit me on the back of my head…

Art by Madeline Griffths

After the Gingerbread Man

starring Peter the random girl, the gingerbread man, Sasha the author, and the author's friend

Sasha Corr “Hi,” said the gingerbread man. “Hi,” said a random girl called Peter. “Hi,” said the gingerbread man. “Hi,” said Peter. “Can we stop doing this now?” said the gingerbread man. “What?” said Peter. “Nothing,” said the gingerbread man. Then there was an awkward silence. Then the author's friend said, “Dun, dun, dun. Hey! I did not say ‘dun, dun, dun’! Oh darn it, I just did.” “You know, the English teachers are gonna get angry because we didn’t use a variety of ‘said’ words, instead of said,” Peter said. “See?” “Yeah, I see what you mean. You should ask the author. Hope she’s in a good mood, or else...” said the gingerbread man. At that moment, lightning decided to flash randomly across the sunny sky. Peter went out. Violent noises came from down the hall, near the publishing suite. After five ye- da-minutes she came back, headless. “Bad mood?” said the gingerbread man. Peter made a little wiggling movement with her neck. “Yeah.” “OMG, the bodiless voices are out to get me!!!! Help! Help! Help!” said the ginger-

bread man. “I have a body, it’s a head I’m missing.” “Oh... Hey, how do you do that? “Do what?” “Talk without a head?” “I dunno.” The author’s friend finally caught up on the conversation and fumed, “What are violent noises? There is no such thing a violent noises! What are you getting at Sasha?” “You know what? I don’t care! No, scratch that, I really times a kajillon don’t care!” The author proceeded into rant. “We should stop before she bores her readers to death. I mean, she’s done it before, let’s not make it 5,301.” said Peter. “She’s bored 5,300 people to death?” “Nah, I pulled that number out of my hat.” “You are headless, you don’t have a hat.” “Oh.” The gingerbread man and Peter went into the room across the hall. “OMG! More headless people!!!” “No, that’s the art/Scribbles room. Here’s the torture chamber!” They opened the door... *gasp* To be continued...

Christine Ho

24 Vikki Hui

Nicole Wong

cover by Tommy Li