The Scribbler

INSERT TITLE PHOTO HERE

Issue # 1, Summer 2012

For Sebastian Melmoth

The Scribbler # 1 (Summer, 2012) is a publication of the Creative Writing Workshop of Darrick Wood School, Lovibonds Avenue, Orpington, Kent, BR6 8ER. Contents copyright 2012 by the respective authors of each work. All rights reserved.

Edited by D. C. Caudle.

Cover: Andrew Johnson

Thank you to Mrs. Barbara Rhymaun, Head Teacher, and Mr. Alain Cozens, DWS Gifted and Talented Coordinator, for their support of this publication.

CONTENTS

Foreword / 5

The Paintings On The Wall Will All Remain

by Cassie Parkes / 6

On The Pleasures Of Staying Indoors

by Alex Malcolm / 8

Jujube & The Chicken

by DC / 14

The Memoirs Of Clarence Oakes

by Cassie Parkes / 23

Emily Dickinson Refuses To Title Her Poems

by Andrew Johnson & Cassie Parkes / 42

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Author Cassie Parkes on her first day of Cowboy Camp

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Foreword

Firstly we must thank Darrick Wood School for giving us the time, resources and support necessary to create this publication. Being a Sixth Former is not exactly easy. There are innumerable pressures bearing down us. A lot of these pressures are inextricably intertwined with one looming and frightening question: what are we going to do with our lives? One thing we are certain of is that, no matter what else the future has store in for us, we will be writers.

In fact we are not waiting for some far away day to fulfil our ambitions; we‟ve already started. We are writers. Our future is now. For some of us writing is more than just English Literature essays or personal statements for university. It is who we are. We do not know how to live any differently. We write even when there is no teacher telling us to do it. Anyway, we sincerely hope the immense pleasure we had in making this first issue of „The Scribbler‟ will somehow be transferred into your experience of reading it.

If you like anything you read and want to share your appreciation, or send any general comments or (polite) criticism our way, don‟t hesitate to contact us at writescribbler@gmail.com

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The Paintings on the Wall Will All Remain

by Cassie Parkes The day began with a blending of crimson. The silence scared me; it signaled the dawn. I stood beside the men, my guilt rising. I was an outsider, a coward, a shirker. They all knew it and they hated me.

My talents just simply lay elsewhere, you see. (I'm afraid my definition seems rather insensitive, apologies. The ability to kill is not a talent.) They could all fight our foes to death. All I could do was stand and watch. It was what I had been hired for.

My paintbrushes were my weapons; pathetic, I know. But it was all that I could do. They hired me as I was back then. As an artist, a young drawer and painter. To stand beside the real fighters, the soldiers. I was to paint them as they were. They needed paintings for lots of pointless reasons. I don't know why, I never bothered listening. Their words became drowned within my own thoughts. I imagined the terrors I would see there. I was rather accurate in my own ideas. But the blood didn't keep me awake, no! Nor did the screams, the cries for help. The physical horrors affected me far less, there. Truthfully, what really haunted me was the guilt.

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Every night I would ask the same questions. Why did they choose me for this task? Why have I been spared from it all?

I was not special or unique, you see. That's why I couldn't understand any of it! Any other artist could have done my job. But whilst I was free, other innocents died.

A stroke of scarlet was their only tribute. Perhaps a dab of maroon, just to see. Art is supposed to bring things to life. I tried so desperately to make them immortal. Lord, how damned pretentious I was back then!

But when the war finally ended, I snapped. I looked at my artwork and hated myself. So I tore down the splattered, unworthy canvases. I ripped out all of the sketchbook pages. I made a pile; a tower of art. I threw a match upon it, crying out. It set ablaze, and I watched with joy.

Finally, I could be free of the mess. I could cleanse myself; block it all out.

I watched my work wither into mere ash. I thought I could finally forget it all.

But the smoke always chokes me, reminding me.

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On the Pleasures of Staying Indoors words by Alex Malcolm pictures by Andrew Johnson

I don‟t understand why I have to go outside. What is going on outside that is so amazing? It‟s cold outside. Cold, wet and miserable.

We‟re in Britain. Why would I make myself miserable? I don‟t see the appeal of going outside at all, and you know what aggravates me most? When people look down on you because you don‟t want to go outside! Who asked for their opinion? No one. Definitely not me. So . . . Keep yo‟ big nose and unwanted words to yourself.

Now, my own house: that is an amazing place. So many things. All of the things. I can do what I like with them. I can sit at my desk with my spinning chair and my computer and browse the internet; or go to YouTube and watch videos about video games and then before I know it I find myself, hours later, sitting and staring at videos of cats with massive eyes. During this time, I can also stay nice and warm and dry. Yay.

I don‟t know if you have ever watched someone play a video game but when they get into it (and I mean, really quite into it) they begin to move. Look at my mum who is an avid fan of Super Mario

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and frequently abuses the poor mustached plumber by screaming, “You stupid fat plumber”, whenever he seemingly gets a mind of his own. I refrain from reminding her that she is the one holding the controller. Anyway, whenever she is playing and she wants Mario to jump, she physically lifts from her seat. It is like she is Mario for a split second. It is the weirdest thing but I do it too, so I can‟t comment really, and I can guarantee anyone else who plays games does it as well.

One of my favourite games is Assassins Creed. I adore this game.

You have no idea, reader. I have cried over this game. I received the first game for Christmas one year after mentioning to my parents how interesting the plot seemed; it was old and had the word „assassin‟ in it so I was totally there, suckered in completely. But the beautiful round disc had something extra in store, a hidden gem. Shall I explain? I‟ll explain.

Throughout the game, you play as two characters from the past. In the first section of the game, which is set in the Crusades, you play as the arrogant assassin, Altair, who is stripped of his rank as Master and forced to work his way back up the ranks from novice after his attitude gets him into trouble with the evil, bald Templar, Robert de Sable.

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This scary looking guy right here:

While running around, dressed in white, blending with monks and murdering evil Templar types, you are suddenly interrupted and transported into the not too too distant future where you find out who you really are: Desmond Miles, a run of the mill bartender who has been kidnapped by a nefarious Templar affiliated agency called Abstergo (which means to dispel or clean away in Latin). I‟ll stop about here so I don‟t spoil the plot too much but if that wasn‟t

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enough to tickle your fancy . . . well you have no soul. Look, let‟s move on before I cry and you completely write me off as nothing more than a weird and deranged fan girl.

Besides, playing video games isn‟t the only thing I enjoy doing!

Nope. I am also partial to a gander on the internet. I recently joined the website Tumblr after being badgered by several friends (the same ones who bash my amazing taste in films) into signing up.

The site . . . Well, let‟s be honest: it‟s utterly pointless. But that‟s the charm of Tumblr. It is a site specifically made for procrastination and venting your rage. Lots of kittens there as well (are you picking up on the kitten obsession?). Luckily, I somehow managed to avoid getting Tumblr fever and am not that obsessed but instead merely check it every couple of hours just like I would Youtube, Facebook and deviantArt.

There is another thing I like to do on the weekend or when it‟s 11 o‟clock and I refuse to go to bed because I‟m not tired. I like to watch films. Suddenly the reasoning behind my choosing Film Studies is clear, right? Wrong. I wonder why I chose the subject every single day when I sit in class and listen to the buffs talking about all these older films I‟ve never heard of—let alone seen! I am a child of the modern age. So shoot me for liking vibrant colours and explosions. Those things push my buttons; “Rosebud” doesn‟t.

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But I could turn this around and ask what makes films such as The Graduate, made in 1967 and directed by Mike Nichols (according to Wikipedia), better than films I love such as National Treasure which was made in 2004 and was directed by Jon Turteltaub and produced by Jerry Bruckheimer. I know I shouldn‟t compare these two films but if you talk bad about the amazing acting skills of Nicholas Cage, I will rip on Dustin Hoffman and his overrated performance as Benjamin Braddock in Nichols‟ Artist’s rendering of Sean Bean

intellectually inert and over-stylized

exercise in mental masturbation. But I can also tell you who beats even Nicholas Cage in National Treasure: Sean Bean in National Treasure.

This guy has been in several other amazing films such as Troy and Lord of the Rings. And he has also been in shows such as Sharpe (which I am somewhat embarrassed to admit liking because my dad also happens to be a huge fan). In each of these films and shows, he has played a complete badass. Your argument? Invalid.

If there‟s one film I love more than National Treasure it is Crank (2006). Not many people seem to know this film. No idea why

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because it is incredible. I sat through the entire thing, unable to look away in fear of missing the next idiotic yet amazing stunt. The plot of Crank is that a hit man, played by Jason (the Stath) Statham, is drugged by his enemy and he has to keep his adrenaline pumping or else . . . he dies. I can‟t see any flaws in that plot. Nor do I want to. When I saw Mr. Statham‟s name on the DVD, I knew exactly what I was going to get: a badass running around dodging explosions with a tiny bit of fan service because he removes his shirt all the time . . .

I think I have proved my point, and I‟ll leave you with that.

Jason Statham Loves Me

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Andrew Johnson

Jujube and the Chicken

by DC “Leave me alone,” I say.

“Julian, please,” she says.

I ignore her, keeping my attention fixed on the television screen, my fingers dancing across the buttons on the PS3 controller. She‟s distracting me from the very important task I have ahead of me: cleansing the graveyard at Coot‟s Chapel of its cantankerous and bloodthirsty zombies.

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“Julian, please.”

“GRRHHHH!” an irate zombie answers. A second later its head bursts into messy bits of goo from the blast of my blunderbuss.

“Julian . . .” Her voice has a pleading, mournful tone. Despair.

She‟s full of despair and now on the verge of wilting in pathetic defeat. A broken woman. At least this is the impression she intends to project, hoping to rouse my guilt and shame. Unfortunately, even though I recognize it for the ruse it is, my cold heart begins to thaw. She is my mother after all.

I pause the game. “Mum, don‟t make me do this,” I say with what I hope is a sufficiently pitiful expression.

She senses an advantage but immediately blunders. “Julian, your father feel--” “He‟s not my father!”

Raising her hands with a submissive mea culpa gesture, “Stepfather, stepfather. I meant stepfather.”

The game beckons and I resume play. All of the zombies suddenly have the same face: his. I take great gleeful joy in blowing them to kingdom come.

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“Julian.”

“I‟m busy here, mum.”

“He feels like you don‟t like him.”

“He‟s right.”

“Do it for me.”

Why oh why did she marry this man? I flash back to the time when they first started going out, the night my brother taped a note to the windshield of his car. “Bye, bye William. Don‟t come back.” A message which he unfortunately took no notice of. Now, three years later my brother is gone and I am trapped here alone with them.

“Please, for me, jujube.”

Ugh. Not with the pet names. I can‟t believe she would actually stoop to this level. If she thinks she can get me with this kind of pandering she‟s dead wrong.

“Jujube? Are you a buzz buzz jujube?

“Oh, mum.”

“What? You‟re not a good buzz buzz jujube?”

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“No … I am.”

“What are you?”

“I am a good buzz buzz jujube.”

I‟m smiling against my better judgement. It seems she can get me after all with this kind of blatant appeal to my inner four year old. I am her son after all. * If I keep staring into my glass maybe she‟ll give up.

“William, please.”

She‟s not giving up. I suck up another ice cube from the glass and commence crunching with what I hope is my most contemplative air.

“William . . .” Don‟t plead, Susan. It‟s not attractive.

I turn my attention to the television and do my best to behave as if I‟m somehow gripped by tonight‟s edition of 4thought TV. A man is using puppets to explain why hate crimes are very . . . well hateful, and I wear a suitably sombre expression.

“He is your son.”

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“He‟s not my son. He‟s your son. To me he‟s just a step-son,” I gladly remind her.

“He thinks you don‟t like him.”

“He‟s right.”

“Why don‟t you like him?”

“Because.”

“Is that all you can think of to say?”

“Because . . . he didn‟t like me first.”

What‟s that look about? This whole time she‟s been trying to make me feel sorry for her and that little punk. Suddenly she‟s looking at me like I‟m the one who needs the sympathy. I don‟t need this.

What I do need is another drink. You‟d think she‟d see this empty glass and figure that out.

“Please, chicken. You are still my chicken, aren‟t you? Be a chicken and just talk to him.”

Love talk will get you nowhere, woman. These pet names and cooing tones of voice lose their magical power after marriage.

“Be a good chicken. Are you a good chicken?”

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“Yes, I‟m a good chicken.” Damn, I‟m weakening. Oh Hell, I do love her after all. * Look at the two of them. Why on earth have I been punished with boys like these? You would have thought that lovely leather jacket William bought him was a hair shirt for all the stubborn resistance he expressed to wearing it. Of course if William hadn‟t chosen one which was the exact same style and colour as his own, Julian might not resent wearing it so much. I think he did it on purpose just to tick Julian off. These are the kind of childish games I have to put up with. Well, here they are on opposite sides of the room: the kid, in his new jacket, staring at his feet, and the other one, wearing that ridiculous monogrammed dressing gown he insisted on ordering from the Boden catalogue, staring at the television. I bet if I just stood here and said nothing for the rest of the evening, neither one of them would ever budge. They‟d wait it out. That‟s what men and boys (is there any difference?) do. They wait things out in stony silence until a woman comes in and forces them to pretend they‟re actual human beings.

Well here goes: “Doesn‟t Julian look nice in his jacket?”

Nothing.

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“William?”

“Harrumph.” Was that an acknowledgment? Let‟s pretend it was.

“William, I said doesn‟t Julian look sharp in that new jacket you picked out for him?”

“I guess so.”

And back to silence. Yes, that‟s fine. Let‟s just all sit in here in abject silence watching Embarrassing Bodies or whatever other exploitative programming Channel 4 has in store because that is what modern families do. We occupy shared space but separate lives.

Crunch! For God‟s sake if he doesn‟t stop with that ice I‟m going to murder him in his sleep. (Look what they are turning me into!) I know he wants another drink, but he can bloody well ask me for it, politely I might add. I‟m neither mind reader nor servant.

“William hun, another drink?” Jesus, I am weak sometimes.

Instead of answering me he merely holds up the empty glass and lazily extends it in my general direction, as if he expects me to come fetch it before he lets it slip from his fingers and crash to the floor. I go over, take the glass, and give him a very meaningful stare. He‟s pretending his attention is solely focused on the gro-

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tesque genital growth an unhappy patient is just at that moment showing one of the doctors on screen, but I know he knows exactly what I‟m doing and why I‟m doing it. Fine, I‟ll make your drink, mister. Just pray I don‟t add anything special to it like . . . say . . . rat poison.

“Do you really . . . like it?”

What the Hell was that? Did he just speak to my son? And directly too, without me as a mediator? When was the last time that happened? Oh my God, he not only spoke to him, he‟s actually looking at him too. Deep down he‟s good man after all.

Julian continues staring down at his socks. Come on kid, your turn.

Just answer him back. Anything will do. Just some acknowledgment that the two of you occupy the same Planet Earth.

Oh, he‟s losing interest. He‟s turning back to Embarrassing Bodies.

Come on Julian, stop him. Arrest his attention with a few meagre words of conversation. Make us a family.

“Yeah, it‟s pretty nice.”

Hallelujah!

“Well, I‟m glad you like it.”

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All of this emotion seems to be making my son ill. He‟s clutching at this throat and slightly heaving as if he is trying to cough up a hair ball. What comes out instead are words I never thought I would hear him say, not to William at least: “Yeah . . . well . . . thank you.”

Now William looks like he‟s the one who might need medical attention. “Don‟t . . . mention it.”

And like that the boy rushes back up the stairs, and William returns to this evening‟s slate of trash TV. This I believe is what they call progress.

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The Memoirs of Clarence Oakes

by Cassie Parkes I do so hate it when ugly people try to be pretty. Surely you know the type? The horse-faced harlots who think that they can drape themselves over a fur pelt and suddenly become gorgeous, that their spots and scars will instantly fade and that their yellowing teeth will somehow gleam with a snow-like beauty. But in reality, they‟re simply an ugly blob stretched over a dead animal.

It is a portraitist‟s greatest predicament: how to make those not blessed by Heaven in matters of allurement look less like a boar and more like a deity? I‟m less an artist than a charlatan, at heart. I paint deception with swift brush strokes of chicanery. But my clients are happy in the end, so why should it matter? I hand over a canvas of little more than lies and they give me a wide (and often toothless) grin and then pay me moronic amounts of money for my services. My work is far kinder than any mirror could ever be, and I believe that earns me the right to relax with a glass of red Mouton Rothschild Beaujolais 1875 after a day‟s work. (I don‟t offer this to any of my clients, you must understand. They‟re given something from the back, a glass of vin de merde.)

What has forced me to finally commit these words to ink and

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paper, you ask? I would like to emphasise that it is me writing them. I refuse to pay some struggling young hack to scrawl down my words as I dictate them, or, even worse, hire someone else to create them entirely. I shudder at the thought! No, only I know myself properly, even though others may erroneously make that claim.

However, I feel as if my life may be in grave danger, and I wish to scrawl down what I can of my life before it is ripped from me.

Even now, my mind is possessed with the gruesome image of blood seeping into ink as my cold head droops against this paper. I picture a tall figure standing behind me, gun smoke wafting lazily around us both.

Shuddering is such an ugly habit.

Fluttering back to matters of myself, for the most part, I do realise that I am indeed a talented and extremely articulate young man.

But doubt occasionally gnaws at my mind until I start to believe the bitter voices within it. I am not mad, nor depressed; I am simply a highly protean being.

Yesterday began well, with a routine „cleaning upâ€&#x; of a subject who was slumped over my chaise-lounge. Painting has always been with me, you see. Upon my desk is an unfinished novel, a violin which I have never learned to play, and a small book which

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identifies Common British Garden Birds (a dark part of my past indeed). All junk. But my canvases have always been on display; my sketches have always flowed easily.

No sooner had one ugly client waddled out of my home, then had Edgar Blakes, an acquaintance of mine, sauntered in. Ugh. The doe -eyed little flirt was back. He stretched himself over my armchair, lit a cigarette and began to whine in his usual manner. “Clarence, when are you going to paint me?” he sulked.

I sighed gently, sliding an ashtray over to him with a grunt. There were already embers on my carpet. I twitched, before answering his dull question. “Edgar, I‟ve told you, I refuse to paint anyone for free.”

“What about that Clyde Mitchell lad that was round here last week?”

“He paid me in a…different manner.”

Edgar rolled his eyes at me and then placed his feet upon my side table, scuffing the varnish as he did so.

I winced. He grinned.

I continued to sketch the fruit bowl of which I had been working on, and Edgar peered across to look at my paper. He reached out

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Cassie

He stretched himself over my armchair, lit a cigarette and began to whine in his usual manner. “Clarence, when are you going to paint me?� he sulked.

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and swiped an apple from the bowl, took a greedy bite and proceeded to gawk at me with a mouth stuffed full of fruit. Slamming my sketchbook against the table, I fixed him with my most fearsome stare. He gulped and stared back with wide eyes.

“What?” he asked.

“You have ruined my light! The whole sketch is useless now!”

“Oh. It was looking rather rough anyway…”

“Get. Out.” Seething, I began to roll up my sleeves. I am no ruffian, but one must be firm in matters of the limpet that is Edgar Blakes. He simply smiled and reached out to kiss my hand. When I quickly withdrew it before his lips could make contact, he merely gave me a little wave and then darted out the door. Graceless bastard.

Perhaps, by this point, you are shocked by my honesty? Or maybe you are reading this in some distant future where nothing is deemed shocking anymore? Such a concept both excites and terrifies me. I wonder how long these memoirs will survive the test of time. Possibly, Reader, you found my words in a museum or a library, if either of these things still exists. Or maybe they were merely found stuffed down in a ditch somewhere. Either way, thoughts of fame creep into my mind.

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After Edgar had fled with his tail between his legs, I sighed and began to clean. I cannot work with mess; it is horribly distracting.

Stray paintbrushes and ashtrays make me twitch if I cannot tidy them.

I was in the process of stacking my sketchbooks when there was a knock at the door. Without thinking, I shouted: “Edgar, bugger off! I‟m busy.” However, I was answered by an unfamiliar and somewhat strangled sounding “Harrumph!” alerting me that I had just insulted a complete stranger. I blushed instantly, dusting my hands on a handkerchief, before scuttling to the door.

I opened it slowly and peered at the stranger who stood opposite me. He wore a long greying coat and a rough woollen scarf that was wrapped so tightly around his neck that it appeared to choke him. I looked upwards. It was a rather sunny evening. Hmm. He was frowning, but his eyes were a peculiarly soft shade of blue. All in all, he looked very strange.

“Can I help you?” I asked, aware that I was half-hiding behind my front door.

“Are you Mr Clarence Oakes?” Oh, what a rough, resolute voice he had!

“I am,” I said, slinking ever further behind the safety of my door.

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“May I come in? I wish to discuss some business with you.”

I resisted the urge to ask him if he was contractually obliged to come in, but I instead opened my door for him. Something about him made me fearful, perhaps those light blue milky eyes of his, or his ill-fitting fashion tastes. Nevertheless being a man of a good upbringing and a generally kind heart, I simply had to let him in if there was business to be done. Besides, he was hardly the ugliest man who had ever graced my home.

I took his hat and coat and rested them gently upon the stand by my door. They were not the highest of qualities, but I had seen shabbier. I lead him to my living room, and gestured to my lumpiest sofa, before I sat opposite him, watching him closely as he removed his scarf. He had a pretty throat despite his stubbly chin; that I certainly could not deny him. It was long and shapely, and it swept down to his prominent collarbones that moved ever so slightly when he breathed. He would have been an attractive man, had he not been so odd.

“Let me take that too, Mister…” I asked, taking his heavy scarf from him as I tried to wrangle out a name.

“Oh. Yes. Haddington. Rupert Haddington,” he said, sinking

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somewhat into my sofa. He crossed his hands in his lap. Long fingers. Slender. Still, a very peculiar man. He appeared to be shaking slightly.

I stared at him, my eyes flickering over the lines of his face. I realised then for the first time how pale he was. The man appeared ill.

He looked over to one of my in-progress commissions. It was of a particularly ugly Duke. Embarrassed, I leapt up quickly to cover it, rambling as I went: “Anyone who tells you that beauty is subjective is most likely ugly as sin, Mr Haddington.”

As I returned to my seat, I noticed how his mouth began quivering slightly as if he were trying (quite unsuccessfully) to smile. Thin lips. Soft red colour. But still he unnerved me. I tapped my fingers along the arm of my sofa, waiting for the man to explain why on earth he was here. He said nothing, but coughed convulsively several times, holding his sides. The man really was ill! I prayed that it was not contagious.

There were a few moments of lingering silence in which Haddington stared off into the distance, before I simply had to break the stillness: “Are you here for a portrait? I‟ll have to fetch my schedule, if so…”

He appeared to snap back into reality then. “Not exactly,” he re-

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plied, and my veins filled with ice when he lifted his shirt to reveal a crudely bandaged wound, one so deep that blood was still seeping through his chest to the coarse fabric of the bandages. I gasped at the grotesqueness of the thing, although it didn‟t prevent me from making a special note of his rather toned abdomen. Before I could pull myself together enough to ask what had happened, Mr Rupert Haddington collapsed face-first onto my floor, slowly leaking blood all over my rug. I sighed. My housekeeper was out shopping. I would have to clean this up myself. ***************** He made a monstrous noise when he finally awoke. It was a choking, strangling sound that erupted from his throat. I sniffed, shifting in the chair that I had placed by his bedside. He looked at me with squinting, bloodshot eyes. I missed those soft blue tones of his. Still, I handed him a glass of water. He took it shakily, and I sighed, muttering: “The doctor has been.”

He tried to speak, but was still too weak and ended up letting out a small cry of pain. I shushed him gently, telling him to rest for the moment. Part of me wished I could simply grab him, shake him, and demand that he give me some answers. However, if the truth must be known, I also pitied him. All of his gruffness had been stripped away, and he now lay in my bed a weak and dishevelled

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man. I placed my hand on his forehead, pushing away some stray hairs which had become stuck to his skin with hot sweat. I restrained from wincing, simply drying my hands on my handkerchief quickly after. Oh, the horrors of nursing!

Still weak, he drifted in and out of consciousness, muttering painfully as he twitched and groaned. Eventually he fell back to sleep, making small snoring noises as his head flopped limply against my crimson pillows. How dull caring for another is! Rising with a sigh, I made my way over to the window and inspected the twilight scene before me. Drunkards were crying out profanities.

Hansom cabs clattered briskly over cobblestones, horses snuffing and whinnying as they fought against their reins. Smoke lingered across rooftops, hiding the stars that had just begun to struggle to shine against the grey sky. The same scene that presented itself every evening was once again before me. How boring it all was!

I turned quickly when I heard Haddington stirring; he was tangled messily in my bed sheets, groaning deeply as he managed to gather the strength to sit up. I forced a smile. Unfortunately, I would have to be courteous to him until I had unravelled what had happened. “Would you like some more water?�

He shook his head.

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“How are you feeling?” I persisted.

He shrugged his shoulders.

Oh, it was an ordeal.

I decided to simply give up and speak bluntly, casually lighting myself a cigarette as I spoke. “So, what caused your injuries, Mr Haddington?”

“None of your bloody business…”

I promptly choked, smoke cascading around us both as I wheezed horribly, trying to cough out the fumes which occluded my throat.

“How dare you!” I eventually managed to stutter out. “I could have kicked you out into the gutter, where you rightly belong; yet instead I took you in and nursed you, in my own bed, no less!”

“All right. Fine. I‟ll leave now then,” he replied, shakily standing up.

No, no, this was not the plan! If he left, my curiosities would remain unfulfilled, as would my bed, I noted.

Despite my protestations, Haddington was determined to go and he managed to hobble down to my front door, clutching his sides.

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All of my attempts to prevent his departure were ignored and he left, slamming my door hard behind him. I stood for a moment in perturbed silence. I turned, trailing my fingers over my sofa as I pondered what I was supposed to do now. I felt suddenly empty, like some small purpose of mine had just been stripped from me.

My housekeeper, Mrs Ackland, came rushing into the living room, her face flushed as she babbled to me in one long breath: “Mr Oakes! What on earth was that commotion? Was there trouble with the gentleman who was feeling under the weather? Are you all right?”

I waved my hand dismissively, sniffing. “Mr Haddington decided he was ready to leave. I am perfectly well.”

She nodded quickly, relieved that I was not close to death, and also relieved that she still had a tenant to pay the rent, no doubt.

“Are you dining out tonight?” she inquired.

I shook my head. “No, no. In fact, I shall go to bed,” I replied, leaving to go to back to my room. Mother would have said I was sulking, but I knew I was simply bored once again.

The next morning with no commissioned works to attend to, I decided to take a stroll. I had left with the intention of shopping,

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perhaps visiting the auction house, but no sooner had I left my home than was I stopped in my tracks by the sound of someone calling my name. Oh damn, it was Edgar. The shrill-voiced moron was waving his arms as he ran up to me, grinning like a madman.

“Hold my walking cane,” I said, before handing it to him and sliding my gloves over my hands. He was nattering on about something, but I simply ignored him.

“New stick?” he then asked, tapping it against the hard ground duly causing me to grimace.

“It‟s known as a Penang Lawyer, Edgar. After the bark is removed with only a piece of glass, they straighten the stick with the use of fire, before polishing!”

He grinned as he slid his arm around my neck and the thrust the Penang back into my hand. “You could‟ve gone to the park and picked up a perfectly good stick for free.” Oh, how I wished I‟d purchased myself a cane-sword for such excruciating situations.

“I‟ve come into some money,” he prattled on, revealing a wad of notes which he proceeded to wave vulgarly in my face, “and luckily for you, I‟m in the mood to waste some of it on my dearest friend. Drinks?”

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“Dare I ask how you acquired such wealth?”

“I‟m merely a lucky man! You know Frank Scudder? He sorted it for me!”

“Frank Scudder? Honestly, that gambling charlatan?”

Edgar grinned. “The system works, Clarence!”

He took me to The Black Friar, a pub not too far from my home, and we sat down in a corner, away from the door to keep the cold from nipping at us. He was still wearing a smile which all too easily revealed him for the simpleton he was as I slid my coat and gloves off, surveying the room for anyone I knew. Sadly, I knew no one there, so there was no one to distract me from Edgar‟s incessant rambling.

The drinks were rather awful, as was the place itself, but I did not care. Every disgusting mouthful deafened me a little more to Edgar and his ravings about how he would be a millionaire before the year ended. I was slightly inebriated by the time he finally steered the conversation‟s topic to me. Edgar took a swig of whiskey, pulled a face, and asked: “I saw your housekeeper this morning, when she was out shopping. She mentioned that some fellow was taken ill in your living room? Whatever did you do to him?”

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“Nothing!” I said. “That‟s the mystery of it all. He ran away before I could question him. All I know is his name, Rupert Haddington, and that my living room carpet now contains a significant portion of his blood!”

“Haddington? Never heard of him. He‟s certainly no one of importance, I‟m sure of that,” Edgar replied with shrug and that seemed to end the matter.

Neither of us spoke much after that; the time was spent in silence.

I had managed to shut Edgar up by claiming to have a headache, which was not entirely a lie. Honestly, five minutes with the man and you can feel your skull crushing in on itself to protect you from insanity.

It was around half an hour later when something caught my eye.

The landlord was tossing out a drunk who had obviously had one too many. The drunkard was shouting and waving his fists around, proclaiming that he‟d fight anyone as he triumphantly backhanded thin air. I was about to sneer when I focused my eyes properly on the man. Although I was slightly intoxicated, I knew I was staring at him for a reason. I knew him. And then I realised.

Oh God. I smacked Edgar hard on the hand. “Over there!” I practically shouted, and Edgar turned around. “No, no, don‟t look!” I barked,

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rather surprised at how little I was slurring.

“What is it?!”

“It‟s Rupert! Haddington!” I said, unaware of the soppy smile spreading across my face.

“Him? Surely not? That drunk?” He laughed moronically and I frowned.

“Look, he‟s been kicked out!” I stood up. “Come on, Edgar, we have to follow him! I want some bloody answers!”

Edgar suddenly turned peevish. “I‟m not chasing some drunk! Go on your own!”

So I did. With alcohol stinging in my veins, I ran out of the pub after Haddington. It was a foolish caprice on my part, I know. But to be fair, underneath it all, he was a rather good looking man.

“Haddington!” I bellowed, panting between cries. “Rupert!”

A lifetime of red wine and copious amounts of game hen had, I‟m sorely afraid, taken their toll and I realise now that my athletic abilities have certainly dwindled throughout the years. It took me a good five minutes to catch up with him, by which time I was horrendously red faced. I must have looked awful.

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After I finally garnered his attention, he began surveying me with a raised eyebrow. “How much have you had to drink?”

“N-Not that…much! L-Look, I want…I want some answers!”

“Answers about what?”

“You!” I wheezed.

Haddington sighed gently, holding out his arm stiffly for me to rest on as I slowly returned to a normal breathing pace.

“Why do you care?” he asked, staring at me. For a moment, I said nothing. Why on earth did I care about this somewhat scraggly man who had seen fit to collapse upon my floor? Perhaps it was simply because I was curious. Some small part of me smelt adventure; the childish side of me which had never been allowed to play outside and muddy its knees wanted to be let free. Haddington had an air of mystery to him, and I really just wanted to know what kind of man he was. It is always entertaining to have interesting acquaintances.

“Could we…not…at least take a stroll? And talk?” I was practically batting my eyelashes. It was shameful really.

I had sobered up considerably by the time we reached the local park; I was walking without aid, even though I‟d left my cane back

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in the pub. Edgar had probably sold it or perhaps poked his eye out with it; there was little chance it would be returned to me, at any rate. I would now have to devote my weekend to choosing a new one. Oh the inconvenience! Haddington seemed to have sobered up as well, although it was hard to tell through his veil of stubble and his permanently cloudy eyes. He finally broke the silence which had descended upon us. “If you want paying for the carpet, I can‟t really-” “No, no. Don‟t worry yourself about that. My housekeeper will surely find a way to remedy it.”

He grinned (but not an idiotic grin like Edgar‟s, of which I had unfortunately become so recently used to). “Then you really do just care about what happened to me? Are all you artists so oversensitive?” I am ashamed to admit that I found myself blushing. “Well, if you really want to know about the injury, that‟s what happens when you get yourself mixed up with Frank Scudder…”

“Frank Scudder? Are you referring to the Frank Scudder who tends to hang around on Barrow Hill Road at ungodly hours?!”

“Yeah. You know him?” he replied.

“One of my friends, Edgar, acquired some money from him this very morning, as it happens!”

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“Oh Lord. Is your friend a smart one?”

“He has the intellect of a hat stand! But why? Surely Scudder‟s not too bad a man? He may be a gambler, he always was, but he‟s no real harm…”

“No real harm? Who d‟you think made me bleed all over your floor?”

There was a sick lump in my throat then, as I realised Edgar might be in some real trouble. I did not have time to ask Haddington anything else; I simply turned around and began to walk briskly. I didn‟t care about anything else. I had to find Edgar, before Scudder did something awful to him. It seemed, though the fact of it was totally unbeknownst to me until that very moment, I actually cared for that mincing moron.

Haddington shouted after me: “You going after your friend?

D‟you want me to come, in case it gets ugly?”

I stopped and faced him. “Nothing is ugly where I‟m involved, but yes, do come anyway!”

And away we went. Why do I spend my life running after miscreants?

To be continued...

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Emily Dickinson Refuses To Title Her Poems

by Andrew Johnson & Cassie Parkes

Emily Dickinson loves—dashes—I mean— It is unrequited but she’s keen— She loves her dashes—maybe she’s mad-She lived alone and my teacher says that’s quite bad— Bad—for then her love of dashes only grew— For in times of hardship—she had no-one to turn to— Except her dashes—those precious lines— She inked each one—from within the confines— Of her secluded room—where she wrote her verse— Within her poems—she would immerse— Herself within the words—the crumpled pages— It saw her through the pain and rages— She wrote of Death—but always paused— (By her love of dashes, this was caused)— Oh look—more dashes—way too many— I don’t think she really needed any— But now the poem takes a turn— Does she go to the depths of Hell to burn—?

Or does she go to Heaven now? She loves— Her dashes—she really—does. I don’t— Feel—the—same—way— —

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Andrew Johnson

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Artist Andrew Johnson preparing for his first „vision questâ€&#x;

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Author Alexandra Malcolm as a child learning the joys of reading

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WHO Are We?

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Author Bios Cassie Parkes currently resides in a small dark bedroom in Kent, but that's only because she hasn't worked out how to open the curtains yet. She writes all of her ramblings on a laptop, but likes to pretend that she writes with a quill dipped in the blood of her enemies. When she's not slaving away to get her coursework finished on time, she likes to pretend she's a dashing Victorian crime-fighter. She has more books than friends, and more friends than sense. She's also a tiny bit insane, but only on Tuesdays.

Student, writer, artist and recluse, Alexandra Malcolm enjoys expressing herself through words. Often criticised for her lack of outdoor activity, she tries to compensate for this by creating tales of fantasy and wonderment, the likes of which will hopefully astound and amaze the general reading public one day.

Andrew Johnson has watched 365 movies this year and it is only June. He is very proud of that fact.

D.C. Caudle is a Film Studies and English teacher at Darrick Wood School. He is very proud to have been a part of this first issue of ‘The Scribbler’ and looks forward to helping produce future issues of highly creative and entertaining prose and poetry.

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