Ego Poem 9 - Good/Bad

Sometimes people tell me things
About other people
And I think their intention
Is for me to be shocked and appalled
To judge the person
And be sickened by their mere existence

Or maybe they don’t
It could just be they like a gossip
Like me
A nosey get
Likes a bit of drama
where it doesn’t exist.
People doing things they shouldn’t
People doing things you wouldn’t
So what
Good for them

I can’t decide
What makes someone a bad person

Pleasing yourself whilst hurting another
Is that bad?
It’s not ideal
But is it bad?
I’m not sure it is you know

I read that morals are made to protect the victim
And I think that’s true
In fact
I know
I’ve made up my mind
And I conclude

If it happens
That you are morally bankrupt
But are so, with honesty and full admittance
So the hurt caused is fleeting and circumstantial
Then I reckon
You’re probably alright.

But if
It happens
You are morally bankrupt
And are so, with dishonesty
Causing prolonged and increasing hurt
on another.
Then I reckon
You’re probably a bit of a dick.

Ego Poem 8 - Got my mojo back

After six months of wallowing in self pity
Some kind of switch must’ve flicked
In my head
I remember how things used to be
When people found me funny
When I found myself so funny
Cracking jokes to the mirror
And laughing out loud
At my own hilarity
Declaring myself a comedy genius.

I remember how girls used to fancy me
Quite easily
If I made the effort
To make them laugh
Or compliment them
Within an inch of their beautiful life
Suffocate them with absurd levels of flattery.
Absolutely zero fear of rejection
Who cares?
No one
On to the next one
On to the next one

I remember how I fucking love girls
Every single thing about them
Way they look
The way they walk
The things they say when they talk
The way their mouth moves when they talk
How funny they are
How sexy they are
How “I’m not usually like this” they are.

How could I forget all that?
Ridiculous,
when I think about it.

I see a band on telly and think
Shit, I can do that
Better than that
I know how to do that
Better than that

I see a writer on telly and think
Shit, I can do that
Know how to do that
Maybe even better than that.

Some kind of switch must’ve flicked in my head
And I think I got my mojo back.

Ego Poem 7

My advice didn’t work
You tell me

To be honest
I never thought it would
I guess you need a certain charm to pull it off
Of which you are bereft

I imagine
Flirty jokes
Mutated into pervy innuendo
Subtle touches
to sleazy gropes
Sure-footed forwardness
to heavy handed forcefulness

I should never have let my advice out like that
Under such incapable supervision
Thrown back at me
Soiled and mistreated
Pale imitations of their beautiful selves

It wont happen again
I‘ll guard them.
And show them a good time
Some time
soon

Ego Poem 6

You slouch and moan
Drunk
About your luck with the girls
Or lack thereof

They always go for twats
He treats her like shit

You wouldn’t
Apparently

I wonder how you know

We all like to think
Surely
That we’re the good guy
nice guy
Knight in shining armour
The one everyone’s routing for.
When truthfully
You want to shag her just as much as the twat does
Only he
Unlike you
Chats her up
Compliments her
Makes her feel sexy

Maybe he’s the good guy
The one we’re all routing for
Sure
He doesn’t look like it
But I’m sure he has a mother who loves him at Christmas.

It’s easy to claim we’d treat girls like angels
When in reality
It doesn’t happen so easy
But
As long as you slouch
And moan
Drunk
You’ll never know that.

Minor Irritance

I finally leave my room
for the bathroom

the door is shut
I tut
Hoping they hear.

Run Poem

I went for a run
'neath the moon and stars
Face scratched by tree branches
Eyes blinded by cars

Haiku

A glorious morn
follows the nightshift.
Shame it's bedtime

Haiku

Interfering woman
fuming on my behalf
I couldn't care less

Haiku

Girls gather in the canteen
cacophony of noise
talking of boys

Assessment of my work.

Creative Writing Advanced – Jim Coyle.


Jim has produced three outstanding short stories in his portfolio for the Advanced Course. In his work he demonstrates real mastery of his craft, having produced at least two previous drafts of each piece, therefore demonstrating a real awareness of the necessity and value of revising and editing his work which certainly pays off in his finished versions.

Jim’s creation of setting is excellent. The descriptions of interiors: the café, the bedroom and the classroom are strong and Jim works well with the changing atmospheres of the various locations to enhance and accentuate the mood from light to slightly uneasy and in a couple of places, brooding and quite dark.

The narrative voices that Jim has used are the first person close and the third person and both work very well, according to the subject matter of all three pieces. They remain consistent and strong throughout the writing. The reader is simultaneously an observer and yet close enough to identify with the central character throughout. His use of internal monologue is also creatively and thoughtfully employed. In ‘The Café,’ for example, the reader feels every uncomfortable moment as the main character tries to avoid seeing the girl with whom he had an encounter the night before. There is also a real feel for humour in Jim’s writing. He keeps it stylish and light considering that he often deals with quite dark subject matter. He also makes effective use of foreshadowing, especially in ‘The Scribbler,’ and his personification of inanimate objects especially with his use of unusual qualifiers, ‘an enthusiastic can of ravioli,’ for example. This sort of device is what makes Jim’s voice his own and helps the reader feel that they are in the hands of a writer who understands his craft. His use of dialogue is convincing and works well within the stories, acting as it does, to make the reader believe in the scenarios and their make-up. It was noted that the scenes under the clock and in the classroom demonstrated Jim’s command of dialogue particularly well.

There are also just the right amount of characters for short stories of this length. This ensures that the reader never loses focus or becomes lost in abstraction and keeps the plots sharp. The central characters in ‘Under The Big Clock,’ and ‘The Café’ (whose names we never discover), remain the objects of the reader’s interest throughout – the lack of names for the narrators is a clever device as the reader can put him/herself into their shoes and identify with their dilemmas very convincingly.

Jim writes with confidence and his observance of detail and evident understanding of his chosen genre stands out in his work making it eminently and satisfyingly readable. He has obviously developed a good understanding of the workings of the modern short story and builds atmosphere and mood with a sure touch.

The beginnings and endings of the stories are excellent – throughout his work, Jim has developed the technique of showing and not telling – the agonising carrier bag handles in ‘Under The Clock,’ are an excellently conceived motif and extended metaphor for the narrator’s painful relationship with the advantage-taking Barry. By the time the reader reaches the final lines he/she is made to reflect on the subtlety and irony of the real-life ending . Again Jim has shown that he can handle plot with a good deal of guile and subtlety. He has a talent for making the ordinary into the extraordinary.


Suggestions:

It was felt that Jim should certainly continue to write and perfect his style. The skills he has learned on the course have obviously been put to excellent use. Publication would appear to be a real possibility should he wish to pursue it and it was recommended that he approach a publisher such as Comma Press in Manchester.

All in all however, these were felt to be beautifully written pieces which engaged the reader from the start. Jim is to be commended on his sharpness of style and natural flair for storytelling.

Again, an outstanding portfolio.


Originality of ideas 17
Control of language 16
Organization and structure to convey meaning 16
Mechanics 16
Attempt at trying something new 16

Final mark

81 - Distinction

Love poem

She
is perfect

No one is perfect

Though one,
can be perfect
to another.
And she
To me
Is perfect.

Perfectly imperfect

An angel
With her shoelace un-tide.

Found Poem

I wandered lonely as a cloud
My pants were tight, my shirt was loud
When all at once I saw a crowd
Of sun tanned flesh, promising thrills
A host of golden daffodils
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Short skirts way above the knees
Ingratiate myself with ease
Flattering and dancing in the breeze.

Drouble (200 word story)

Vacuum packed, in a pub way exceeding its recommended capacity, I struggle to tame the thick fog of claustrophobia, enveloping my bones and suffocating my every breath. Bawdy laughter and relentless, spit spraying shouts offend my ears and turn my stomach. I bend my knees, allowing space to tip my glass. I stay out of the deafening conversation surrounding me, competing over music and each other. I spy the muted T.V set in the corner and wish I was at home, sat in front of my own, on my own. The lottery numbers fill the screen. Probably following some lame quiz show, shoe-horned in to stretch the programme. I pull out a mess of old bus tickets, post-it notes, much needed fivers and pick out my delicate lottery ticket.

HOLY SHIT. I jam it all back in the pocket and zip it up. Need to leave. Don’t say anything. Don’t say bye. Just leave. 100million quid in my pocket on the flimsiest piece of paper imaginable. Jesus Christ. Drop the drink. Don’t make eye contact. Check the pocket. Still zipped. Taxi might crash. Walk home. Might get mugged? Walk in the road. Might get run over. Check pocket. Still zipped.

Drabble (100 word story)

He rolled the magazine and headed briskly toward the counter, his heart racing. The shopkeeper wouldn’t care, he reasoned, grateful of the custom. A lady walked in and immediately recognised him. His uncle’s new girlfriend. He grabbed a local newspaper and cloaked the magazine before engaging in excruciating small talk, beads of sweat conspiring a traitorous confession.

“It’s terrible about those fires.” the woman commented, handling the newspaper for a closer look. He gripped desperately, pulling it back to the point of rudeness. She looked up confused and offended. Better that, he consoled himself as she left, than the other.

Ego Poem 5

I don’t like anyone I know.

I’m not lonely
I have friends
Good ones
Close ones
I don’t feel misunderstood
I hate all that shit
I don’t feel isolated
I’m popular
Funny
I just have standards
Expectations
People disappoint me
Frequently
Why do you think that?
Or believe that?
Why act like that?
Or need that?

I want to like people
But cracks eventually show
Every time

So do mine
I imagine
But that’s their problem.

Ego Poem 4

I didn’t think anything of her
Nothing
didn’t dislike her
didn’t like her
didn’t find her attractive
or unattractive
She could do what she pleased
Nothing to do with me

I couldn’t care less

She asked about my friend
wanted some fun with him

I wanted fun

She wanted fun
Not with me
She transformed suddenly
Sexy in a way
Beautiful available eyes
Smooth attainable legs

I wanted in
And why wouldn’t I?

Always the same

Couldn’t care less
‘til they couldn’t care less
Not interested
‘til someone is interested
Don’t know why
Don’t know what, or to who, I’m trying to prove.

Mary & George

“Mary, wake up, it’s time.” The voice was calm, crystal clear and loud. It jolted Mary out of her sleep in a flash. She immediately turned her hopeful eyes to the window, the curtains already tied back, as they had been for many nights now in anticipation for this happening, the heavenly glow she had been so wishing would appear, hovered in the night sky before her, waiting patiently. Mary’s eyes filled with the tears she had held back too long, as she stared in astonishment, joy and relief at the beautiful figure outside.

“Come on Mary. It’s time.” The voice, calm, crystal clear and loud again, this time with a notable tone of humour at Mary’s frozen bewilderment, gently reassured and coaxed her into showing some alacrity. Mary bolted upright, not needing to be told twice, and more unfortunately, not taking into account the fact her right leg was totally numb after being slept on, causing her to clatter straight to the floor. Much to her frustration, her right hand was suffering the same symptoms, as she made cack-handed attempts to grab herself back to her feet, knocking over a variety of perfumes and hairsprays and swiping an un-drunk cup of tea smashing to the floor. She winced at her clumsy fumblings and looked, pleading and apologetic, out of the window, expecting the heavenly light to be shaking its head in weary disapproval. It remained calm and comforting, Mary watched as it lifted a slender finger to its lips, reminding her of the wheezing brute lying like a beached whale on the floor at the other side of the bed, liable to be woken by her clattering about. She had forgotten he was even there in all the excitement. This was a revelation. Mary’s heart filled with great joy and an overwhelming sense of hope, as for the first time in so, so many years, the man who had such a stranglehold on her very existence had fallen so easily from her thoughts. Mary felt an amazing surge of liberation at this.

George had been Mary’s husband for 35 years of marital bliss. They shared the same soul, loved the same things and were practically inseparable. They didn’t go a single day in 35 years without seeing each other or without falling asleep together, totally in love. George was an extremely popular man around the town and would always proudly take Mary with him to the pub, where his other friends would leave their own wives at home so they could relax and be themselves. The others were never disgruntled at George bringing Mary, as they all felt she brought the best out in George. On the odd occasion when Mary was too tired to go out, or just didn’t feel like it, the others would ask after her, all feeling that George wasn’t quite as exuberant or funny as he was, when she was with him.

The bloated drunk lying on the floor in Mary’s room however, was not George. It was Bert. George had died five years ago, and with a crippling fear of being alone the rest of her life, and with youth a distant memory, Mary had latched on to Bert.

They had married soon after getting together at the Registry Office with a couple of witnesses Mary had never met. Mary had wanted to get dressed up and invite her friends, but was convinced by Bert that she was too old and fat and all her friends would think her pathetic, trying to be glamorous at her age, and would be laughing at her behind her back. Of course, Mary complied, the way she had done ever since, knowing the consequences if she didn’t. She had gradually been cut off from all her friends and had even been made to leave her job, after Bert accused her of being over-familiar with her boss in the pub, which also meant she wasn’t allowed to the pub anymore. She barely even let on to her friends in the street these days, too ashamed as to what she had become.

Mary pulled a small suitcase out from under the bed and started to fill it with items she couldn’t bear to leave behind, love letters between her and George from before they were married, photo albums full of their adventures and a variety of trinkets they had collected in their years together. She had no idea if she would even be able to take them with her, but she sure as hell knew she didn’t want them left with Bert. She pulled on a summery dress that Bert would never have let her leave the house in and slipped on the shiny, red high heels George had bought her one anniversary that hadn’t seen the light of day for a good few years, but had been kept immaculate. She quickly put on make up with only the glow from the ethereal being at the window for light, fearing the lamp may have agitated the sleeping beast. She stood and straightened her dress before taking the deepest of breaths and looking expectantly out at the heavenly figure. The glow slowly held out an open palm. “Come, Mary.”

Mary smiled and pushed up the sash window and clambered out awkwardly onto the ledge before standing up straight and calm, unaffected by the vast drop beneath her. “Reach out Mary, I will take you.”

Walking down the street was Mary’s old workmate Sue, who was on her way back from a night on the town with her friend. She soon caught sight of Mary up on the ledge, dress blowing in the wind, and began racing down the street screaming up at her.

“Mary no! What are you doing Mary? Mary! Get back inside!”

Mary looked down at Sue with a countenance more content than Sue had seen her in years and spoke calmly to reassure her. “Sue it’s fine, they’re taking me to George.”

“Who is Mary? Get back inside!”

Mary reached out to take the hand of the beautiful, glowing figure, losing her balance to the shrieks of the ladies below before steadying herself.

“They’re taking me to George, Sue.” Mary called down, sounding a little less sure of herself.

“Mary, there’s no one there love! Please Mary, get back inside! We know about Bert, we can get you away from him!”

Sue’s friend swayed, drunk from her night out, failing to take in the seriousness of the situation, adding a rather half-hearted “He’s not worth it, darlin’!” to Sue’s desperate cries of despair. “All the beatings must have gone to her ‘ead.” she offered aside to an exasperated Sue.

A deep, confused voice came from inside the room.

“Mary? What yer doin woman?”

Bert’s booming voice sent a shot of fear through Mary as she frantically pushed down the sash window and shuffled tentatively across the ledge, petrified of the brute grabbing at her. Bert began frantically pulling at the lock on the window and pounding his massive fists on the glass, screaming at Mary to get back in. Sue shouted up, this time at Bert.

“Bert! Stop it, you’re scaring her! Come and open this door! I can talk her back in!” It was no use, he was in a blind rage, oblivious to the ladies on the street, and continued hammering his fists relentlessly on the window, too drunk to work out how to open it.

Mary closed her eyes tight shut, in pure terror at Bert’s fuming rage.

The voice. Calm. Crystal clear, and loud above all the screaming, spoke softly again to Mary, “Come, Mary. I will take you.”

Mary opened her eyes with an overwhelming feeling of serenity, happiness and certainty.

Sue kicked and pounded at the door, screaming at Bert to let her in when she heard an almighty thud behind her.

She stopped kicking. She stopped pounding. She hit her forehead against the door and let it rest there as she cried a flood of tears whilst a snowfall of old photographs fell around her feet.

She looked down at a young George, suntanned and grinning, trying to steal a kiss on the cheek of a camera-shy Mary.

Lucky Cat

I took my lucky cat for granted
It had sat serenely, ushering in good fortune
a perpetually wagging paw
Shimmering in gold.
One day, its battery died
The paw ceased to wag
Motionless on the shelf

I didn’t care.
Life seemed good
The still cat, ignored
Unneeded
It waited, watched, wise and knowing
As my life fell apart
Arrogance
Self importance
Complacence
All was lost

I lay alone and undeserving on my bed
Sorrowful and ashamed
I spied the patient cat through tears
Pleading and desperate
And scrambled for a new battery
The paw started to wag
I breathed a sigh of relief
Perhaps good fortune could be restored
Through the fog of bad spirits

I sat hopeful and humbled
Never more grateful
Of my Lucky Cat.

Ego Poem 3

Greetings Sir, I am your ego
Don’t listen to him, what does he know?
Your opinions are Gospel, you have no peers.
Check your reflection in all their tears.
Embrace your perfection, ignore their fears.
Do what you what, whenever you want
To care is to level yourself with the weaker.
Question the speaker, he hasn’t your wisdom.
Grant them overwhelming lust when you kiss them.
Feelings, dismiss them, shrug them from your back.
They’ll only resent you for beauty they lack.
Small minds won’t believe there’s no surface to crack.
Stray from the track.
Your conscience, clear, see through to the core.
Ignore the righteous, your spirit is pure.
Morals, a bore. Those rules are below
You transcend above all the guilt they bestow.
Do what you want, ignore their fears.
You’re opinion is Gospel, you have no peers.

Ego Poem 2

How rude of her.
Will she ever stop talking?
She isn’t funny
Or interesting either.
I’m waiting to talk.
I’m funny
And interesting.
Teach her a thing or two
If she’d only shut up.
She’s telling me secrets
Begs I don’t tell
Who would I tell?
The stories are boring
I don’t know the names.
I’ve got secrets,
Juicy ones
Bout people we’ve both actually heard of.
She looks good at least.
And I told her so.
I look good.
It hasn’t come up yet.

Ego Poem 1

Alone
He is fine without her
Doesn’t need her
Never did.

Muscles, have her.
Flash car, take her.
Doesn’t need her
Never did.

Places went
Money spent
Dirty messages she sent.

Alone
He is fine without her
Doesn’t need her
Never did.

Jerry & Josh

Jerry and Josh are a gay couple out to buy a bed in a department store. Jerry is a 40 year old, desperate to look 30. Josh is a trendy 28 year old.

Jerry: Now this looks fabulous. (falls luxuriously onto a bed) Come on Josh, don’t be shy.
Josh: (unimpressed) I’m not getting a four-poster bed.
Jerry: Come on, live a little, we’d be like two princes.
Josh: I’ve got low ceilings.

(Jerry tries to pull Josh onto the bed)

Josh: Get off!
Jerry: (Getting up, feigning moodiness) Fine. Let’s see if we can find something a little more chic shall we?
Josh: Cheap Jerry, think cheap.
Jerry: Cheap?? Moi? Are you not going to treat me, love?
Josh: No, I’m not.
Jerry: (Sulking) You’re being a right moody chops today Joshua.
Josh: Am I ‘eck.
Jerry: You’ve hardly spoke.
Josh: Well I don’t need a new bed!
Jerry: Jesus Josh, we’re not sleeping across single, bloody beds the rest of our lives.
Josh: They’re fine, pushed together.
Jerry: With that gap? The black hole?
Josh: (Breaking a smile for the first time) It’s not that bad.
Jerry: I feel like Hell’s opening up when we’re straddled across it.
Josh: (Whispering embarrassed) Shhh Jerry, Jesus!
Jerry: Oh calm down, no one’s listening. (Sits on another bed) Ooo feel this one.
Josh: It’s a water bed.
Jerry: Well? Embrace the glamour, darling.
Josh: I’ll remember that, when you’re taking your sea-sickness pills before you get in.
Jerry: (Already looking a little ill) Hmm maybe you’re right.

(Josh walks away to look at other beds, leaving Jerry struggling, ungraciously trying to get off the water bed. Josh stops by a very plain and simple bed, by far the least extravagant in the store)

Josh: Right, this one looks fine. Who do we ask to buy it?
Jerry: Oh come on Josh, bloody hell. Trust you to find the most boring bed in the shop.
Josh: What’s wrong with it? It’s got four legs.
Jerry: Cows have four legs Josh, it doesn’t mean you want to sleep on them…and don’t mention that bouncer, he was big boned.
Josh: I just want a nice, simple bed, nothing fancy.
Jerry: Well fine, let’s have a bit more of a wander round, and see if there’s one we both like.
Josh: Why do we both have to like it? It’s going in my house.
Jerry: Well we’ll both be sleeping in it.
Josh: Not all the time we won’t be.
Jerry: What do you mean?
Josh: I mean, I’m gonna be sleeping in it every night aren’t I? You’re not.
Jerry: Oh, am I not?
Josh: What are you on about? You know you’re not.
Jerry: You said you wanted me to start staying over.
Josh: I said, ‘I’m fine with you staying over now and then‘, but not all the time.
Jerry: What are you saying?
Josh: Jesus Jerry. I’m not saying anything.
Jerry: What’s the point in me buying you a bed, if I’m never going to sleep in it?
Josh: You are going to. I just mean I might want some nights to myself, that’s all.
Jerry: Well how often do you need nights to yourself? I’m not spending all this if I’m not going to get my moneys worth.
Josh: (Sick of it) You know what, forget it. I was only accepting the bed off you, to make you happy, but if you’re gonna Lord it over me, then forget it.
Jerry: Lord it over you??

(Jerry suddenly dives to the floor)

Jerry: (Whispering loudly) Get down here!!
Josh: (Bewildered) What on Earth??
Jerry: Get down!!

(Josh slowly and confused joins Jerry on the floor, side by side behind a bed)

Jerry: It’s Kenny!!
Josh: Kenny?
Jerry: Kenny Kenny.
Josh: Ex-boyfriend Kenny?
Jerry: Yes!
Josh: Well why am I on the floor? He doesn’t even know who I am.

(Josh starts to get back up, but Jerry grabs him back down)

Josh: What are you doing?
Jerry: Stay down! I’ll look mental down here on my own.
Josh: Now we both look mental.

(Young, male sales assistant comes over)

Sales Assistant: Err..are you gentlemen ok? Do you need something?
Jerry: Hi, no we’re fine thanks.
Sales Assistant: A glass of water or anything?
Jerry: (Smiling nervously) No, we’re just a little tired, from all the walking around, you know.
Sales Assistant: Well you know you are in a bed store. Most customers choose to lie on the beds.
Jerry: Well no, you see.. (looks to an unimpressed Josh, for help that doesn’t look likely to come)..we’ve been smoking!! Heavy smokers the two of us. We didn’t want to get the smell on your lovely beds.
Josh: This is ridiculous. (Stands up)
Sales Assistant: Are you looking to buy a bed today? Or are you just having a look around?
Josh: We’re just having a..
Jerry: (Interrupting) ..We’re buying. (Stands up, looking around nervously but remaining amiable)

Sales Assistant: Ok, well is there a particular style you had in mind or..?
Jerry: Something plain and simple, for our Josh. (Smiles patronisingly at Josh, who rolls his eyes in response)
Sales Assistant: Ok, well if you’d like to follow me..

(The Sales Assistant walks ahead whilst the pair follow, speaking in hushed tones)

Jerry: Where’s he gone? Can you see him?
Josh: I don’t know what he looks like.
Jerry: What the hell is he doing here?
Josh: Buying a bed?
Jerry: He’s probably brought his toy boy and wants to rub my face in it.
Josh: Why would he know you were here?
Jerry: (Looking around suspiciously) He has his ways.
Josh: I think you’re being paranoid. Anyway, it’s nice to know he still has such an effect on you.
Jerry: You know he gets to me.
Josh: I know, and it does my head in. It’s been a year, you wanna get over it. You’re supposed to be with me for God’s sake.
Jerry: I know, ignore me, I’m being stupid. Oo are you being possessive Josh?
Sales Assistant: So here you can see we’ve got a nice, neat design, queen-size.
Jerry: Oo queen-size Josh. Sounds perfect for you.
Josh: (Notably ignoring Jerry’s joke) It’s too big really, I’m just after a regular double bed.
Sales Assistant: Ok, not a problem at all. This way.

(The pair follow the sales assistant. A man in his 50’s appears. It is Kenny. He is handsome and well dressed with a definite air of affluence)

Kenny: Jerry? Is that you?
Jerry: (Desperately trying not to hear him) So the queen size was a little large there, so anything smaller would be good.
Kenny: Jerry.
Jerry: Don’t worry about the price, I’ll cover that.
Kenny: (Now too close to ignore) Jerry, it’s Kenny.
Jerry: Oh, hiii Kenny, I didn’t see you there.

(Josh and the sales assistant walk on ahead)

Kenny: I did call your name three times.
Jerry: Oh well you know me. When I’m in the zone!..
Kenny: Losing your hearing in your old age Jeremy?
Jerry: Haha you cheeky thing. You’re only as only as old as the boy you feel.
Kenny: And who is the boy you’re feeling?
Jerry: Keep your eyes off him, he’s mine.
Kenny: Relax Jeremy, I’m glad to see there’s some life in the old dog yet.
Jerry: Old dog. I’m ten years younger than you, I’d like to remind you.
Kenny: But catching up quick by the looks of things.
Jerry: Have you heard..I go to the gym three times a week. I’m fit as a fiddle.
Kenny: I suppose you need to be, with that new beau of yours.
Jerry: Well, quite. Anyway, must dash. We have a new bed to buy.
Kenny: Aren’t you going to introduce me?
Jerry: No I’m not, I know what you’re like.
Kenny: Oh come on, we’re past all that aren’t we? Call him over.
Jerry: Uh, if you must. Josh darling! I have someone who wants to meet you.

(Josh walks over with the sales assistant following behind. Kenny looks slightly dumbstruck)

Jerry: Josh, this is Kenny. Kenny, Josh.

(Josh and Kenny exchange a rather awkward handshake)

Josh: Hiya.
Kenny: Hi.
Jerry: (To Kenny) What’s up with you? Cat got your tongue? I told you I hadn’t lost my touch.
Kenny: No. It’s great. I’m very pleased for the pair of you.
Jerry: (To Josh) How are the beds love? Seen any you like?
Josh: Yeh, we’re sorted. There’s one in the sale.
Jerry: Ok, as long as your sure.
Josh: Yep.
Sales Assistant: (To Josh) So it’s just the small matter of payment, if you’d like to follow me over to the counter.
Jerry: Oh, that’s me. I’m The Money.
Sales Assistant: Oh right. (Laughing politely) The bank of Mum and Dad eh?

(Josh, Jerry and Kenny all gasp. Jerry the only one not smiling)

Jerry: Are you havin’ a laugh?
Sales Assistant: Sorry Sir, Have I…?
Jerry: Yes you bloody have, insulted me, that’s what. Bloody hell! How much do you want? (Walks toward the counter with the Sales Assistant) Unbelievable.

(Josh and Kenny are left alone)

Josh: (Speaking in hushed anger) What the Hell is going on?
Kenny: I’m so sorry.
Josh: Kenny? Who the Hell is Kenny?!
Kenny: I had no idea it was you.
Josh: Jesus, Richard. What the Hell??
Kenny: Alright, calm down.
Josh: Don’t tell me to calm down. Why did you let him call me over??
Kenny: I didn’t know it was you.
Josh: I was right there!
Kenny: You know what I’m like without my glasses.
Josh: Jesus, Richard. What are you doing here?
Kenny: (Getting annoyed) I’m buying a bed Josh. I’m buying our bed.
Josh: God, I can’t deal with this. I need to get back to Jerry.
Kenny: Just wait Josh, I’m not happy about this either. How do you think I feel? You and Jerry in here, buying a bed together. It’s a shock to me too.
Josh: You knew I was with someone.
Kenny: Yeh, you said it was nothing, yet here you are buying a bed.
Josh: It was Jerry, I tried to stop it.
Kenny: You’re going to let him then?
Josh: What am I supposed to say?
Kenny: Just say you don’t want it.
Josh: (Raising his voice) What do you think I’ve been doing all day?

(They both stop, fearing they’re being too loud. They look over at Jerry, who is still busy filling in forms and sorting out the delivery)

Josh: (Much quieter) What’s all this Kenny business anyway?
Kenny: That’s my name.
Josh: Then why have I been calling you Richard the last three months?
Kenny: I knew you’d freak out if you knew I was Jerry’s ex.
Josh: You totally knew then! You totally knew, you lying bastard.
Kenny: I didn’t, I promise you.
Josh: You just said you didn’t want me to find out.
Kenny: I didn’t know for sure. I didn’t know for sure.
Josh: Bullshit, you didn’t. Why would you tell me you were called Richard?
Kenny: Because I wasn’t sure!
Josh: (Smiling and agreeing sarcastically) You weren’t sure.
Kenny: When I first spoke to you in the bar, you mentioned you were seeing someone called Jerry.
Josh: And there are so many gay, dental nurses called Jerry knocking around.
Kenny: And we were having a great time! So when you took my number, I didn’t want to ruin it so I just said Richard.
Josh: It all makes sense. You’ve been loving this.
Kenny: Josh.
Josh: Getting one over on Jerry. You’re loving it.
Kenny: No.
Josh: I’ve had dinner with your friends. Holy shit. They were all calling you Richard!
Kenny: Josh.
Josh: They were calling you Richard for God’s sake, I bet they found it hilarious.
Kenny: They didn’t.
Josh: You’ve been laughing behind my back, making a total fool of me!
Kenny: They loved you.
Josh: ‘Oh let’s all go round to Kenny’s and call him Richard all night, so his toyboy doesn’t find out who he is. What a good laugh we’ll all have.’ Bloody hilarious.
Kenny: Look Josh it wasn’t like that, don’t be like this.

(Jerry comes back over. Both stop talking immediately)

Jerry: Ooooo blimey, sorry love, that took forever. All the bloody forms they make you fill out, I feel like I’ve just signed my life away.

(Josh and Kenny both laugh uncomfortably)

Jerry: (To Josh) Ey, I hope he’s not been telling you all my dark secrets. Don’t believe a word of it.

(More uncomfortable laughter)

Jerry: Right, are we going? I’m starving. Nice to see you Kenny.
Kenny: Yeh, nice to see you.

(Jerry and Josh head for the door. Kenny trying to make eye contact with Josh but getting ignored. Kenny turns and walks away, frustrated)

Jerry: Was he alright with you? You seem quiet.
Josh: Ey, no. Yeh, he was fine.

(The pair leave the store)

A Sorry Soiree

I arrive at the party, for my dear eyes to be instantly insulted by an array of cheap, catwalk-copy dresses, on the arms of ill-fitting suits which I imagine cost less than my haircut. Who let these people in? I wouldn’t dream of doing business with a man who buys his suits off a rail. I eye the room for a familiar face, whether it be to avoid or approach. My associate, as always, has failed to keep control of time, leaving me to face this sorry soiree alone and I despise him for it. I reluctantly join a bunch of no-hopers who were tiresomely insistent I join them. I imagine they are desperately hoping some of my success will rub off on them. A weasel faced worm with a sorry excuse for a moustache reaches a scrawny hand toward my clenched fist and simultaneously gives me an electric shock. His sweaty laugh exposes rows of crooked, yellow teeth and I try not to be sick. He offers me a needy excuse, that it must have been his watch, when I know it was his polyester jacket. His orange girlfriend is clinging on to me for dear life in a shameless bid for freedom from the weasel. I politely but firmly remove her like a leech, concerned her tan has rubbed off on to my sleeve.

She seems to find the whole thing hilarious and continues to stroke my arm. The weasel is less amused and eyes his possession with diabolical intent. I jerk my hand up and tend my immaculate hair to shrug off the girl. I leave them to scream at each other whilst their friends look rightly ashamed to be in their proximity.

The place is a dump, and is desperate to disguise the fact. The gaudy sunset mural is fooling no one, the gold-plate finish is flaking off all the fixtures and I practically have to peel my foot off the filthy carpet with each step.

A whiney voice calls out my name and shouts his own from a table in the corner. I head over to a man, who’s brash persona over email correspondence leaves me highly unimpressed by the physical reality. This guy was supposed to be big league. I shake what feels like limp lettuce, disguised as a hand, before discreetly patting the clammy residue it leaves, back onto the arm of its owner. I reluctantly sit down, eyeing the room for opportunities of escape. I spy my tardy associate at the other end of the room, schmoozing with an attractive blonde, I despise him all the more.

Trip to the Swimming Baths

I was struggling to keep my bare feet from making any kind of contact with the wet, mucky floor, whilst simultaneously contorting my body to prevent my towel slipping to reveal my extremities, despite being in an enclosed cubicle. My lack of familiarity with the swimming baths experience, arousing a rare modesty.

My discomfort was heightened by the arrival of an obstreperous rabble of school children, hyper for escaping the confines of their classroom. The excited chatter and giggles coming from the adjacent cubicles made me paranoid that I was to be made the butt of an humiliating schoolboy prank. My trousers and shoes would be swiped by small arms under the partition walls, or a talc-filled swimming cap poured over me, forcing me to emerge from my confinement as an irate abominable snowman.

My fears were eased and replaced by amusement when overhearing various comedic chats. A first boy, seemingly alpha-male in social status, asked his minions.
“Have you seen Beetlejuice 2?”
Falling into the trap, a second boy tried to prove his worth, replying
“Yeh, I’ve seen it”
Emphasising the “I’ve” as some sort of affront to a third boy, who conceded almost apologetically, but certainly honestly
“No, I’ve not.”
Any fears this boy had of losing the respect of the alpha-male were soon put to rest when the first boy laughed
“It doesn‘t even exist! How have you seen it?”

I didn’t take notice of the feeble backtracking as my attention was grasped by the piercing tones of what must have been the teacher.
“Simon!” she shrieked,
“What on Earth have you done to Sarah’s coat?”
What on Earth had he done? The horrified reaction of the exasperated teacher suggested some ungodly soiling had occurred. I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed quickly out of my cubicle in hope of witnessing the crime scene first hand. To my disappointment, there was no sign of the unfolding coat crisis. Just a line of children in all manner of pyjamas, impatiently awaiting their turn in the pool to learn life-saving skills of little practical use. Not even a chalked outline of a slain anorak or numbered evidence cones to stir my curiosity.

Never mind. I was feeling quietly smug. On my way in, I had slipped past the reception desk unnoticed and thus, the ten pound note in my pocket remained crisp and unbroken.

The consequence of this suddenly became startlingly clear as I put my stuff into a carefully chosen locker. The payment for the swim was meant to break the ten pound note, in order to provide the change needed to secure the locker. My opportunistic attempt to save a quick buck had left me stranded in my old swimming shorts. Shorts I was already slightly self-conscious about. I was hoping the transition from cubicle to swimming pool would be swift and unnoticed. Now I was facing the humiliation of having to go back to reception, half dressed, to ask for change.

There was no way I was getting fully dressed for the task, it was the middle of winter and it had taken forever to take off the multitude of layers I had on for warmth. I wasn’t putting them all back on for the sake of a ten second conversation regarding borrowing change for a locker. I also feared that drawing attention to myself, might in turn draw attention to my payment dodging crimes. Was it really a crime? Stealing swimming time? Either way, to avoid the inevitably awkward social situation, I decided to risk leaving my clothes in the locker, unlocked.

Holding on to the metal rail as I headed cautiously down slippery steps to the pool, I scoured the heads bobbing up and down along the surface of the water, hoping to eyeball possible bag thieves. The suspects were mainly old age pensioners so I didn’t much fancy their chances of making any quick getaways.

I swam lengths, trying to get my mind back to state of serenity at which I had hoped to float and glide, smoothly through the blue.

Alas, it was no use. Paranoia plagued my every stroke, worst case scenarios ran on a loop through my thoughts. The official looking man who had just entered poolside, in shirt and tie with an ID pass hanging from his neck, suggestive of authority, would be heading straight for me to order me out of the pool for my fare dodging misdemeanours. Forcing me to walk the length of the pool, sheepishly past the attractive poolside attendants, all toned and tanned, smirking at my near perished swimming shorts, which once boasted such rich, cerulean but had since faded to an apologetic pale grey, and were victim to various sun tan lotion stains from one too many holiday outings. Upon reaching the sanctity of my locker, red-faced from humiliation and anger, I would discover to my horror that the contents have been stolen. I head back out to the pool to grovel to the official looking man but have to wait, awkward and increasingly more aware of how pasty and skinny I am, whilst the man chats up the tanned attendants with lascivious confidence. They lap up the prurient lines whilst shooting me looks of pointed disdain.

I am suddenly snapped out of this scenario when a graceless brute, making unholy tidal-waves, fells a tree trunk of an arm down on my unsuspecting head. I stand up, coughing and spluttering the gallon of water I have just swallowed back into the pool, hold my arms out, palms facing the Heavens in a pleading “What the Hell are you doing?” gesture. I want to lecture the selfish oaf on the stupidity of doing the backstroke in a busy, public swimming pool, but I merely mumble “For God’s sake” and carry on swimming, growing increasingly frustrated by the heavy meandering required to make a length.

I sneer , childish and jealous, at an old lady who has had a monopoly on the quiet end lane since my arrival. She swims, slow and serene, up and down with zero obstruction, blissfully oblivious to the spaghetti junction negotiations the rest of us were undertaking length by length.

Less than fifteen minutes in to my swim, I can take it no longer. I just can’t relax. I rush back to my locker and fling the door open expecting an empty steel box.

My bag sits exactly where I left it. Of course it does. Why would anyone steal it? It’s perfectly safe.

I contemplate getting back in the pool now my worries have been eased. I look back toward the water and witness the backstroking male brewing up a storm by the lane-hogging pensioner. I pause, grab my bag and head for the changing rooms. ‘More trouble than it’s worth‘ I think.

The Cafe

Before I left the flat, I looked in the mirror and beheld what I considered to be a particularly good hair day. Holding its shape well, with a nice bit of fringe hanging down, a perfect imperfection, meticulously sculpted to offer a misleading sense of a devil may care attitude. As I walked toward the city centre, negotiating an umbrella with an inconveniently short handle, I feared the moisture, finding its way under the lacklustre shelter was starting to cause my hair to become curled and limp. Very annoying. I ducked into the nearest café to see if the situation was salvageable.

I’d had an early tea the night before and had nothing so far that morning, so I ordered what was known as ‘the bigger breakfast’. The list of greasy components would usually have been deemed over-facing, but today I reckoned I could manage it. I sat down in the corner booth, by the window and the mirrored wall, where my fears were validated. The faux-nonchalance of the fallen fringe had become a mess of matted curls. The clock on the wall told me I had an hour until the interview, I firmly palmed the stray hairs to one side and planned to locate a hand dryer at some point before then.

I circled my fist on the steamed up window to create a small port-hole to people-watch through. As I looked out, I caught sight of Rachael, a girl I’d slept with a few days earlier, I ducked down instantly, fearing I may have already made eye contact. I held up my hot cup of tea in a pathetic attempt to re-steam the spy hole, bracing myself for the piercing beeping noise that sounded every time the door opened.


Three nights ago I had been sat in a bar, chatting away quite happily with my brother and his girlfriend. A girl came over, sat next to me and introduced herself, rather rudely I thought, considering my brother was in the middle of an anecdote I never did hear the end of. Her name was Rachael and she’d been the receptionist in an office I’d delivered a package to, a couple of days before. I instantly recognised her and was impressed by how good she looked, out of her stuffy work attire. I’d barely given her a second glance at the time, her boxy jacket and shin length skirt with flat shoes, hiding any hint of a curve or sexuality. Now with unfeasibly tight pants, vest and multiple chains around her neck, jet black hair back-combed, I was totally enamoured. Forgiving her inconsiderate butting in as a rare female forwardness, I shunned my brother’s conversation in favour of what seemed like an almost certain sexual encounter.

I mentioned my surprise at the severity of her transformation, which she immediately attributed to her boss being a total pervert, the frigid costume being a shield to discourage his wandering hands. I soon learned however, she was no shrinking violet, when she got up to visit the girls room and suggested I follow her. Under usual circumstances, such an offer would have seen no hesitation on my part, but I was all too aware of the bar we were in, and the reaction such a venture would stir in the simian bouncers. The problem being that the girl’s toilets were upstairs and the boy’s down so no level of insouciance displayed could disguise your aroused intentions.

On her return, she obviously took very little persuasion when I invited her back to my flat. Some half-hearted worries of leaving her friends behind were soon set aside to get on with the inevitable.

The short journey home was filled with the usual attempts girls make to make sure I don’t think they’re a slut. “I don’t usually do things like this.” being so overused as to become clichéd. “You seem like a nice guy.” leading me to wonder what vague hint of chivalry constitutes a suitable first night bedfellow. Not that I cared particularly at this moment.

Back at my flat, an early warning sign came when struggling awkwardly to pull the phenomenally tights jeans from under her, as she lay on her back on my rickety single bed. I peeled the stubborn denim as far as her knees when I noticed an intricate mesh of scars covering the flesh of both thighs. Neat little rows and perfect cross-hatching meant self-harm was the only possible cause. I paused, marvelling at the total lack of untouched flesh on show, only to be abruptly prompted back into action by a girl I now saw as a far more vulnerable, perhaps noticing what secret I’d stumbled upon. Perhaps wanting me to see it, either way, I carried on regardless.

A short while later, self-inflicted scars forgotten, both parties seemingly consenting to the fun, the girl had some kind of crisis of conscience, shoving me to one side and telling me in no uncertain terms to get off her. I huffed in an attempt to portray a sense of ‘you were the one who wanted this, not me’ and kept well out of her way, to make sure she could make no claims of me somehow forcing this situation upon her. By this stage I just wanted her to leave, she was crying her eyes out and banging on about how she doesn’t respect herself anymore, or how she shouldn’t be here. I quietly and as tactfully as possible, reassured her that she didn’t have to be here and that she could just go home.
“God, I bet you think I’m a total psycho.” she cried at me through red, bleary eyes.
“No, not at all.” I lied, impatiently hoping she’d calm down and leave. Strangely, my understanding words only served to reassure her as to what a nice guy I was and so, she started crawling, amorously across the bed toward me once more, with an unhealthy glow of psychotic desperation. Not wanting to be a killjoy, and thinking I might as well make the most having a girl in my room, I was game to continue. The condom in use however, had lost its own enthusiasm for the evening’s proceedings back during the crying and self doubt. I could have felt let down by the sheath but instead, I empathised with its state. The sight of a girl in the midst of a mental breakdown is less than ideal for maintaining sexual arousal. Rachael told me not to worry and started to route around in her handbag for a replacement, which emerged looking like it may have been living in there for a while. I wasn’t sure if they had sell by dates, but if so, this was well past it. God knows where she got it from. Dry and waxy, and thick as tyre rubber. I might as well as had my pants back on for all the sensation it allowed. ‘Needs must.’ I supposed.

Fifteen, numb minutes later, the same again. Pushed to one side. Told to get off. Crying and self pity. I’d had enough now, my sympathy had long since fled the sorry scene, along with my dignity.
“Rachael, I think it might be best if you just got yourself home.” It was nice to see my manners hadn’t deserted me.
“Oh, you’d love that. Shag me and kick me out! Like all the girls you get back here.” She was right, I did prefer girls to leave once the fun was over, so as not to soil any remaining illusions of glamour with the morning’s stark reality.
“No, it’s just not happening is it?” I reasoned. “And you keep getting upset. Would you not rather be at home?” It was taking all my human kindness not to drag her into the street.
“Can I not just stay here? We don’t have to do anything. We can just go to sleep.”

So, after disposing of a second, unused condom, quite a waste, I thought, I lay with the troubled girl in my arms, holding her tight, for fear of her murdering me in my sleep.

Next morning, I was up, quick as flash. Time to get rid of the monster in my bed. I was only due at work for eleven o’clock, but I’d set my alarm for eight to get her out of there, hopefully allowing me enough time to sit down and relax for a while afterward. I went for a shower, taking my clothes with me in the hope that maybe, in the time it took to get ready, Rachael would’ve awoken and left the house of her own accord.

I took my time, gave her a good twenty minutes. I’d heard some definite signs of stirring whilst in the shower, but not the recognisable thud of the front door. Thinking she may need the bathroom herself, I moved into the living room to do my hair, listening intently for movement through the hall. It never came. Maybe she had already left. She might’ve closed the door quietly behind her. I felt a huge sense of relief as I headed back to my room, only for it to crash through the floor as the ton weight of burden was dumped back on my weary shoulders. I pushed the door open for my eyes to be greeted by Rachael, sat relaxed on my bed, eating toast, dressed in one of my t-shirts and a pair of my shorts, TV remote in hand.
“Sorry.” she smiled annoyingly “I was hungry. Can I put the telly on?”
I couldn’t believe my eyes. What chance did I have against such a force of delusion? Why was she so relaxed? Had she no recollection her behaviour? Maybe I’d been too nice. Maybe she thought I cared for her. I didn’t care for her, in fact, at this moment, I was a little bit scared of her.
“Ok.” I replied, dumbstruck. “But I need to go soon.” I added unconvincingly before heading back to the living room to allow what I’d seen, to sink in.

I decided to make myself some breakfast. Plenty of time until my shift. I needed to relax. Maybe she’d just have the toast then leave. Nothing too strange about that. OK, she had my clothes on. That was pretty weird. But then again, those jeans were pretty tight. I sat at the table with a bowl of cornflakes and a cup of tea, (I didn’t offer her one, she would’ve made it last an hour.) reading yesterday’s paper, trying to convince myself that everything was normal.

Cup of tea finished. No sign of movement. Crossword half finished. No sign of movement. I was going to have to take direct action and leave the flat for work, despite it only being five minutes before nine o’clock. I went back into my room to see her contently watching television, still in my clothes.
“Ok Rachael, I need to go to work now I‘m afraid.” I tried to converse as breezily as possible, no pressure, no conflict.
“Ok.” she replied, seemingly not taking the hint.
“So, you need to start getting dressed.” I was disappointed in myself for letting a hint of hostility slip out.
“It’s ok, I’ll stay here for a bit. My Dad’s only getting to town about dinner time, he’s giving me a lift.” Unbelievable. She wasn’t even joking.
“No, you’ll have to get up. You need the key to let yourself out.”
“Well, just leave me the key.”
“I can’t, I’ve got to go to work. I‘ll need it later.”
“I’ll just drop it off. I know where it is.”
“Rachael, come on.” Breeziness, very strained by now. “I’m not leaving you in my flat, and I don’t want you coming into my work.”
That was it, I’d pulled the plug on the tank of tears she had readily filled and waiting. Streams, gushed down her cheeks, self loathing abuse spewed from her mouth. I hated her, I was ashamed of her, I wouldn’t be seen dead with her, I used her, I thought she was a slut, I treated her like a slag, I was kicking her onto the street, treating her like shit, just like all the rest, I’m the same as all the rest, she thought I was different, but no, I’m just the same. I think I’m different, but I’m not.

Maybe she was right, in many ways, but it was my flat and I wasn’t on trial.

I tried to reason with her. “Look Rachael, we only met last night. If we’d gone to yours, would you let me stay in your flat on my own.”
The torrent continued full flow. “What do you think I am? Some kind of skank who’s gonna nick all your stuff? Don’t flatter yourself.” God, she was a bitch. Frustrated and bewildered, I called upon the last weapon in my arsenal and let loose the Charm Offensive.
“Rachael, chill out. I’m not trying to get rid of you. Why would I? Ey?”
“I don’t know.” she mumbled
“Exactly. I wouldn’t. I loved last night, it was amazing. I loved it in the bar. You looked beautiful. We had a great time. I think you’re dead funny. A bit mad maybe,” bit of a risky joke, given the circumstances, but just about got away with it as a slight smirk cracked her face. “but I really enjoyed being with you. I felt like the luckiest guy in there.” I feared I was over egging the pudding at that point. “And if you wanted to give me your number, I’d love to meet up during the week or something. We can go out. On a proper date.”

Psycho successfully dispensed with, it was the earliest I’d turned up for a shift, my whole life. My boss thought I’d come to give him some bad news.


BEEEEP. I was shocked the workers at the café could put up with such an ear-piercing din every time the door opened. Didn’t they have some nice, jangly bells or something? My fears were confirmed. It was Rachael. She must’ve seen me through the spy hole I regretted making. I turned to face the window in the vain hope this would somehow make me invisible. Had it worked? She hadn’t said anything. I turned my head tentatively, ready to twist it back round quickly, should she look in my direction. She stood, half looking through her handbag, half checking the menu above the counter. She hadn’t seen me. I could easily slip away unnoticed while she was ordering.
“ONE BIGGER BREAKFAST!” Bloody Hell, what a loud mouth the lady was. Rachael still hadn’t turned round though, too engrossed in the greasy options. I didn’t call out, just held up my hand and waved, nodding in recognition.
“You’ll have to come and get it, love.” she called over, having none of my silent waving. I’m usually quite a fan of such casual, homely service but right now I was cursing it. I was going to have to make myself known.

Under the Big Clock

I was certain, at any moment, the fingers of both my hands would be sliced clean off. The pain had become unbearable. Five full bags of shopping so weighty, the handles cut, agonisingly in to my tense hands like cheese-wire. I started to worry that the rain I felt, dripping down my fingers was actually blood, gushing from a deepening wound.

I had way too much to carry, on account of my old friend Barry, not meeting me when we had arranged, thus leaving me with the entirety of a load I was hoping to have halved with him. This was of no surprise to me, I remembered him being unreliable at the best of times, so the idea of some mild, manual labour probably put him off the meeting no end. The fact that he hadn’t seen me in seven years obviously held no sway on the importance of his punctuality, which under normal circumstances wouldn’t have bothered me, but I was a stranger here and had no idea where I was going.

If I didn’t see him at the supermarket, we had arranged to meet under the big clock, which I assumed would be close by, considering the load he knew I would have to carry. Fifteen, finger-slicing minutes later, I was stood under what I considered to be a pretty big clock.

Overhanging the busy high street, the white clock was supported by swirling black metal, like a full moon through tree branches. Two gold hands pointed out the time, whilst a small drummer-boy stood proudly on top. Quite a nice clock I thought. One might’ve even considered taking a photo, should they be bothered delving through their bag for a camera. It was too rainy for such routing.

I pushed my collection of bags, as well as myself, up tightly against the wall, with the intention of gaining shelter, scouting the faces of the many passers-by for the one I hoped to recognise. The pouring rain made it quite hard to make out anyone’s face too well. Most were huddled closely, under tightly gripped umbrellas, or lost deep inside dripping hoods. I took out my phone to give Barry a ring. I looked through my contacts to find four, separate numbers for Barry, Barry S, Barry1 and Barry New. Barry had always been irritatingly awkward to get hold of. Forever using borrowed phones or battered phones friends had given him out of pity, rather than throwing them in the bin, where they would be better suited. New phone-same sim card, same phone-new sim card, same number, new number, back to the old number. I always had various numbers stored for Barry and any one of them, or often none of them, could prove successful at any given time.
“For God’s sake Barry.” I muttered under my breath when he remained elusive after each number had been tried numerous times, especially Barry1, which unlike the others, was actually ringing. The others led to a variety of silken-voiced ladies from a variety of networks, inviting me to leave voicemail messages that would never be heard.

Having found myself a nice little niche against the wall, in a slight alcove, both me and my bags suitably sheltered from wind and rain both, I couldn‘t help feeling more than slightly irritated when a smiling, old face caught mine and chuckled
“Eh, you‘ve got the right idea there lad, budge up would yer.” before forcing his way into a non-existent gap by my side, seemingly oblivious to the fact I had chosen to ignore his request of budging up.
“Hang on mate, I’m not sure there’s enough… just let me shift my…” Ignoring my selfish pleas, the unwanted visitor‘s irksome lack of patience allowed me no time in repositioning my heaving bags. Hurriedly shoving them across the rough, stone-scattered floor with my foot, forced a tear in the bottom of one, sending an enthusiastic can of beef ravioli rolling, with surprising vigour, out into the rain-drenched stampede of shoppers. I bustled angrily out into the sodden street, grabbing clumsily at thin air as the peripatetic ravioli got kicked about the shiny cobbles by a variety of careless boots, oblivious to my confused fumblings. Any reassurance I needed that I wasn’t totally invisible to these people, unhelpfully kicking my can around, was offered by a group of youths, who seemingly found my ongoing, clown-like antics hilarious.
“Don’t lose your beans mate!” a vocal member of the group taunted, much to the amusement of his minions. I watched in dismayed resignation as the ill-behaved pasta parcels rolled inevitably toward him. The group laughed and cheered in delight as he picked up the can and lifted it triumphantly above his head like he’d won the World Cup.
It was a can of ravioli, I reminded myself rationally, not my wallet, or an expensive vase placed under my care to guard from rowdy youths. It was just ravioli. I waved a hand in defeat and turned to go back to the shelter.
“Aah come on man, we’re only messing with yer!” the ringleader shouted, in a tone of unconvincing guilt. Then to my surprise, he swaggered over and placed the can back in my suspicious hand.
“Here mate, have yer beans, we’re only messin‘ with yer.”
“Cheer up mate” offered another, patronisingly. I strained a smile,
“Cheers” I mumbled pathetically, “It’s ravioli.”
“Haha, enjoy it mate.” he said, amused that I thought he could care less. He laughed loud and boastfully back to his gang who greeted him with a variety of back-slaps, high-fives and general mirth, wandering off down the high street leaving me defeated and belittled, the old man loyally by my side, not feeling too good about myself.
“You need to stand up for yourself pal. You showed ‘em you were intimidated. They were laughing at yer.”
By now, I really wanted to punch the old man. Who did he think he was? Invading my space, judging me as I made a fool of myself and offering me clichéd advice. I desperately wanted him to leave. There was no way I was leaving. Why should I? It was my spot, I was there first. And besides, the rain was showing no signs of letting up and one of my bags had split.
I took a deep breath. The man was only trying to offer some fatherly advice and I wasn’t about to throw it violently back in his face. Besides, it was Barry I was pissed off with. Where the hell was he?
I politely smiled, nodded and mumbled in faux-agreement as the garrulous old man gave me his small minded opinion on every subject imaginable. I leant my head tiresomely on the cold, stone alcove, feeling more than sorry for myself. A feeling that only grew worse when the wind, which had been blowing the rain across the face of our shelter, now changed direction, aiming the downfall straight into our faces.
“Oh well, here we go.” the old man said happily, pulling up his collar and heading off back into the street. I’d been desperate for this man to leave for God knows how long, but now he had, I felt mildly insulted that he didn’t say bye, or that it had been a pleasure to meet me. I suppose I hadn’t been the most accommodating of companions. Anyway, such grievances were quickly forgotten as I was fast becoming drenched. I splashed across the street, bumbling with my bags, swinging and bashing against my legs, the one with the split, in my arms, like an overweight baby. I reached the covered walkway. I couldn’t have been more soaked to the bone if I had stood, fully clothed under a shower. I dropped the bags, cascading to the floor, I didn’t care about them anymore. I’d had enough and wanted to go home.

The more I waited, the more I thought it possible there was maybe a bigger clock elsewhere, with Barry stood beneath it impatiently awaiting my arrival. I asked a passer-by, whom I assumed was a local, if he thought that this particular clock would be referred to as ‘The Big Clock’.
“err I dunno…yeh probably.” he replied with a smirk and a shrug.
Very helpful.

Sat on the cold floor, playing a crudely animated game on my phone, I looked up to see none other than Barry himself, strolling carefree down the street, sharing a laugh and a joke with a friend. I struggled to my feet as my backside had grown terribly numb on the stone floor and held out my hands in a gesture that could only have been translated as “Where the hell have you been?!”
“Hey dude!” Barry called over, jovially. “How’s it going?”
“Shit.” I replied. “I’ve only been sat here about three hours Barry.”
“Sorry dude, you should’ve give us a ring, we’ve been in the pub.” Barry’s amiable tone was in stark contrast with the countenance of sickened disbelief I was displaying.
“It was pissing it down.” he continued, oblivious.
“Yeh, I noticed.”
“So we stayed for a couple while it died down. Ah cool you got the stuff.” He eyed the sorry looking bags splayed across the paving. “Shall we go for a pint?”
Part of me wanted to give him a piece of my mind and storm off back to the train station and go home, but as Barry and his friend bundled the shopping bags into their arms, allowing me to walk freely, it felt good to be talking to my old friend, and the idea of sitting in a comfy seat in a cosy pub was now more than appealing. I glanced down at the can of beef ravioli, packed tightly in my jacket pocket and headed off, merrily enough, down the street.

The Scribbler

1. A Sunless Morning

It was a dark morning for the teachers and pupils of St Barnabus County Primary School. The sun had failed to rise and a thick fog had descended over the small town of Hellsop. The usual morning exuberance of the playground was notable by its absence, peripatetic chaos replaced by sombre huddles, sobered by the darkness. At the bell, the pupils lined up with a rare obedience, seemingly more than happy to get out of the murky fog and into their warm, homely classrooms. They walked silently, in single-file through eerily quiet corridors, not needing the constant shushing and shepherding of the teachers as they would on any other day. Something wasn’t quite right, this dark, sunless morning, and everybody sensed it, teachers and pupils both.
The teachers at St Barnabus were feeling particularly tense this morning as the head teacher was away on a conference, leaving the others jockeying for power in an unspoken show of brinkmanship. Deputy head Don Riley was officially in charge but the old stalwarts were stubbornly reluctant to concede to his authority on account of him being relatively new to the school and a good decade or so younger than the majority of them.
Don’s first act in charge was to cancel the morning assembly, claiming his new workload as acting head teacher had left him no time to prepare anything of worth. This did nothing for his popularity with the teachers, who grumbled about not having lesson plans for the morning, needing the assembly time for classroom preparation, mumbling conspiratorially about how they could have been warned, all of which went straight over Don’s head. Don chose instead to get himself a cup of tea and sit back luxuriously in the head teacher’s vast, soft leather swivel chair, hands behind his head, relaxed and satisfied, thinking about how he could get used to this.
Over in Class 2, Miss Bryce had solved the problem of having no lesson plan by issuing her pupils a simple drawing task. Draw a picture of something that makes you happy. Bryce had recognised the tense atmosphere in the classroom and sought after rectifying the problem with such a light-hearted task. As was usual with Miss Bryce, her instincts were proven correct, as the oddly taciturn pupils quickly transformed into the lively bunch they usually were. Unfortunately, Bryce’s instincts were also still prompting her to think that something was amiss that day. With the sun still absent, it felt like night, the air thick with fog meaning the only visible objects outside were blurred floating lights from the lampposts, still glowing hazily despite it being half past nine the morning. With the children contently drawing away, Bryce looked to easing her own mind and took out of her handbag a small book of Zen haikus, which soon swept her to a variety of calming locations and feelings.
“Miss Bryce, please can I go to the toilet?”
Miss Bryce was lounging back in her chair on the veranda of a big, wooden house painted white, looking out onto the prairie on a warm, balmy, summers evening, absent-mindedly watching a butterfly drinking from a small pool of water that had trickled down the side of the chilled glass of fresh cranberry juice she had by her side.
“Miss?”
Bryce jolted upright. “Uh? What was that sorry?”
It was Abigail Somers, a pretty girl, very popular with her classmates.
“Miss, can I go to the toilet please Miss?”
Bryce was transported curtly back to the dark, foggy morning.
“Erm, yes, be quick. And you don’t have to say Miss twice.”
“But Miss, you didn’t hear me the first time Miss.” Abigail replied innocently.
“No Abigail, I mean you don’t have to say the word ’Miss’ at the beginning and end of the sentence.”
“Miss, sorry…” Abigail trailed off, desperately trying to stop herself adding another ’Miss’ and skipped out gaily to the toilet.
Abigail left behind a simple yet heart-warming drawing on her desk of herself, with her family, enjoying a Christmas dinner, full of big, toothy smiles, a scruffy dog, also smiling, playing with a bone down by the side of them.

2. A heinous crime

Abigail Somers was a kind-hearted girl without a bad word to say about anybody. This by no means made her a pushover however, she was more than capable of handling any confrontation toward her and would steadfastly defend any victim or underdog she deemed unable to defend themselves, whether she be friends with them or not. It was this, as well as her obvious prettiness and natural sense of fun that made the other pupils gravitate toward her. The chat around Abigail’s table would always stem from and revolve around her, to the point where, in the event of her needing to leave the table, for whatever reason, the others would instantly find themselves with nothing much to say to each other, and chat would only resume once she returned. This often led to the awkward situation of her asking the others what they had been talking about, causing them to hesitate and mumble, looking around sheepishly, desperately hoping she wouldn’t actually care and strike up her own conversation again quick.
The time in which Abigail was out of the classroom appeared to pass by uneventful. Little did the pupils know however, that one amongst them had committed a heinous crime, soon to send shockwaves of suspicion, paranoia and accusation rattling through the corridors of the whole school.

Abigail returned to the classroom less breezily than she had left. The dark, quiet corridors had made her feel uneasy and alone, despite the lively rooms full of children behind every wall. She walked quietly back to her seat and sat down. Her countenance sombre as her eyes moved down toward the lovingly drawn Christmas party, but instead were witness to the bloody aftermath of a hellish massacre. Abigail let out a meek squeal of horror. The faces of her family members viciously slashed by a deathly black, wax crayon. Her father's neck sliced, an oil spill pouring from the open wound, splattering over the turkey dinner. The mother’s joyous smile, callously mutated into a maniacal grimace, her bright, wide eyes now demonic, glaring psychotically into Abigail’s tears. The mindless slaughter had left no witnesses. Abigail moved her horrified eyes reluctantly over to her dog, only to see the diced remains of an unrecognisable beast.
An agonised wail of terror, deafeningly pierced the noise of the classroom and echoed disturbingly through the empty corridors of St Barnabus. Acting head teacher Don Riley, still wallowing satisfactorily, spat out a mouthful of tepid tea and lunged forward to stop himself falling off the back of his temporary throne, startled by the mournful cry.
Bryce, recognising the genuine terror on Abigail’s face, rushed over to discover the cause, initially shocked, she had to avert her eyes in disgust at the jet black, waxy massacre but soon righted herself and turned round to take in the full scale of the crime.
“Who on earth has done this?” she demanded of the children who sat in stunned silence staring back at her, wide eyed with worry and innocence. Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t the merest peep of a confession. Bryce scoured the nervous faces for outward signs of guilt, maybe a sweating brow or awkward twitching. Alas, the pupils were spared further interrogation when the school bell rang for break time. A crying Abigail was being comforted by assistant teacher Miss Harding who asked Abigail if she was ok to go outside with her friends. Interestingly, she opted to be escorted out by Ali Wotmoor, a girl she hadn’t really been close to, but had known the longest, down to their parents being good friends. Something about the family link, drew Abigail to Ali in this moment. Miss Harding, sensing the hurt feelings of Abigail’s usual best friend Carrie Curl, sent the sobbing girl out with the two of them.

3. Suspects & Copycat killers

Bryce and Harding both admitted they hadn’t been paying attention when the crime was committed that morning. Bryce, lounging on her summers evening, Harding, doodling sketches for a sculpture she planned to make. However, they both agreed to keep a keen eye out for clues that may unveil potential suspects.
On any normal day, after break time, Abigail would come skipping back to class arm in arm with best friend Carrie Curl, full of tales for Miss Bryce about the adventures they had been up to on the playground. Today however, for the second time, Abigail was instead under the consoling arm of her old family friend, Ali Wotmoor, with Carrie following behind needily. Ali escorted the victim back to her seat before going to her own. Carrie sat in her seat by Abigail and placed a tender hand on her friend’s back, drinking the dregs of a consolatory job already efficiently executed by a reliable Ali.
Diagonally across the table from Ali Wotmoor, sat Dean Jenkins. Dean was well known for his naughty antics and was not well liked. Not that it stopped him being an overly talkative type, his unpopularity with fellow classmates going blissfully over his head due to a notable lack of intelligence. He’d only recently been moved back from the solitude of the naughty table, a punishment for punching a boy, who had the nerve to score past him at football practise. He served enough time on good behaviour to be deemed capable of mingling with the rest, although Miss Harding was sure to keep a keen eye on him. And sure enough, to Harding’s shock and horror, within seconds of checking on him, he reached into his tatty pencil case and pulled out the wax weapon, still dripping with the crow black blood of the Somers family Christmas massacre. He lurched over to his neighbour’s notebook, whilst her back was turned and shook the crayon ferociously back and forth over her work, a maniacal grin across his face.
Harding wasted no time in marching over, grabbing the guilty hand and snatching the notebook before thrusting it to arm’s length with a clenched fist to show the crime in all its shameful glory to a confused looking Bryce.
“Miss Bryce. We have our scribbler.” she exclaimed with assured firmness. The rest of the class stared, puzzled, a few of them trying to stifle liberty seeking giggles. Bryce looked on with a furrowed brow.
“Miss Harding?” she asked quizzically.
Harding turned round the notebook to look at it, wondering what was causing the confusion, only to see a few lines of tentatively written, neat, simple sentences. Harding couldn’t understand it, she witnessed the crime for certain. She frantically flicked through the pages, finding nothing but innocent words and pictures. She still had hold of Dean Jenkins’ hand, still clenching the murder weapon.
“Dean Jenkins,” she demanded. “I saw you with my own eyes, scribble on this notebook with the crayon you still have in your hand.”
Dean had panic in his eyes but replied with some sincerity.
“Miss, I was only joking. I was just pretending to do it as a joke.”
Minutes later the class were working and chatting away again. Harding sat, feeling rather frustrated with herself for acting with such rashness. The lack of a scribble had proved Dean’s honesty in this instance, but had done himself no favours with his reckless imitation of the crime. Whispers around the classroom and conspiratorial glances suggested he had made himself prime suspect.

4. A confession

On dinnertime duty the next day, Bryce and Harding patrolled the playground, discussing yesterday’s events. Harding felt sure of Dean Jenkins’ guilt after seeing the mania in his eyes and the offending weapon in his hand. To Bryce however, it all seemed just a bit too obvious. The crayon tray at the side of the classroom had plenty of black crayons in it, half the class probably had the exact same article in their own pencil cases. Besides, she questioned, what were his motives?
“Well I was wondering the same thing Miss.” started Harding. “I was checking Dean’s file this morning, it turns out that his mum and dad got arrested on Christmas eve after getting into a fight in town.” Bryce rolled her eyes, unsurprised. Harding continued, “They spent the whole of Christmas day in custody, Dean and his sister had to spend it with the next door neighbours. Now if you ask me Miss, Dean went over to the crayon box and on his way past saw Abigail’s picture of her Christmas dinner and was reminded of his own.” Harding spoke quickly with excitement. “He was filled with rage at his mum and dad and destroyed Abigail’s picture in a fit of jealousy. It’s not like he doesn’t have a history of behavioural problems.”
The pair walked side by side, Bryce looking into the distance, pondering the convincing evidence offered by an enthusiastic Harding.
They soon came across a sorry figure, sat alone on the wall, shuffling his feet, kicking a pebble between them. It was none other than Dean Jenkins.
“Dean? What are you doing on your own? You’re usually running round the football pitch.” Bryce asked.
“They won’t let me play.” the outcast replied sorrowfully.
“Well there are plenty of other people to play with. Why don’t you go and ask one of the girls?” Bryce tried to sound positive and upbeat, feeling sorry for the boy and trying to lift his spirits.
“No one will play with me, they all hate me.”
“Come on Dean, I’m sure that’s not true. Why would they hate you?”
“They say I’m the scribbler.” Dean looked down at his shuffling feet with great sadness.
“Are you the scribbler Dean?” Harding asked, sensing a confession. Dean stood up without a word and ran back toward the school, wiping his eyes and sniffling back tears. Harding turned to Bryce with raised eyebrows. Bryce’s expression remained calm and thoughtful.

Back in the school, Bryce and Harding stood talking in the doorway of the staffroom as the red-cheeked, windswept children filed in from outside, hanging their winter coats on the hooks with their name on. The pair’s chat was interrupted by a nervous looking Carrie Curl, Abigail Somers’ best friend and tablemate. She held in her hand a half-screwed up piece of paper.
“Miss, I’ve just found this on the floor by the coats Miss.”
Bryce set aside her annoyance at Carrie picking up her best friend’s bad habit of saying ‘Miss’, at both ends of a question, instead taking the paper and unscrewing it to unveil a damning confession.

…Dear Miss Bryce, it was me who scribBled on Abigails work. From Dean Jenkins…

“Thank you Carrie, go back to class.”
Harding puffed out her cheeks and breathed out a heavy sigh.
“Well there you have it, case closed.”
Bryce looked up from the note with a relaxed smile, gazing into the distance before setting her eyes on Harding.
“Don’t you see Harding? Darling Carrie Curl has just served herself up on a plate.”
The smile on Harding’s face turned to confusion.
“Look at the note Harding. Dear Miss Bryce, it was me who scribbled on Abigail’s work? From Dean Jenkins? Dean Jenkins, bless his heart, has trouble spelling the simplest of words, let alone writing out a formal confession.”
“Maybe someone wrote it for him.” reasoned Harding.
“No Miss Harding, this is no confession.”
Carrie Curl had unwittingly put herself under the spotlight.
“Carrie Curl would have been wiser to keep quiet.” Bryce explained. “I would never have suspected her otherwise. Now it seems so obvious. You’ve seen the way her and Abigail are these days.”
“They’re best of friends.” Harding wondered aloud, not following.
“No Harding, don’t you see? They were best of friends. Abigail’s becoming more popular every week, they all love her and the more popular she becomes, the less attention she gives to Carrie. Carrie can’t stand it. Didn’t you see the pictures they drew? Carrie had drawn herself and Abigail side by side, hand in hand. I say she looked at Abigail’s drawing, expecting her to have drawn the same thing, saw that she was nowhere to be seen in Abigail’s vision of true happiness, her frustration boiled over into a violent rage causing her to massacre the entire scene.”
As Bryce looked wild-eyed in anticipation at Harding, awaiting her agreement, a piercing shriek sounded through the school. Harding ran to the classroom and saw the pupils huddled around little Katie Hunt. She pushed her way through the crowd and came upon the ghastly sight of another scribble, black as coal, spread across two pages of carefully completed sums. Harding looked up at Dean Jenkins who sat directly across from Kate, he looked back at her pleadingly, to no avail.
“Dean Jenkins, come with me.”
Harding ordered Dean into the empty staffroom and pulled Bryce to one side.
“Well this throws your theory out of the water, another scribble, this one over Kate Hunt’s set of sums, not an absent friend from a vision of happiness. Dean was sat right across from her, we’ve got the confession note, what more do you want?”
Bryce looked slightly stunned, Harding was right, this did go against her theory of the jealous rage.
“What about Kate though? Maybe Carrie is jealous of her. Has she been hanging round with Abigail recently?” Bryce was clutching at straws and she knew it.
“No Miss. Abigail has barely left Ali Wotmoor’s side since it happened. Kate Hunt has had nothing to do with it.”
“She does sit next to Ali.” Bryce said limply, still clutching, but knowing she’d strayed way off the track.
“I’m sorry to say it Miss, but it all points to Dean. The ruined Christmas, the imitation of the crime, the confession?”
Bryce exhaled and sent Harding to calm down the hysteria she could hear coming from the classroom while she went in to question Dean.

5. To catch a scribbler

Harding sat at her desk at the side of the classroom whilst the children worked away, suitably calmed down after a second victim had been claimed by the scribbler. It wasn’t long before Bryce walked in behind a timid looking Dean Jenkins who ran straight to his seat. The children fell silent and eyed the boy all the way back to his place, thinking they were now in the presence of the scribbler. Bryce looked over at Harding and shook her head, informing her silently of the outcome of the interrogation. Now Harding was stumped, she felt certain of the child’s guilt, despite feeling sorry him. She faced her palms skyward and shrugged questioningly at Bryce. Now what? Bryce smiled at her knowingly before addressing the class.
“Boys and girls, set your notebooks to a clean page. We are going to have a spelling test.” The children groaned in unison. Harding smirked, impressed by Bryce.
The words came out without causing a stir of suspicion.
“Spell…giraffe………..torch……..lamp….Bryce, like my name…....work…..scribbled…” The children gasped in horror, the word sent an icy chill through their bones. They all looked fearfully around at each other, searching for eyes of reassurance, only to see their own uneasiness mirrored back at them. Many darted hateful glances over at Dean Jenkins, who was fortunately too baffled by the spelling to notice the daggers being aimed at him.
It was the end of the day and the notebooks were efficiently collected in and counted by Harding, to make certain no one slipped through the net. The second the last child left the door, Bryce reached into her draw and pulled out the confession note and laid it out on the table. They both took a pile of notebooks, Harding’s pile somewhat higher than Bryce’s, and set to work.
Hours passed by as the pair inspected each word and letter, diligently comparing each to those of the confession. Bryce could take no more and shoved her pile, toppling to the floor. Harding carried on, faithful and determined.
“It’s no use.” Bryce complained. “all their writing is practically the same. They’ve only been doing it a short while, they haven’t developed their own styles yet.” She turned to face the window and took out the little book of Zen haikus from her bag. Harding continued to plough, doggedly through the tests.
Bryce was soon back on her warm veranda, looking out onto the prairie, sipping from her ice cold glass of fresh cranberry juice. She allowed her eyes to settle on the beautiful flowers, wrapped lazily around the banister of the few steps leading down to the green grass. She smiled as two bees buzzed playfully in and out of the silky, petal cups, gently amused by the smaller bee bumping the bigger out of the way, cheekily getting to the honey before its bloated playmate. She took another refreshing sip of the chilled juice when reality sliced through.
“The bees!!”
Bryce bolted out of her chair, back in the classroom. Harding jumped out of her skin, startled by the sudden outburst.
“The bees Miss?” she asked, picking up the notebook she’d thrown to the floor in shock.
“The bees Harding, one bigger than the other, look at the note!”
Harding snatched the confession note off the table and sure enough,

“..it was me who scribBled…”

“The two ‘B’s” Harding spoke softly in astonishment. “One bigger than the other. Well I‘ll be darned”
The pair grabbed at the notebooks and started to search, swiftly through the pages. On the second notebook Bryce checked, there they were, the two ‘B’s of ‘scribbled’, side by side, one lower case, one capital. The sleuths turned to each other in great pleasure, they had cracked it. Bryce closed the notebook slowly to reveal the name of the scribbler, written neatly on the front cover.

The next morning, the children worked in silence, sensing Miss Bryce’s deep resentment for one of them. This was of course misplaced. Although Bryce was deeply disappointed that the scribbler had failed to come forward voluntarily, she by no means resented any of her pupils, no matter what lunacy took hold of them. She stood up and walked over to the scribbler and placed a firm hand on their shoulder.
“Come with me.”
By now, all the children could think about was the scribbler. They were constantly on edge, never wanting to turn away from their books for an instant, for fear of them being scribbled on. With this obsession constantly in mind, as far they were concerned, if someone was asked to leave the classroom, it could only mean one thing.
Bryce sat in the staffroom with only the scribbler for company. She sat in pity for the sobbing young girl in front of her, the first victim’s oldest friend, Ali Wotmoor.
“She just always ignores me.” the scribbler cried, through sniffles and sobs. “We’re friends outside of school, we go on holiday together and everything. As soon as we get here she just ignores me, like she’s embarrassed of me.”
Bryce asked her about the note.
“Dean’s always doing naughty things, I thought you’d believe it was him. I left it near Carrie’s coat, I knew she’d pick it up and I thought if you didn’t believe Dean did it, then you’d think it must have been Carrie. She thinks she‘s so good being best friends with Abigail. I‘m sick of being stuck next to Katie Hunt, it should be me with Abigail.”
Bryce placed a comforting hand on the scribbler’s back.
“Ali, you’ve been a very silly girl. You scribbled on Abigail’s picture because you were so angry that she didn’t pay you attention at school. And because you thought you’d got away with it, you did the same to Katie Hunt simply because you didn‘t like her. As soon as something so terrible happened to Abigail Ali, who did she turn to for comfort? Who did she feel like she most needed by her side to make her feel better? You Ali. She turned to you, her oldest, truest friend. What is she going to think now, when she finds out that it was you who scribbled on her picture all along. She’s ignored poor Carrie ever since it happened, the girl you tried to set up. How do you think Carrie’s been feeling? It was all so pointless Ali. Abigail showed that you were her one true friend, and look what you’ve done to her.”

Back in class, Bryce walked in behind a red-eyed Ali Wotmoor who wiped her blushing cheeks and sniffled as she sat down. Abigail Somers looked pleadingly at her before bursting into to tears and falling into the comforting arms of a reliable Carrie Curl.
“Ok class, get back to work.” called out Bryce, trying to instil a sense of normality back to proceedings. She looked over at Harding with a smile and a nod for a job well done.
The class chatted away. Dean Jenkins couldn’t help himself.
“Hey Ali.” he whispered across the table. “Scribbled on anyone’s work recently?”
“Shut up.” the scribbler scowled, and carried on with her sums.