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SCRIBBLERS

Hinckley's very own writers workshop pages 

 

 

 

Hookers Green

 

Hookers Green, describe it I’m told,

Well, it ‘s not red and it‘s certainly not gold.

Think of a forest in the beginning of night

Hookers Green is not too dark and it‘s not very light

Imagine a field full of poppy stalks

Not the red of their heads, but their bodies as they talk.

Not as bright as emerald, or as vivid as lime,

I’m really struggling to make this thing rhyme.

A kind of blueness in it’s hue

But, not a blue you ‘d think of as true.

An inky depthness to it‘s colour I see

Like the leaves on a hundred-year-old tree.

So Hookers Green -- give it a label

Look at what you ‘re writing on - it ‘s the colour of the

Table!

 

By Maxine Tuffin

 

DOLLY

 

My birth was paraded as a breakthrough for genetic engineering, but no—one gave my feelings a second thought. 

I had no mother to bond with and missed out on my childhood too. There was I, longing to be a rebellious teenager yet as soon as a wicked thought entered my head, my adult genes were screaming, "Don’t do it." 

Living in the glare of publicity is no picnic. The drawbacks of a high fibre diet are common knowledge and you try keeping that quiet in front of the camera. I did manage to mate in the dark, but the birth of my daughter was recorded for all to see. You can bet that when I eventually snuff it, my organs will be dissected, analyzed and pickled for posterity. 

Stuff your technology. I wish I’d been an ordinary sheep and lived a normal life like the rest of the flock.

 

By Will Dawson

 

THE MIRROR

 

Ah well! Life’s like that. One minute I was reflecting the lights of following cars, then a squeal of brakes, a crash, and I’m flung into this ditch with a cracked face,

I felt safe with George. He never drove fast. We frequented all the best places like the Grand National at Aintree, Ascot and Cheltenham. The car was washed and polished after each trip. It was the favorite in the 3.30 that changed things. George lost his shirt and the car.

Our new owner was Sean, An entirely different cup of tea. He was also fond of horses The White Horse, The Black Horse and The Horse and Jockey, to name but three. The inside of the car smelt like a brewery and the homeward journey a race. He smashed through the gears, spun around corners and stomped on the brakes as if there was no time to lose.

I’ll always remember the image of the flashing light on the ambulance as it carried his broken body away. They returned for the car but nobody bothered about me.

Autumn leaves fluttered down from the trees above. Then the snows of winter drifted over me, but I’ve got used to it now that spring is here. A wren busily hunts for insects in that clump of ground—ivy. Voles and mice stop to preen themselves and clean their whiskers. Even a fox pressed his cold nose onto my face.

Campions and primroses keep me company, while cars roar by on the road overhead. Around lunchtime if the sun shines, I light up that little pool of water where the beetles whiz to and fro.

No—one will ever polish my face again and I shall gradually sink into the undergrowth, but I’m thankful to be spared from the crusher where other mirrors go.

 

By Will Dawson

 

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